Pleasure and Purpose (22 page)

"Why not ask my father? You've become quite the chums." He couldn't quite manage to keep the derision from his tone, but if it offended Devain, he didn't show it.

"Your lord father," the man said smoothly, "has made it clear he wishes to have naught to do with your business. He feels, and rightly so, his son and heir should have at least one responsibility for which the king himself is not held accountable." Perhaps Devain wasn't as close to the king as he'd hoped. Gillian smiled and leaned back in his chair, though the seat of it had long grown uncomfortable and he longed to rise and stretch his legs. "What sort of prince would I be, to take the interests of one over many?" Devain looked toward the king, who'd moved on from the pastries to the plate of candied fruits. When he looked back at Gillian, his smile was a snake on his lips. "One who remains in line for a throne instead of a set of shackles and a binding jacket, perhaps?" Cillian bit down on his tongue hard enough to taste bitter blood. Deep in Devain's gaze writhed a threat belied by the smile he showed the rest of the world. "Do you threaten me?"

"You? My lord prince, never." Devain's half bow was clumsily executed, and when he rose his gaze went past Cillian's shoulder to something beyond it. "Never." Cillian turned to see what had so captured Devain's attention. His heart leaped at the sight of a familiar dark head, hair clubbed at the neck with a bit of bright ribbon. Edward would never have worn blue in his hair before taking a wife who made sure to dress him top to toe. And there she was beside him, the front of her gown tenting over the belly swelled with Edward's child.

Cillian's breath left him, making it impossible to speak. It had been too long since Edward had deigned visit court, and he'd never brought Stillness with him. She looked different, clothed in the dress of a lady wife and not a Handmaiden. Envy slanted over him at the way Edward's hand rested so solicitously on the small of her back as he guided her through the maze of lords toward the king.

Too late, Devain had seen the look on Cillian's face. "As I said, my prince. Advantages and disadvantages."

Cillian said nothing. Devain made a leg and turned. He left the room, and if he paused to speak with anyone else Cillian didn't notice, so caught was his attention by his friend. Honesty's presence beside him didn't turn his gaze from the sight of Edward approaching the king and introducing Stillness to him.

"Who's that?"

"That," Cillian said in a voice steadier than he'd believed possible, "is my dear friend Edward Delaw. And his wife, Stillness."

"What are they doing?"

"He's introducing her to my father."

"They haven't met?"

"No." Cillian swallowed against the pain like shards of glass. "Edward was granted permission to wed at his home and had no court wedding. This is the first time he's brought her here."

She couldn't know how seeing Edward, his dear one no longer so dear, affected him, but Honesty nonetheless kept her hand tight in his. She moved closer, naught improper about her stance, but he felt it all along him just the same. She knew him better than she had even a few days ago.

"Why do you suppose he's done so, now?"

Cillian watched as Edward laughed at something the king said, and as Stillness made the most graceful of curtsies. He could too well remember the taste of her, and wished he hadn't been such a fool to insist on finding out. He'd thought it would bring them closer, he and Edward. Instead it had only cleaved the final thread between them. "He is presenting her to my father because she's going to have a child, and Edward would like it to carry his title."

"Would the babe not automatically carry the title of the father?"

"Edward's father was a spice merchant who worked his way into my grandfather's favor and gained a title. They're not blood nobility. Edward took the title his father earned, but since Edward himself has done naught to earn such a boon title for himself, he must petition the king for the right to grant his son the same privilege. Or maybe he's going to start pandering in order to be given his own boon title," Cillian added with a small shake of his head. "But knowing Edward, he cares much for the fate of his child and little enough for his own."

They both watched, silent, until Honesty said, "He was your friend." She hadn't made it a question. "Yes. He was, once."

From anyone else the sympathetic noise would have earned a scornful glare, but Gillian only gave her a smile and brought her knuckles to his lips for a kiss. The business of the court finished for the day and the entertainments begun, the noises of the dancers and musicians made their conversation private. Honesty smiled into his eyes. Cillian kissed her hand again, for no other reason than it pleased him.

"That man Devain," she said quietly. "He was threatening Edward to get to you?"

"Devain was unwise to speak so freely in front of you."

"Men like Devain never see women like me unless seeking to use us for their own purposes."

"Devain would see himself set in my place, I think," Cillian said.

"And your father doesn't care?"

"My father." He had to stop and swallow again against the rise of sharp pain in his throat.

"My father sees what he wishes, and most often it's not me."

"You're his son."

"And his heir. It doesn't matter." He shook his head. She knew all about him and yet her surprise on his behalf sent warmth circulating all through him.

His father, surrounded by a bunch of cooing and posturing lords and ministers, swept from the court without even a glance toward them. Cillian watched him go. Edward and Stillness waited until the king had gone before Edward urged her toward a padded chair and went to the sideboard to fill a plate for her.

"Look how things change," he murmured. "Edward was never a man to serve." Honesty followed his gaze with hers. "He looks to be a man deeply in love with his wife and concerned for her."

Cillian shrugged, feigning disinterest, but Honesty wouldn't let him get away with it. She slipped her hand into his and rested her head lightly on his shoulder. Cillian, too, was not a man to serve, but with Honesty's fingers entwined in his, he thought he could understand the inclination.

"Come." She tugged him, and he resisted.

"What?"

She tugged again and Cillian took a reluctant step toward his former best friend. "Come. This is ridiculous. You're staring at him as though he were made of pastry and you hadn't eaten in a fortnight. Go talk to him."

"No." He dug in his heels, his reply loud enough to turn a few incautious heads. Edward didn't look up, but Stillness did. Honesty didn't stop pulling, though she managed to do it discreetly. Cillian couldn't continue to resist her without making a scene—and he'd made many a scene before, so it wasn't as though he didn't know how.

"No," he repeated. "Not even if you think it's what I need." The expanse of the long room stretched between them, but it wasn't long enough. Edward, at last, turned his head and saw Cillian. He didn't blink. Didn't smile or frown. His gaze slid over Cillian as though he didn't exist, and that was worse than a sneer. Stillness got to her feet and waved away the plate her husband had brought her. She shook out the folds of her gown and moved forward. Only then did Edward change his expression and reach a hand to grab her back, but with his hands full of food he could do nothing to catch her. Stillness, face serene, drifted toward Cillian on silent feet, ignoring all the looks following her.

"My prince," she said easily, with a curtsy. "How nice to see you." In his hand, Honesty's ringers twisted. Cillian spared her a glance, but her expression had gone as smooth as her Sister's. "And you as well."

"Stillness." Edward's tone brooked no argument, but his lady wife merely smiled at him before turning her attention back to Cillian.

"My prince, it has been sadly overlong since we've seen you," she said. She looked at Honesty, then held out a slim-fingered hand. "Hello. I'm Nessa Delaw."

"Honesty."

The women shook hands as men did. Edward stopped sharply behind his wife and glared at Cillian, which was by far better than being ignored. Edward put a hand on Nessa's shoulder, and she covered it with hers.

"Stillness, come. It's time for us to leave."

"In a moment, love." Stillness gestured at Cillian and Honesty. "I'm speaking to our prince and his companion. Surely you don't wish me to be rude?"

"No. Of course not." It would have been merry to see the way Edward about-faced, had it not hurt Cillian's heart so to see it. Edward made a leg, but didn't look at Cillian's face. Stillness sighed so loud and long and with such dramatic emphasis there could be no pretending he couldn't hear it. She looked at Honesty. "I would dearly love to hear news of the Motherhouse and the Order. Would you do us the honor of dining at our home tomorrow evening?"

"No!" Edward shouted.

Cillian yanked his hand from Honesty's and gave Stillness a glare meant to put her cowering in her place. He hadn't forgotten how she'd taken the lash from Edward, though. Not even a look from a prince could compare to such as that.

Edward growled from deep in his throat. "No. By the Void, no." Stillness turned a cool gaze upon Cillian. "What say you, my lord prince? Would you sup with us?"

Cillian's mouth twisted on his angry retort, but before he could speak, Honesty did.

"We'd be happy to, of course."

Both men turned to stare at her. Both women smiled at each other. Cillian jerked his hand from Honesty's grip so hard her entire body moved.

"You don't speak for me," he said.

"Fine." She turned to face Stillness. "I would be happy to have dinner as your guest."

"No!" Edward and Cillian both shouted at the same time.

Edward gave Cillian a look he thought he'd never see again on his friend's face—amusement.

"It would seem we are at odds," Edward said. "It would seem my lady wife is not as well taken in hand as I thought."

"You might have to punish me," Stillness said serenely, as though the idea bothered her not at all.

"I'm not Cillian's lady wife," said Honesty. "And I don't believe I'm bound to obey him without question."

"Maybe you should marry him," suggested Stillness.

Cillian's heart dropped into his gut and he choked on a swell of emotion. "Edward, your wife oversteps herself."

"She does," Edward said with a sigh. "I plead your mercy." In the past Cillian would have thought nothing of raging at the woman. And his friend. He'd have spared no second thought at tearing the place apart in a fit of fury. But now. . . now he merely blew out a long, slow breath and crossed his arms over his chest. The hint, bare though it was, of Edward's smile had appeased him. At his side, Honesty turned to face him.

"Cillian. Say yes."

Cillian looked at Edward, who for once in a very long time didn't look away. "I won't force my presence on anyone who doesn't want me."

"Nonsense," said Stillness. "We want you."

"Nonsense," said Edward after a pause. "You force your presence on anyone you wish, you always have. And I daresay, you always will."

It was an insult, and Cillian was again reminded of the abuse he was willing to take from those he loved. "Marriage seems to have agreed with you, Edward." Edward gave Stillness a look of such fondness it was fair embarrassing. "Aye. I would agree."

"Tomorrow, then," Stillness said with a look to Honesty Cillian didn't try to discern. As simply as that, it was done.

She'd brought no formal gowns with her, nothing suitable for taking dinner as a guest in a nobleman's home, but Honesty didn't fear. Cillian had provided a wealth of gowns for her use, all tailored to fit her exactly. A hot, scented bath and sweet lotions to perfume her had already set the mood, and now she sifted through the pile of pretty dresses, comparing them one to another to see which would best suit her.

She held up the green, which would look striking next to Cillian should he wear the same shade. And, she decided, she'd insist upon it. She nodded at her reflection, turning her face to look at the lines and angles to which she so rarely paid attention. She was dressing for him, she realized, and the dress fell from her suddenly nerveless grasp to puddle at her feet. She'd sent away the lady's maid, used to and preferring to take care of herself, and so there was nobody else to smooth the wrinkles from the fabric. Nor anyone to help her to a chair or pour her a glass of cool water from the pitcher, so she sank instead to the floor along with the dress.

From her place there she could see the ceiling, the pattern of stamped metal and the painted designs depicting the Fall of Sinder. It was perhaps meant to be an erotic scene, something to tantalize the bedchamber's inhabitants as they lay abed, but to Honesty the scene was anything but sensual. Sinder had come out of the Void and created the world, and he'd come across Kedalya in the wood, and he'd fallen in love with her. He'd fallen.

A week was not long enough to lose a heart, she thought, and knew that to be a lie. A heart could be lost in a day. An hour. A minute. With one glance, a sigh. A breath.

"I don't love him," she whispered. "I do not love him." Perhaps not, but something stirred within her, and it was more than the normal emotion she carried for every patron. Honesty sat amongst the tangles of ribbon ties and lace hems. When had it begun? The first time she took him into her mouth, maybe. Or when he'd allowed her to take his hand, or when he'd smiled instead of losing his temper. When he'd tried to refuse her, she thought, and when she'd realized how much difference she could make in his life, and how much he deserved to have such a difference made. She knew the sting and bite of love, knew the power of it. How it could send a strong man to his knees and pull a weak woman off hers. What she felt for the Prince of Firth wasn't love, but it was something well on its way.

"Your mercy!" The low male voice from the doorway startled her into getting to her feet. Honesty clutched the robe about her; the gown remained crumpled at her feet. "Who are you?"

"Your mercy, lady. I'm Alaric. Gillian's friend. I came to see if he were here." The man in the doorway looked sore in need of caretaking. His hair, the color of butter, hung in lank curls to his shoulders. An angry red line marred his throat, and a few days'