Pleasure and Purpose (29 page)

Arousal flared in his eyes, but deep within and not frighteningly. "As you once said, there are more pleasures to be had than at the end of a whip."

She studied him, looking for any sign of insincerity, no matter how well meant. She found none. There was more to him than there'd been before, she thought as she reached to stroke his hair from his face. The Cillian she'd known had worn himself like a costume. The man before her stood easily in his skin.

"Shall we marry, then?" she asked him. "Men and women have wed with less acquaintance and for worse reasons."

"Indeed they have, though I should hope ours will be better than that." Cillian's mouth quirked. "And as for acquaintance, I have the better part of a year left before I'm required to marry."

Erista raised a brow. "Oh?"

Cillian reached into his pocket and drew forth a length of silken white ribbon that tangled, then dangled tantalizingly from his fingers. He looked down the path to the glimpse of the entrance to the hedge maze and the bower decorated with braggart's laces. Anticipation crawled along her spine, tightening her nipples and sending heat between her thighs. Wielded by any other man the ribbon would have meant nothing, but in Cillian's hand it reminded her all too well of how it felt to be bound with his desire.

"I had hoped to have time to woo you," Cillian said.

She took the ribbon and wound it around her wrists, watching how his eyes lit and his tongue wet the center of his bottom lip.

"Then I say we find the center of the maze," she told him, already backing in that direction and watching him follow. "And perhaps we might have reason to hang this ribbon on the bower when we come out."

She'd begun to love him when he needed her, but standing before him now, Erista discovered how much better it was for him to want her instead.

It's highly irregular." The Mother-in-Service, Compassiona, peered over the rims of her spectacles at Mina, then tapped the thick sheaf of papers on the desk in front of her. Her pen, as ever, left not so much as a dot of unwanted ink.

"I don't suppose it's for me to judge such a thing. If the Mothers say I am to go, I go." Mina shrugged.

Compassiona sighed and steepled her fingers beneath her chin. "Determinata, my dear, I know you've no qualms about the assignment. But I do. It's highly irregular, and it chafes me to know that simple rules are broken for the promise of a coin. It's not the way the Order should be run."

Mina reached to snag the top paper and ran down the list upon it with her finger. "He looks a worthy patron, Mother. And the application is thorough." Compassiona shook her head. "But he's not the one who filled it out, Determinata. No matter his need, he wasn't the one to request it. I don't like it at all, but who am I to go above my fellow Mothers-in-Service who've decided to allow an exception to this case? They say it's because he is worthy, as indeed you've said, but in the end I fear their reasons are baser than that. And I hate to see . . ." She stopped herself and shook her head again. "But never mind. It's not your worry."

Mina smiled at the older woman, whom she'd known since she'd been a Sister-in-Service along with Mina. "I told you. I don't mind."

She more than didn't mind. The man's case had intrigued her enough that no matter how unorthodox the procedure had been to approve him as a patron of the Order of Solace, she was willing to take him. It had been too long since she'd been assigned anyone at all. Mina looked at the other woman carefully. Compassiona had ever been one to fret but something on her face prompted Mina to ask, "Has there been a question of my ability to serve?"

She had wondered as the months passed and she'd remained behind while others came and went, if there'd been a reason beyond that which she could know. The Mothers-in-Service didn't often choose to explain themselves. Most of the Sisters didn't care—but most of them had little enough rest between their patrons. A few weeks, a month. There were not so many of them in service that the demand could be outstripped by the supply. If anything, more of her Sisters craved a break from their work. For Mina it had been longer than a full twelvemonth since she'd returned from her last assignment. Compassiona looked surprised. "No, of course not. The other Mothers agreed unanimously you were the best suited for this patron."

Mina, as was her constant habit, kept her back straight and didn't give away her emotions in her expression. She and Compassiona had known each other for many years. If anyone at the Order knew how to understand Mina, it was the woman in front of her now. Yet Mina often got the impression her longtime Sister-in-Service didn't understand her at all. That few of them did. She was different than the others. No less qualified, no less committed. No less, as her given name proved, determined.

"The other Mothers? Not you?"

Compassiona hadn't become a Mother without effort and experience, and now she leaned her chin in her hand to stare across the desk. "Oh, I'm sure you'll suit him just fine. I've no doubts about that at all. But will he suit you?"

"Is that ever a question of import? Do you doubt me?" Her voice didn't shake, but Compassiona had been well named, as they all had, and she didn't need to hear anxiety to sense it.

"I've never doubted you. Worried for you, yes. Many times." Mina got up from her chair and went to the window to stare down at the lawns below. In the distance she could see the bare, stripped fields. "You needn't. But if my vocation is in question . . ."

She let her voice trail off, not making her statement a challenge. Compassiona sighed. Neither spoke for a few moments, long enough for Mina to draw herself inward. A flower is made more beautiful by its thorns, she thought. But what of the thorns? Did not the flowers beauty make their sting all the easier to bear? She had ever thought herself the thorn and not the bloom.

"I daresay nothing you do could be questioned, Sister."

Mina turned to meet her friend's gaze. "Do you suggest I believe myself better able to decide my actions than the Mothers?"

"No. I know you understand your place here. I just want you to be certain you wish to take this patron. You can refuse. You always can refuse."

"But I've been deemed the best for him, yes?"

Compassiona sighed. "Yes."

"Then I shall go."

"If you're sure," Compassiona said doubtfully before laughing. "What am I saying? Of course you're certain, Mina. I've never known you to be anything else. And it's not often we are petitioned for a patron with his . . . needs. He does seem to require your special touch."

Mina's fingers twitched at the thought. "I hope so."

Compassiona cleared her throat and shuffled the papers. "All is in readiness, then. I suppose you'll be off in the morning?"

She wouldn't wait so long as that. "I plan to leave this afternoon, actually." This surprised the other woman for only a moment. "Ah."

Mina shrugged again. "It's been a long time since I've been able to practice my vocation, Mother. I don't like feeling useless."

Compassiona frowned. "No Sister is useless, no matter if she's serving patrons or assisting here in the Motherhouse."

"Dull, then. Weary. Unused. Is that a better description?" Mina gave a smile the other woman returned. "I don't like feeling unused."

"That I cannot argue against. Go. And may the Invisible Mother herself attend you," Compassiona said.

"And you." Mina gathered the papers and tucked them all together, then put them under her arm.

Already smiling, she headed to her room to finish her preparations. Her journey would be long, but she had little enough to pack. The afternoon carriage couldn't come fast enough. But of course there would be no hurrying it, especially not when she could think of little else but heading away from this place. During her years in service she'd lived in several of the sister-houses scattered throughout the Seven Provinces, and once for a few delightful months at a seaside house as well appointed as a resort. Technically, they were all her home and had been since the moment she walked through the front gates of the Motherhouse, but she'd stayed the longest here.

Long enough to hang a portrait on the wall of her cell and fill the drawers with clothes she'd bought for herself rather than relied on a patron to provide. Long enough to have worn a spot in the carpet where she paced before the window as she read from the book of poetry she now packed in her bag. Long enough that it was time to be out of this room, this house, this province, in fact, and away from the mountains and familiar smells of the flowers. She might return to this house, this room, but while she was gone they'd clean and paint it, scrub it down, so even if she did come back to it, she'd no longer feel like it had ever been hers.

Many of her Sisters-in-Service couldn't abide this sort of change, but so few of them remained long enough in any one place they could never begin to feel like they owned any of the rooms, anyway. Sisters like Mina, those with not-oft-requested specialties, had more chance to stay longer and leave their marks on the rooms they left behind. She'd leave no marks on purpose and be glad to know they swept away any remainder of her. She slipped a gown identical to the one she wore into her hand-trunk along with a pair of sturdy leather slippers. She wore her good traveling boots and her traveling gown, and simply slipping into both had filled her with warmth. She also packed the carved ironwood box, polished to a high sheen, in which she kept her collection of teas. Some for pleasure, some for health. The mix all Handmaidens drank daily to prevent not only pregnancy but also the monthly flow could be brewed from ingredients likely to be found in any household, but she'd included an ample supply anyway. Mina added another small box filled with salves and lotions she'd mixed herself, scented with gillyflower oil from her own garden bed.

Compassiona had said no Sister was useless, but Mina wasn't convinced. She'd been much neglected since leaving her last patron. She'd spent too much time with such activities, the growing of flowers and grinding of herbs. Not that it wasn't necessary to know how, and not even that she hadn't enjoyed keeping herself busy with such matters, but they weren't what she'd joined the Order to do. There was ever much to learn and Mina was no different, no matter how long it had been since she'd been in service or how accomplished she knew herself to be. She'd worked at training new Sisters-in-Service. She'd begun studying the hand-harp, simply because it was one skill that took a long time at which to become proficient and she could spend many hours a day on it. She had been useless and unused, and tired of it. She'd been ready to go the moment Compassiona'd sent for her, and now, completely packed, she still had to wait. Mina paced the familiar route in front of her window, taking comfort in the swish of her hem and thud of her boot heels on the wooden floor.

The carriage did not come.

When at last she could no longer stand waiting, Mina took herself through the halls and down the stairs to the house's large, open entryway. The massive double front doors, closed now as evening fell, resisted her hand but she forced them open anyway. The slate rang beneath her heels as she went onto the front porch and looked out over the yard and driveway, and to the road beyond.

"Mistress?"

She turned at the low male voice. The man in the doorway stood a full head taller but kept his gaze down and away from her. "Yes, Stephan?"

"You're leaving us?"

"If the carriage ever arrives, I suppose I am." Mina looked again toward the road. Stephan took a step closer. "Can I bring you something? Food or drink? You might be waiting a long time. You've missed the dinner chime . . . and it's getting dark." Though the trees crowded close against the lawns of trimmed grass, Mina didn't fear the forest or the encroaching night. There might be beasts in the woods but they rarely ventured this far. Still, she favored him with a smile.

"I'm fine." He didn't expect more, which was why she gave it to him. "Thank you." He looked at her, then, a large man with a plain face and big, work-worn hands. He'd come from the fields to serve in the house and had never quite grown used to it. He smiled, and it was not difficult for her to remember the taste of his mouth. "You're welcome.

"I'll wait with you," Stephan said. "Until you leave." He didn't have to, of course, and she wasn't even certain she required company. But she didn't deny him this small thing, more for his benefit than hers. They waited together in silence as dusk turned to darkness and there seemed little hope of the carriage ever arriving.

She'd thrown her cloak on top of her hand-trunk and now shivered as the night breeze soughed out of the trees. Stephan covered her shoulders with the cloak at once and stepped back again. She gathered the soft material around her throat and looked at him.

"You're not needed inside?"

"I'd rather be out here." He roughed his hair with one of those big hands. Mina understood that. Inside, the Order ran with swift efficiency. The halls overran with women going about their business, and the young, giggling girls unlike she herself had ever been were enough to try the patience of anyone, much less a man like Stephan who'd never quite accustomed himself to the bustle of it all. Out here was only the darkness and the wind, and the scent of the earth in the fields stripped of their harvests. She had nothing to say to him, but Stephan didn't require speech. She appreciated that about him. Mina looked again to the road where the far-off clip-clop of hooves alerted her to the carriage's arrival. "Finally."

When the carriage at last arrived, he helped her into it and loaded her single, small trunk. He kissed her hand.

Mina waited for more, but Stephan stepped back from the carriage and gave the driver the signal to go. She looked out the window at him as they drove away. He lifted a hand in a wave she didn't return.

Light cut through the darkness and Alaric put up a hand to cover his eyes. From far away, farther than the light had come, a groan rumbled in his ears. His own, he guessed, tasting it on his tongue before it faded. He thought he might be muttering, but if words formed on his tongue and not mere nonsense syllables, he couldn't tell.