Free No Greater Pleasure by Megan Hart Page A

babbling about?”
    She repeated his phrase. “I can think of a better way to solve your problems than that.”
    Would he explode in anger or had she successfully diffused him? Quilla braced herself for a torrent of fury. For a moment, it appeared uncertain if Delessan himself knew how he was going to respond.
    When he did, with a huge, utterly despondent sigh, she let out the breath she’d been holding. Her limits were broad, indeed, but that didn’t mean she enjoyed being berated.
    “ ’Tis this last set of calculations,” he explained, waving his hand at his worktable. “I’ve done something similar hundreds of times before. The elements are all the same. And yet I cannot seem to re-create the results each time. In order for this formula to be valid, it must end up the same in every use. Else it’s worthless.”
    He scowled again. “It’s making me bloody mad!”
    Quilla took another step closer and held out her hand to him. “Come here.”
    His wary look made her smile. “What?”
    “I’m not going to bite you. Come here.”
    His eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed, but he allowed her to take his hand and followed her a few steps toward the chaise lounge. She unbuttoned the front of his white coat and helped him out of it despite his protests.
    “I need that—”
    “Shh,” she said firmly, setting it aside and removing the vest beneath. “Sit.”
    “I thought Handmaidens were supposed to be subservient,” he grumbled, but did. “You’re unbearably bossy.”
    “So I’ve been told before, my lord. But perhaps ’tis not so unbearable, really. You seem to be surviving.”
    He huffed, less grouchily than before. “You are interrupting my work.”
    “Your work was at a standstill, unless you consider pacing and proposing illicit advances upon harmless waterfowl to be part of your work.” Quilla stood behind him and put her hands on his shoulders. “Now hush and let me help you.”
    “Help me? What do you know about Alchemy?”
    “Nothing,” she replied, her fingers finding the tension in his neck and beginning to work it. “But I know much about men.”
    “I am not men ,” he grumbled.
    Quilla said nothing, just kept rubbing. He groaned under his breath, which made her smile. She dug in a bit harder.
    “Damn it! Are you trying to incapacitate me?”
    She rubbed harder and the knots beneath her fingers began to loosen. He sighed, tilting his head down to allow her greater access to his neck and shoulders. She changed from kneading to smooth, flat strokes, from his shoulders and up his neck, running her hands through his hair and stroking his scalp. Then down again, starting at his shoulders and moving upward. Slow, steady movements.
    His breathing slowed, and every so often a small moan crept from his throat when she passed over a particularly tense spot. She worked his shoulder blades and along his spine, using her knuckles to press along the knobs of bone.
    The smooth linen of his shirt felt good beneath her fingers, and Quilla lost herself in the repetitive movements. She could not have pinpointed the moment he finally relaxed beneath her fingers, only that one moment he seemed all coiled wires, and the next, soft feather pillow.
    Quilla pulled a small vial from her waistpurse and uncorked it, dabbing scented oil on her fingertips and replacing the vial. She put her fingertips to his temples and began rubbing them. The smell of gillyflowers filled the air.
    “What is that?” he asked in a voice that sounded like he wanted to be harsh but couldn’t quite manage. Instead, he sounded languorous, mouth full of syrup. Oozing, liquid.
    “Gillyflower oil, my lord. ’Tis good for headaches.”
    “And you knew I had a headache the way you know when to put the kettle on.”
    She continued rubbing, smiling. “Yes, my lord.”
    He sounded drowsy. “Because ’tis your purpose and your place to know it.”
    “Yes.”
    “And your pleasure.”
    “That, too.”
    He put a hand over hers to stop