Pleasure and Purpose

by Megan Hart

  "They could, indeed, but we won't need anyone for it. Thank you." The girl looked around the room again and opened her mouth as though she meant to speak, but a look from Mina stopped her. "All right, then, miss." When the girl had gone, Mina took one last look around the room before slipping through the doorway into the bedchamber. Dark curtains blocked the light. A lump huddled in the center of the bed, not even covered by the blankets that had been tossed into a heap on the floor. The room stank, not the worst reek she'd ever encountered, but one strong enough to assault not only her nose but her sense of propriety.

  The first thing she did was go to the window and let in the light. It showed the disorder in greater detail as well as illuminating the lumpy figure on the bed, and Mina's lip curled. Disgusting, that a man should allow himself to sink so low, and because of what? Love? He didn't move. She hadn't expected him to. The low, irregular in-out of his breath told her he wasn't even conscious. It would take more than light to rouse him. She went back through the study and to the attached bathing chamber where she filled a pitcher with water. She studied him for a moment or so with it in her hands. Would he scream? Thrash about? Or would she have to rouse him more thoroughly? A small smile stole across her lips at the thought.

  "Wake up," Mina said, and tossed the contents of the pitcher on Alaric's head. He muttered, arms and legs swimming against the bed's dirty bottom sheet, but he didn't get up. His eyes fluttered and closed again, his mouth lax. The water spread in a darkening stain on the sheet.

  Mina put the pitcher carefully on a side table. She walked just as carefully to the side of the bed, leaned over, and studied him. Alaric Dewan, beneath the dirt and despair, was a handsome man, but if he'd had a troll's features it wouldn't have mattered. What caught her breath would not be the shape of his mouth or breadth of his shoulders but something rather less tangible. Something . . . subtle. And as always the first time she met a patron, Mina wondered if he would have that silent, subtle something she craved. Obedience.

  She took his earlobe between her thumb and finger, the nails pressing into the tender flesh, and squeezed. Hard. Alaric squirmed under the sudden pain. His eyes opened wide. They were blue, she noted without releasing his ear. A lovely, pale blue. He struggled, but was no more able to get away from her grasp than if she'd had him bound with ropes. She pulled.

  He moved.

  "Wake up," she repeated calmly.

  "By the Void!" he cursed in a thick voice and swung his arms as though he hoped to push her away.

  Mina stepped to the side, releasing him at the same time so he tumbled from the bed onto the floor. He found it first with his face and not even the thick rug could mask the sound of his nose crunching. He let out a stream of mumbled curses that made no sense and cradled his head in his hands, legs askew. Mina watched him calmly for but a moment, just long enough for him to take a few deep breaths.

  "Get up."

  He looked up at her, blood leaking from his nose, and spat to the side. "By the Mother's invisible tits, who are you?"

  "I am your comfort and your grace," she said without a hint of irony. "Now. Get. Up." When she'd drawn three breaths and he'd made no move to obey, Mina reached and grabbed his earlobe again. She pulled. He got up, not easily and not without stumbling and cursing and flailing, but she got him on his feet.

  Standing, he was taller than she, but that didn't matter. She had a tender part of him in a painful grip, and he was still too groggy headed to get away. Mina marched him one stumbling step at a time into the bath chamber, where she let him go and he fell to the damp floor over the drain with a strangled cry.

  "You vile bitch," he managed to sneer through the runner of blood still dripping from his nose.

  "Bold words from a man on his hands and knees," Mina replied, unmoved. She nudged him with the toe of her leather boot, and Alaric cringed back. "Your body is as filthy as your mouth. You will be cleaned immediately."

  He gaped at the tub but didn't move until she reached again for his ear. Then he scrambled back faster than she thought he'd have been able to just a few moments ago. Mina kept her smile locked tight. Alaric put up a hand against her, and she drew back. She turned to the spigot with the bucket beneath and twisted the handle to let the water pour forth. She didn't bother waiting for it to warm. She opened the small cabinet to find soap, a brush or cloth, bath oils. She found scant supplies of everything, though all were of high quality and must have been costly. When she turned again to face him with a stoppered bottle in one hand and a cloth in the other, Alaric became gape-mouthed again.

  "Who, by the Void, are you?"

  "I told you. I'm your comfort and your grace. Take off your clothes." He shook his head, fist clutching the front of his shirt. "I will not—

  She tossed the overbrimming bucket over him. Spluttering, Alaric made as though to grab away the bucket, but Mina was faster.

  He fell short, his palms hitting the wet floor with a smack that sounded as though it must sting. He let out a low groan.

  "Why can't you leave me alone?"

  "You've been left alone. It hasn't served you very well, has it?" She put the bucket beneath the tap again to fill once more with cold water. "Take off your clothes or I'll do it for you."

  The dual dousings had revived him, or perhaps whatever he'd dosed himself with had begun to wear away, for now Alaric stared up at her with a clearing gaze that swept her up and down. Recognition dawned in him. "I didn't send for one." Mina allowed herself to smile, just a little. "I am not a one."

  "I didn't send for you!"

  "No. And yet here I am. Now, will you get undressed, Alaric Dewan, or shall I be forced to strip you like a schoolboy and put you over my knee to get you to comply?" He had to know there was no way she could do it, really. Not by sheer force. He was bigger; she was not small but she was still smaller than him. A look crept across his face and anchored at the corners of his mouth, turning down. In his eyes, too, a half-sullen glare that sparkled nonetheless with a vigor missing moments before. Mina lifted the bucket.

  Alaric, with trembling fingers, undid the buttons on his white shirt. Soaked, the material clung to his skin and made it more difficult for him to remove it, but he managed. His trousers next, the sodden fabric squelching as he tossed it. He wore nothing beneath, not even hose, and since he'd had to get to his feet to remove the trousers, Mina had a full-length view of his body.

  A fine, broad chest and shoulders, slim hips, flat belly. Muscled thighs. He'd once been a gentlemen's gentleman with a body honed from horses and hunts and leisure. It didn't look as though he'd sat a horse for some time.

  His cock, surrounded by a thatch of thick golden hair, stirred under her perusal. At least it still worked. A man might be led by many things, but a cock could always serve as the finest of leashes. Mina admired it openly and then lifted her gaze to his. Alaric had clenched his fists and his jaw, but he was looking at her, too.

  "Sit." She indicated the small, three-legged stool with a jerk of her chin. He sat.

  Mina, mindful of his eyes upon her, unbuttoned her gown and hung it carefully out of the way. She pulled her shift to her thighs and buttoned it into place at her hips. She didn't want to get her clothes wet.

  She filled the bucket again and dipped the cloth in it before rubbing it briskly with the bar of soap she'd also found in the cabinet. When it had risen to a rich, creamy lather, she faced him.

  And then she began to wash him.

  His skin hunched at once into dead man's pimples at her first touch. By the time she ran the cloth over his chest and belly, Alaric's shudders were clacking his teeth together. But he said nothing, just allowed her to rub him with the soapy cloth. Even when she reached his thighs and the rising head of his cock, he said nothing.

  Mina murmured instruction to him, to raise an arm, shift to the left, open his thighs wider that she might find the places on the backs of his legs. He was no longer combative. In fact, she couldn't recall ever having so pliable a patron, for he d
id whatever she wished with no more than a shudder or shiver to mark his reaction.

  She rinsed, then soaped him again. She washed his hair thoroughly, taking the time to comb out the tangles carefully, without pulling. He moaned when her fingers dug into his scalp, and again when they found the knotted tension of muscles in his shoulders and back. He'd been abusing himself for some time, and his body was paying the toll. When her soap-slick fingers found the root of his prick, now fully erect, Alaric groaned aloud. His hands bore down on the stool as his hips pushed his cock into her fist, but Mina's hand on his shoulder kept him still. His eyes flew open and met hers, only a few inches away.

  Without looking away from him, she stroked downward. She felt the beat of blood in his erection against her palm, but she didn't look down to see it, not even when she twisted her grip around the head and down again, all the way to his balls. She locked her gaze with his. When his lips parted, she allowed the tiniest furrow to appear between her eyes, a crease she felt and knew he saw.

  Alaric, if he'd been about to say anything, fell silent. Mina stroked him again. The stool shook as his body did. She let go of his shaft to move a soapy hand down to his sac, which she weighed in her palm. His eyes fluttered closed. His thighs trembled as his feet pushed on the floor and every muscle tightened.

  Her body responded to the sight of his arousal. She was unable to control that reaction—the sight of a man responding to her touch was sweeter to her than any lover's caress. Having a man respond to her command was sweeter still.

  She let go of his cock and stepped back to dunk her hands in the pail of clean water. Her voice dropped to husky purr. "Rinse yourself. I'll be waiting in the other room." And then, with his mouth still agape and his cock still erect, she left him.

  Chapter 18

  The near-frigid water did little to tame his erection, shameful as it was. Alaric doused himself thoroughly with a couple buckets of water. His head had cleared, though most every part of him ached and his mouth tasted disgusting. He swiped wet hair back from his face and took a few extra minutes to rinse his mouth with flavored tooth polish. He wrapped a towel around himself and went to the bedchamber where she said she'd be waiting. That woman. That. . . Handmaiden, he thought with a shiver. She was a Handmaiden, but like none he'd ever heard of. What was she doing here? Had he, in the midst of his darkness, sent for one without knowing? How could he? And he didn't want one, he reminded himself as he kept a firm hand on the towel at his waist. Even when she turned from whatever she'd been doing at his wardrobe and looked him up and down, and even when that look sent a shock of sensation straight through him, Alaric reminded himself he did not want her.

  He wanted no woman, ever again. If he couldn't have his lady, he would die alone. The sooner the better.

  "Get dressed." The woman indicated something laid out on the chair by the window. Alaric looked at the pile of cloth, then at her. "These aren't mine." 1 hey are now.

  He reached to finger the rough, poorly cut trousers. No shirt. He held them up, but while the fit seemed right, they were the trousers of a servant. Not a gentleman and a lord in the prince's service. He tossed them down. "Those aren't fit for me." Mina looked at the trousers but didn't bend to get them. She moved a step closer to him, and Alaric, though he'd faced greater dangers than the slim, stern woman before him, stepped back. "They are fit for a man who doesn't know how to appreciate what he has. And they'll better suit the work you'll be doing, which is likely to ruin your fine gentleman's clothes."

  Her lip curled on the word gentleman, and Alaric's back stiffened. He let the towel fall and stood, his heart beating fast, naked. Her gaze flicked over him without lingering, and she showed no signs of arousal or intimidation.

  Alaric held the trousers to his skin, which crawled at the roughness. He'd stopped counting the years that had passed since he'd worn anything as low quality as this, if ever. Yet his fingers twitched the cloth, and his skin crawled in expectation of how it would feel.

  The woman surveyed him with calm eyes and when she spoke her voice was firm but not unkind. "You would rather have them than go about naked, and you would rather not ruin your fine, expensive clothes. Whether you believe it or not, this is done for your benefit." He hated himself for thrilling to the simple words, the tone. He held up the trousers. "Just these? No shirt? Is that for my benefit as well, to be half dressed in peasant's garb?"

  "Oh no," she said with a hint of a wicked smile. "That is for my benefit." She reached to flick his nipple, which defied him by standing upright at once. Alaric bit back the sound that tried to lurch from his throat and only half succeeded. She heard him, and her smile tipped her mouth, that lush mouth, he was helpless not to notice, higher at the corners.

  She noted his shiver. "Don't fear me."

  "I'm not afraid."

  She smiled. "Good. Now. I've laid out a tray in the other room. You'll eat and feel better with something more solid in your gut than what you've been giving it. And drink. You need to nourish yourself."

  Of course he did, if he wanted to live.

  "And then," she said with a sudden gleam in her gaze, "you'll get to work."

  "Work? What. . ." Alaric shook his head, mind still fuzzy enough to confuse him.

  "You've sent away all your maids, and at any rate, I hardly think a maid could make much of an impact upon the mess you've made. Your rooms are in an atrocious state, Alaric. You balk at wearing a peasant's clothes yet you have no complaints about living in rooms you've made into a hovel."

  "Surely you don't expect me to . . . clean."

  She studied him. "Your arms and legs are not broken, nor your back so far as I can see. You're capable of the work, and as you made it, I see no reason why you ought not be responsible for taking care of it. At any rate, / refuse to share quarters in this state, and as I'm to be provided with appropriate clothes, food, and living space, I'd suggest you get started."

  "Who are you?" he whispered.

  "I told you. I'm your comfort and your grace. I'm your Hand-maiden, Alaric. Sent for by your friends Edward and Cillian, which I should tell you is not at all the usual manner of things. They must have pleaded quite a case for you, or else spent quite a bit of coin. I daresay I can't imagine how much it must have cost them to get the Order to agree to send me at their request and not yours."

  Edward and Cillian, of course. Alaric's mouth thinned and he stepped into the trousers not so much because he believed what she'd said but because he no longer wished to stand before her without even the barrier of this cheap cloth. "They shouldn't have."

  "Ah, but they did. And here I am. They must love you very much to make such an effort on your behalf."

  His fingers fisted. "And you?"

  The Handmaiden raised a shapely brow. "What of me?"

  Alaric's firsthand experience with the Sisters of Solace was limited to two, exactly. Stillness and Honesty were both sent to soothe his friends and both had stayed. If that was what his friends had in mind for him, he wanted no part of it.

  "Love." He sneered the word and stood at his full height so she'd have to tip her head back to look at him. So she could not possibly look down on him. "Is that your intent? To make me love you so I find peace and help you fill your bedamned Holy Quiver? You wish to use me to help you fulfill some stupid prophecy? And you'll do what it takes, won't you," he added without giving her a chance to answer. "I know how you work." Alaric staggered at the force of his words, still unsteady on his feet despite the cold bath. His gut churned and his head pounded in sick-making counterpoint to his heartbeat. He could taste herb on the back of his tongue and below it the flavor of worm, but below that, even more terrible and lovely, the scent and taste of oblivion clung to his senses as though his blood had been turned to it. His fingers curled again to scratch at his belly, where the sleeping dragon was waking. He needed more. It would soothe the itch and the ache and take him away into darkness better than any woman ever could.

  "I will never love you," he spat o
ut. "No matter what you do." All traces of amusement slid from her expression and all warmth left her tone. "I do none of this for love, Alaric. I do this as my duty and my purpose and on occasion my pleasure as well, but I do none of this for love."

  "You should go," he muttered with a rub of his eyes.

  "Alas for the both of us, I'm bound to stay until I fulfill my duty or I'm dismissed."

  "Then I dismiss you," he said.

  She shook her head. "You didn't hire me."

  They faced off, and though she did, indeed, have to tilt her head back to look at his face, Alaric couldn't shake the feeling that her look had put him at her feet. "You will never be a comfort to me, nor my grace."

  He wouldn't allow it.

  Her lip curled. "By the Arrow, you are a stubborn fool. I offer you a chance at something few men ever hope to reach, and you don't even need to know how to take it, for I'll give it right to you."

  Desire and hunger flared inside him, and Alaric swallowed a burst of bitterness. "Go away. I need—"

  "It's gone."

  "What?" He could manage no response wiser than that.

  "Your supplies of that drug are gone." She gestured at the wardrobe. "You'll get no more. I imagine the sickness has begun, but it will pass soon enough. You'll have to suffer the pain for longer, and I've heard it can be immense, but I'll be here to help you through it." He had never raised a hand to a woman in his life, but now Alaric pushed her aside with such force that she cried out and stumbled. He barely heard her, so caught with discovering if what she said were true. He flung open the wardrobe doors, dug through the scattered piles of his clothing, and came up with nothing. No small porcelain box, no stoppered bottle, no jeweled spoon or needle.

  Vomit burned in his throat, but he barely felt it. He turned and grabbed her by the front of the dress, but his fingers slipped on the smooth material and the buttons cut at his palms. With a cry he grabbed her upper arms and shook her so hard her teeth rattled.