by Megan Hart
“There are many tasks to which I’ve set myself I’ve left unfinished.” Annalise forced away her frown. “But come, let’s to the kitchen, where I swear I will show you tricks that will charm any patron, no matter how stingy he might be with frippery.”
She was not there to become a Handmaiden, she reminded herself. She was there to wait out her time until the engagement contract between her and Jacquin could be safely annulled without harm to either of them. All the rest of this was simply to pass the time.
She would not admit how she longed to set Toquin in his place. No. Nor how the way his gaze slid over her without reaction had so maddened her she’d considered launching herself into his arms to see what he’d do. How every time he turned his face she wanted to step in front of him to force him to look at her. How each time he passed she wished to move so that he might be forced to rub against her.
How much she wanted him to . . . want her.
“Annalise?”
“Put a gown on,” Annalise said absently, trying to shake off the sensual image her mind insisted on painting. “It won’t do for you to be running the halls in your shift.”
No man for whom she’d set her cap had ever resisted her. Not since she’d first grown breasts and discovered the way a turn of the face, a flip of the hair, could draw a man’s eyes the way a lamb is tracked by wolves in the meadow. Annalise knew she wasn’t commonly pretty, but that had never mattered. If she wanted a man, she’d had him, always.
And why did she want him? she thought as Tansy, chattering incessantly, shrugged into her gown and bid Annalise help her with the buttons at her throat. Why did Toquin so capture her attention? It was more than his face and form, which were a delight to any woman of discerning taste. And it was not his attitude, that arrogant coldness, the superiority. It was somewhat else, perhaps that sense of being unattainable. Of being so aloof.
She wanted to crack him open and climb inside. She wanted to see him want. She wanted, Annalise thought as she led the still tittering Tansy toward the kitchens, to see what it was like when Cassian Toquin broke.
In the kitchen, she simpered and wooed Cook, a fat biddy with a mustache and chin hairs who was just finishing the dough for the morning’s rolls when Annalise and Tansy entered. The cook, who was likely used to young women plundering her stores at strange times, waved them toward the pantry where she warned them to keep their fingers out of the crocks of honey and butter, and to clean up any messes they made. Tansy, wide-eyed, let out a deep breath when the door closed behind them.
“How did you get her to agree?”
Annalise, eyes seeking the ingredients she’d use instead of Tansy’s expensive cosmetic, shrugged. “Think you she’s never had anyone in her kitchen past hours?”
“The evening snack is the last mealtime! I never thought . . .”
“Which do you think the Order prefers, Tansy. Girls whose bellies empty in the night nibbling something in the kitchen, or being forbade such privilege and therefore sneaking food into their rooms where the bugs and rodents might congregate?”
Tansy looked so suddenly guilty Annalise knew she’d been one such girl. “Nobody ever said we were allowed to come for food . . .”
Annalise sighed and put her hands on Tansy’s shoulders to square them. “We are not children here. This is not a school. There is no punishment, for there aren’t any rules. We’re required to study and learn and grow toward the day we’re determined capable and ready to take our vows, yes?”
“Yes,” Tansy said doubtfully.
“So, if you are hungry, then why not eat?”
“But . . . I’m not hungry now.”
Annalise gave an inner sigh. “Fine. Come here to the table and let me show you how to make up your face using what any household will have.”
It took little time and effort to paint Tansy’s lips and highlight her eyes with pastes made from spices common enough Annalise could near guarantee no kitchen would lack them. The end result was lovely, as Tansy proclaimed when taken to the cloudy-looking glass hung by the kitchen’s back door.
“I’m pretty!”
“You’re always pretty, Tansy.”
Tansy touched her face in awe, then turned to Annalise. “It’s so much prettier than using all those pots of color, and so fast!”
“And so easy, so simple, that none but the most inquisitive patron need ever even know you’ve used anything at all.”
“How ever did you learn such tricks?” Tansy looked again at her smiling reflection.
Annalise wiped her hands free of the remnant of spices. “You learn to make do with what you have. Or have not.”
Tansy hugged her again, and Annalise suffered the embrace because to put Tansy off was much like trying to keep an overeager kitten from climbing one’s skirts. Tansy even went so far as to kiss her cheek. Annalise laughed.
“I’m well-pleased to have made you so happy, Tansy.”
Tansy took Annalise’s hands. “I thank the Invisible Mother every day you were assigned to share a room with me.”
“I wouldn’t go that far, Tansy, my goodness.”
“Life brings what the Invisible Mother provides.”
Annalise didn’t believe that for an instant, but she smiled and patted Tansy’s cheek. Before she could say anything, the back door flew open and two laughing figures stumbled through on a cloud of distinctive-smelling smoke.
Annalise didn’t know their names, but their clothes showed them as stable hands. Both tall, both fair-haired, both ruddy cheeked, they might have been brothers but seemed too intimate a pair for that. Perhaps not lovers . . . at least, not yet, she mused, watching as the hand of the slightly taller one grazed the other’s back low enough to almost touch his buttocks. Neither of them saw the women in the kitchen.
“Herb,” she murmured, and a sudden longing rose within her. She could taste it on the back of her tongue, and not merely from the scent the young men had brought in the door with them.
Tansy let out a startled squeak, and Annalise wondered at an Order that most often served men but had so few about to inure its novitiates to their presence. At the sound, the shorter man turned, eyes wide, and his companion a moment after.
“Ah, your mercy, mistresses. We’d no idea you were here,” said the shorter with a swipe to get his hair off his brow.
“Let’s go,” Tansy said with a tug on Annalise’s hand.
“Hello, lads.” Annalise looked them up and down.
Both straightened, flushing. The taller glanced at his friend. Both had red eyes and spots of color on their cheeks. Definitely herb.
“You go,” she told Tansy quietly. “I’ve somewhat to which I must attend here.”
“What? But you . . .” Tansy sputtered, then quieted. “Oh, my!”
Annalise shot her an amused glance. “Go on, little kitten. I’ll be fine.”
Tansy ducked her head and backed up, turning only at the last second but still looking behind her at Annalise before she left the kitchen through the hall door. The young men simply stared. A stomach rumbled loudly.
Annalise smiled. “Well, lads. Let me guess. You’re here for a snack?”
“Aye.” The taller seemed bolder now, by the way he eyed her. “Will you tell Mirinda?”
“If you mean the cook, no, I won’t. What concern is it of mine who raids the stores at night?” She looked from one to the other. “I could be additionally persuaded to hold my tongue, lads, at little cost to you.”
“Oh?” The shorter grinned. “What might that be?”
“A bowl of your herb. I’m fair to aching for lack of entertainment here.” She grinned in return.
“Huh, and here I thought they kept the ladies occupied,” said the shorter.
“Oh, indeed, in all manner of pursuits. And yet I find myself in sore need of something a bit more . . .”
“More exciting?” The shorter man inched forward. “You’d not be the first, I wager.”
“Indeed,” Annalise murmured. �
�I would also so wager.”
Chastity was not a requirement of the Order, and yet like so much else, none spoke of what erotic pursuits its members might seek on their own accord. With so few men on the grounds, Annalise suspected a goodly number of the novitiates took to self-satisfaction, if not mutual intimacies, just as she supposed the sisters who’d returned to the Motherhouse between patrons might be fair grateful for the time to be alone.
It had been, she realized, a full few months since she’d last taken her pleasure—any pleasure. At the thought of it, her nipples peaked against the fabric of her shift. Heat collected between her thighs. The question, she thought, watching her new companions, would be if the men who so freely enjoyed each other’s company would welcome hers, as well.
She found out soon enough, in front of the small fire built in a circle of stones in the earth behind the stable. Terran and Eagen, their names were, and they were indeed not brothers but boon companions, friends since childhood. And not yet lovers, it became clear to her, though what held them from it she could not be sure. They both wanted it, Eagen more so, based on the heated looks he gave his shorter friend. But Terran as well, for though his focus might be upon her, his attention was easily enough distracted by the other man.
This was going to be most merry, Annalise decided as she took the bowl from Terran and drew in the smoke, deep. She held it. She closed her eyes. It was not the quality Jacquin had oft provided—dear Jacquin! How long it had been since she’d even thought of him, and had penned only the briefest, bare letter to him and not had one in reply.
Terran sucked a few breaths of smoke and passed the bowl to Eagen, then sidled a bit closer to her. “We’ve not had any of the ladies out to smoke with us.”
“No?” Annalise slid her tongue over her teeth, tasting herb. “I imagine a pair such as yourselves are rather popular with the ladies, yes? Surely you’ve done somewhat to . . . earn . . . your positions here.”
“Aye, but they most often just have us flip up their skirts in a spare stall,” Eagen told her.
“You’re intoxicated.” Terran laughed. “Watch your tongue.”
“I’m not offended. Tell me more, sweetheart,” Annalise prompted with another draw on the bowl.
Eagen shifted on the bench. His thigh pressed hers. On her other side, Terran leaned close.
“None of them care to share more than that, is what he’s saying.” Terran poked at the fire, sending up some sparks, then leaned back against the stable wall. “We’re studs, like. Stallions.”
“Who’s the one intoxicated?” Eagen muttered.
Annalise only laughed, relaxing as the herb sent its tendrils all throughout her. The attentions of not one, but two handsome men, the calming effects of the drug, the star-sprinkled night sky and orange-red glow of the fire. Lovely.
She shifted so that she might give Eagen the full benefit of her gaze. “Show me.”
“What?”
At her other side, Terran snorted soft laughter. Annalise leaned closer to Eagen. Her lips parted, as did his, but she didn’t kiss him.
“Show me,” she repeated slowly, so that her breath caressed his face. “Show me, you and Terran both, how stallions behave.”
Terran was on his feet before Eagen was. He pawed the ground with a “hoof,” his fingers curled as he pretended to rear. He whinnied, then shot her a grin and danced around the fire. Eagen was up a moment after that, imitating his friend. They faced off, playacting two stallions battling but laughing too hard to make it anything but a jest.
“Yes,” Annalise murmured as Eagan fell into Terran’s arms and nuzzled at his neck. “Just so, boys.”
They held each other a moment too long, hands drifting a little too gently over the other’s limbs. Terran caught her gaze over Eagen’s shoulder. Annalise sat back on the bench and toyed with the end of her braid.
“Eagen,” Terran breathed. “We’re ignoring our new friend.”
She gestured. “Yes, come here, the pair of you, else I smoke all the herb and leave you bereft.”
“Not that!” cried Eagen and, laughing, leaped the fire to slide into place at her side.
This time, she held the bowl between them so they both might draw from it at the same time. She let the sweet smoke seep from her mouth and into his . . . but she did not kiss him. When Eagen drew away, Terran sat down behind him and reached around him for the bowl.
“Together,” Annalise suggested. “Let me see you two do it together.”
She thought they would refuse, but after only a moment’s hesitation, Terran lifted the bowl and he and Eagen shared the smoke the way she’d done with Eagen. Their mouths hovered, the smoke slipping between their lips, and Annalise held her breath, waiting to see if they’d give in to the pleasure it was clear they both craved.
Eagen did it first. He cupped the back of his friend’s head and pulled him closer. The kiss lasted no more than a heartbeat, only to start up again when Terran moaned into Eagen’s mouth.
She’d known it upon first glance at them, but took little pleasure in being right. It reminded her too much of Jacquin and her reasons for being here in the Motherhouse when she could’ve been at home preparing for a wedding. She must’ve made a sound, for the men broke apart and both looked at her as though she’d caught them out at something shameful.
“Very pretty,” Annalise said, and reached for the bowl.
Terran was the first to move for her, and she let him kiss her, their tongues tangling and tasting of herb. When he pulled away, his fingers loose on the back of her neck, Annalise glanced over his shoulder at Eagen. She smiled.
“And of the other ladies, those whose skirts you’ve flipped. Have you put on such a pretty show for them, as well?”
“No,” Eagen said hoarsely.
Terran tried to kiss her again, but Annalise held him off with a hand pressed to his chest. The bowl had nearly gone out. “I rather liked it.”
Terran, his hands still upon her, looked over his shoulder at his friend before looking back at her. “How much more would you like?”
“How much more do you have?”
Terran shifted so as to lean against the stable wall, his legs in front of him, with Annalise on one side and Eagen on the other. He reached for his friend’s hand and brought it to his mouth, licked the tips of Eagen’s fingers. Eagen swallowed a groan. Terran looked at Annalise.
“Let it never be said I dint do my best to please a lady what’s asked it of me.”
There was much more she’d want, but these were not the men to grant it and this not the place to take it. Yet there was no denying the swell of heat inside her at the flash of Terran’s gaze, the swipe of his tongue over soft, full lips.
“Unless the lady’s changed her mind?” Terran whispered.
Annalise shook her head. “No.”
She’d come out here with them with the intent of indulgence, of distraction. Of forgetting what she’d come here to do, what to escape, of what she’d found instead. To put aside the thoughts of what she could not have and what she did not want—to focus on, however briefly, that which she could have. Did want.
“Kiss him,” she whispered to Terran with a glance at Eagen. “And then I would see him on his knees for you. I think he’d like that, yes?”
Terran’s gaze flashed again. “I know I’d like it.”
Eagen shifted on the bench. “Terran—”
“Hush,” Annalise said and slid her hand over Terran’s thigh to cup his cock, already hard. “In the morn you can blame it on the herb, and none will be the wiser. But I guarantee you, sweetheart, you’ll love it better than flipping up my skirts.”
“And you?” Terran breathed as Eagen slid closer on the bench to nuzzle at his neck. His eyes got heavy lidded, his mouth parting as his head fell back against the wall. “We’d hate to see you neglected.”
Eagen looked up at her, his mouth wet, eyes glazed. “Aye, lady. What of you?”
“What of me, indeed?” Annalise murmured,
stroking gently. “I’m certain you’ll think of something to occupy me. Now, Eagen. Let me watch you take him in your mouth, and I believe we’ll all be fair pleased with the results.”
With another groan, Eagen did as she said, Terran’s fingers already fumbling to release his prick from the confines of his trousers. And it was lovely, watching one pretty mouth devour that equally beauteous cock. It was sensual and breathtaking and it ought to have moved her to her own pleasure, but all it did was leave her cold inside.
She could blame an overindulgence of herb or sentiment, but Annalise knew the real reason she found herself unable to respond to the erotic scene she’d deliberately instigated.
His name was Cassian Toquin.
Chapter 9
Roget only came to the Motherhouse once or twice a year, but he always dragged Cassian off to town for a pint or four when he did. This visit had been no different but for the number of pints consumed. Six or eight for Roget compared to Cassian’s single mug. The man could drink and did so with gusto, and would walk with barely a stagger.
“Come, old friend,” Roget demanded with a thump on the table. In his civilian clothes, his shaved head gave away his profession even if his behavior didn’t. “Tell me you’re still satisfied with your work. Convince me, and I’ll not ask you again.”
“You ask me every time I see you,” Cassian replied mildly, sipping at his mug of bitter ale.
Roget tipped a finger at him. “ ’ Ware, else I slip your mug full of worm and see what answer you give.”
“Would worm make me a liar? For I tell the truth now.”
Roget snorted and eyed a serving wench swaying past them with her hands full of mugs and pitchers. “Does she not even turn your head? Not even a little?”
Cassian laughed a little. “No.”
“Again, I fear you misspeak to me.” Roget shook his head in sorrow. “Come back to us. You were ever well-skilled at your vocation. We miss you.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“I know you won’t do it. Can’t is something else entirely.” Roget drank deeply.
“Can’t. Won’t. The difference is not so great as you’d have me think.” The noise in the pub was giving Cassian a headache. Such places always had. He came here because Roget refused to be entertained in Cassian’s quarters with a jug of kitchen spirits and a bowl of stew.
