Pleasure and Purpose (34 page)

At the end of the path he stopped to stare at the blue flowers. He didn't know the name of them. He'd never cared. He didn't care now, but for the fact she'd asked it of him and it was more natural for him to answer than to refuse.

"M'lord." A bramble-rough voice edged out from behind the bush, and Alaric startled. He'd never learned the man's name, though once it had been

Larissa's pleasure to have the stranger suck Alaric's cock while she watched. Alaric shuddered at the memory, and then again at the smile on the other man's face. He had dark, lazy eyes and a grin that left them cold.

He'd been the one to give Alaric his first taste of oblivion.

"M'lord," the man repeated. "I've not seen you about lately. You've been absent even from court. And from our lady's chamber. Ah, your mercy. I misspoke. She is no longer—"

"Choke on it," Alaric gritted out.

The stranger lifted a brow and pursed his lips and cocked a hip, though he seemed not as casual as he wanted Alaric to believe. His gaze flicked over Alaric's shoulder. "Your master is going to work himself into apoplexy by something that chit is saying." Alaric didn't turn. "You speak of the king with so little respect? You should mind your tongue."

"You can mind my tongue any time you like." The stranger swiped the tongue in question across his teeth.

Alaric had no intentions of doing any such thing, but as much as it disgusted himself, he leaned toward the man. "You still serve her?"

The man raised a brow. "As I ever have. Of course. As I always will." She'd put Alaric from her, but not this man. Knowing it only knotted his guts further. Alaric spat to the side. The man smiled again with another lick of his teeth.

"You shouldn't let it wound you so. I have no fear in telling you she keeps me around because I cost her nothing and bring her much. It's not your fault she let you draw too close."

Alaric didn't answer, just turned to focus his attention on the blue flowers.

"It's eating at you, though, innit?" The stranger's hot breath blew on the back of Alaric's neck. "Not just her. But the other, yes?

I know. I know how it feels, brother. But why make it so? Why not just let me help you with that?"

Alaric looked down to the box in the man's hand. It might have been costly, but now the white porcelain was grimed, some of the jewels missing from the design. The gold hasp was broken. The box fell open in the man's palm to reveal a faded inner lining and a clear glass bottle in which the yellow liquid shimmered.

He was already reaching for it when he heard the crunch of footsteps on the path behind him. The man turned, his smile a lie on his lips. Alaric's fingers twitched, but he withdrew without taking the box.

"The flowers, Alaric," Mina said as her gaze moved smoothly back and forth between the two men. "I asked you the name."

"I bid you good day," the stranger said and fled.

Alaric watched him go and even took a step toward him, but stopped himself. He knew enough to recognize his need was artificial, that it could be ignored. Oblivion tempted him but if that man knew so plainly of Alaric's need for the drug, that meant Larissa must, as well. And though he didn't care if Cillian or Edward or even Mina knew he'd given in to its dark embrace, suddenly it very much mattered if his former lady knew it. She'd laugh behind her fan at the news. Mocking. He'd seen her do it before, about lovers she'd spurned. One had thought to end his life from leaping off a bridge. He hadn't died, but Alaric thought he must have wished he did. Larissa had gone to visit the poor wretch and come home beaming, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling, to regale her inner circle with the story of how he'd clung to her hand even though his fingers had all been broken.

"The flowers, Alaric."

"Blue . . . blue . . ." He stumbled on the name, tongue searching for what his mind refused to give. His fists clenched. He looked at her.

"Take a breath and think," Mina said.

"I don't know it! I don't know the name of your bedamned flowers!" He tore one from the bush and ripped the petals from it.

Mina's cool gaze served to make him feel even more ridiculous. "I would have the name, sirrah, and no further discussion."

"And what will you do if I cannot give it to you?"

She stared in silence.

Alaric spat again to clear the taste of oblivion rising on his tongue. If his action offended her, she showed no sign. She kept her gaze upon his face.

Had she demanded his obedience with threats, or sneered, or given him any indication she thought ill of him for not performing, Alaric thought he would simply turn on his heel and walk away from her. But Mina kept up her steady gaze. She didn't point out to him how she'd nursed him through the night, nor offer to remind him of her purpose. She waited.

"Blue . . . bonnets," he said at last. "No. Blue slippers. No. No. Blue coats! They're called blue coats."

Relief sighed through him. The taste of oblivion didn't dissipate, but his stomach settled. He moved to the next bush in the row.

"Roses. Named for the king's mother, Ingrid. These are also roses. I don't know what breed, but they come in white and pink as well."

He turned to her, triumphant. Mina smiled and held out her hand. He took it. She was lovely, but her smile made her the more so. And she was, whether he wished it or no, his. And he hers, he supposed, for the time. Alaric brought her knuckles to his lips and kissed them, helpless all at once against the impulse to bring another smile to her face.

It worked, and he let out a sigh. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she said.

Three days had passed since her first arrival, and so had the worst of Alaric's illness. He'd suffered the shakes, the nausea, the mood swings, but ultimately, Mina thought, it was not the drug that had turned him so desolate. He was heartsick, not drug-sick. Oblivion had been a means of easing his pain and later an easy excuse for further downward spiraling. She'd eased him through the initial drug craving. Now she needed to get him past his hearts wound.

He'd taken to her simple commands more easily than any patron she'd ever had. More than any man, she had to admit, watching as Alaric paused to check the level of her glass with his gaze before turning his attention back to the papers on his desk. She had set him to the task of organizing his accounts and settling his debts, for just as no soul could find solace amongst a mess, neither could anyone find peace with creditors banging on the door.

If indeed they should, she thought and turned the page of the novel she only feigned reading. If Alaric's friends had thought it no financial burden to acquire her services, they would surely keep the debt collectors at bay. Someone was keeping everyone away, she knew that, for aside from the maids who brought and took away their meals, nobody else came knocking.

If he felt abandoned by this, Alaric didn't say. He seemed glad enough to stay sequestered with her in his chambers, aside from their daily stroll in the gardens. Though Edward had sent an invitation to his home and Cillian had left a note encouraging Alaric to join him and some other young lords for evening entertainments, he'd refused. As for attending court, he'd made no mention, though she knew he'd gone often in the past. She finished her glass of cool honeyed tea deliberately and turned her gaze to the words on the page. In a moment, Alaric was there with the pitcher, though he didn't pour until she looked up and nodded. He had a natural inclination toward service, tempered with a lack of assumption that he could know exactly what she wanted. He was there to fill her cup or pull out her chair, to offer her the best cuts of meat, but he didn't overstep. She watched him pour the glass full and set the pitcher aside, and her pulse throbbed with sudden fierceness in her temples and the base of her throat. Between her thighs. They'd shared a bed every night, skin to skin, and not once had he laid a hand upon her.

"Alaric."

He paused at the low, throaty sound of his name. His eyes widened, just barely. When they left the room, he dressed as a gentleman, for it didn't suit her and wouldn't help him to be displayed as anything else. Here in private, however, he wore no shirt, his drawstring trousers dipping low, the way she'd told him pleased her. Mina saw the vein in his throat throb, the same as hers just had.

She set aside her book. Alaric's gaze followed it, then moved back to hers. When his tongue crept between his lips, her breath caught.

"You have well pleased me these past few days."

He bent his head. "Thank you."

"I thought you might fight me more," she said.

He smiled. "I thought I would, too."

"But you haven't." She didn't mention that first day, though they both knew of it. "You have done just as I told you, to the best of your abilities."

"Because you seem to know what is best for me," he said somewhat gruffly. "I don't have to be a scholar to know it."

"Knowing something doesn't necessarily mean you might accept it, and so readily."

"Have you had other patrons who didn't?" He seemed curious rather than jealous. She thought of past patrons who'd been less able to bend to her whim or to accept the need to do so. There had been few who did not eventually accept her as mistress, but Mina considered it their loss. As she'd told Alaric, she might take a strap to a man's back if she believed it brought him the peace it was her purpose to provide, but it was not her pleasure to do it for any other reason.

So far, Alaric had done what she told him to do because, as he'd said, he could see she had his best interests at heart. It meant he was smart, a trait she admired in anyone but appreciated even more so in a patron. In a lover.

"Tell me I've not been your most difficult patron." His voice held a hint of teasing. Mina appreciated that, too. A man on his knees was particularly arousing to her, but not if it meant he never knew how to rise to his feet. "You haven't been. I assure you."

"Nor your best, I'd wager." She heard a hint of something in his tone and knew it well. For an instant sorrow gripped her at how like other men he was. She shouldn't expect him to be different— she must needs remember that though there might be many patrons in her life, she was his only Handmaiden.

"Never mind," Alaric said. "I know you said you wouldn't lie to me. I shouldn't have asked such a question simply to feed my own vanity."

"All my patrons are different and unique to me," Mina said. Alaric took in a slow breath, and she watched the play of muscles in his shoulders and chest with heat filling her.

She pushed him to the ground in front of her with her gaze. "I would have you please me further."

A slow ripple, a current of tension, passed over him. "I would like to."

"How would you please me?" She breathed.

Alaric sank to his knees in front of her and didn't touch her. She watched him, her breath coming faster. Her nipples tightened. She'd grasped his cock and stroked him, that first day, but had never touched him with passion.

"I would like to taste you," he murmured, gaze moving down over her body to center for a moment on her lap, that she might have no doubts as to his meaning. His eyes caught hers again. "If I may."

In reply she inched up the hem of her gown to her ankles. Alaric went onto his heels to watch her. He put his hands on her ankles and followed the path of her skirt as she lifted it. By the time he reached her thighs, his fingers trembled and his every breath caught. Hers, too. It had been overlong since she'd had a patron she'd allowed to touch her. Most, though they believed otherwise, didn't require sexual congress with her and no few number of them would have been set back by it. It had been a long time, too, since she'd taken a lover, and his was a lover's touch when he pressed his mouth to her inner thigh. Mina's mind knew the difference, but her body, traitorous though it might be, didn't seem to.

"Ah," she breathed when his lips caressed the smooth skin. And again, "ah," when his tongue crept out to swipe along it.

Her fingers clutched at her gown, bunching it so she had something to grab. Alaric shifted closer. His hot breath found her flesh, and then the heat of his tongue. He tasted her, oh yes, with lips and tongue and tender kisses the likes of which had her hips rocking upward within moments.

Her hand slipped from its nest in her gown and found his hair. Her fingers twined, pulling. Alaric groaned, and Mina's body leaped at the noise.

His lips fastened on her clitoris and gently suckled. His fingers found their way inside her to probe and stroke, lifting her higher. Pleasure built and spread within her, filling all the spaces that often felt so empty. She rocked herself against his mouth. Mina looked down at him, that man on his knees. She watched the muscles of his shoulders shift and bunch as he worked his tongue against her. She watched the pleasure on his face as he made love to her with his mouth. Many men would've had their hands on their pricks when they did this, but Alaric had focused all his attentions on her. That was what tipped her over the edge more than the skill of his mouth and hands; his unwavering devotion to her pleasure, with no hint of a reward for himself. She climaxed with an unstifled shout. He cried out, too, maybe because of the fierce tug she gave his hair. Alaric spent another few moments with his mouth between her legs before he looked up, smile glistening.

Mina drew in a slow, long breath before she pulled him upward with a hand on his shoulder. He came willingly enough, looking a bit confused. She kissed his mouth and he pulled back, gaze wary. He didn't protest, but it was clear he'd not been expecting the embrace.

She let her hand linger on his cheek before she drew him closer to kiss him again. His mouth softened against hers this time, his lips parting when she urged them to. His hands slipped to her waist, holding gently.

He broke the kiss and ducked his head against her shoulder, pulling her closer. Mina held him with her legs tucked tight to his sides. The chair wasn't the best suited for such a position, and she knew his knees had to be fair aching at this point, but she didn't push him away. She stroked a hand down his bare skin, feeling the bumps of his spine. His mouth worked against her throat but he didn't speak.