All for One (13 page)

A long, low groan filtered up to where Benoît lay in his lonely bed, trying futilely to sleep. He recognized that sound, though he could not tell if it was Aristide’s voice or one of the other two who had uttered it. Regardless, he knew it for the sound of fulfillment it was, and his heart tore in his chest. Downstairs, while he lay alone, Aristide had sought the company of his lovers again. Benoît couldn’t really blame him after he’d pulled away the way he had, but he hated the thought that Aristide could put him so easily from his mind when his own thoughts were still full of the musketeer. Aristide’s words haunted him, conjuring images so vivid as to be almost real. Nothing the other man had described was all that shocking—his wife had touched him in all the ways Aristide had mentioned—but it wasn’t her hands he was imagining now on his body as he touched himself. The hands in his fantasies now were larger, rougher, surer than hers had ever been, taking where she had given, demanding where she had asked.

Benoît sat up restlessly, his undertunic and smallclothes suddenly too confining. He stripped them away and climbed back between the sheets naked, gasping as the cool cotton hit his overheated skin. He wanted simply to fall back asleep, but his tortured thoughts would give him no rest, his cock throbbing like a sore tooth. Flushing hotly, he slipped his hands beneath the covers, embarrassment riding him hard at the thought of what he was about to do. This kind of self-pleasure was as wrong as the pleasure he dreamed of finding in Aristide’s arms, but he could not seem to stop himself from wanting either. His fingers paused at his nipples, imagining they were Aristide’s fingers instead of his own, exploring him as his body pressed against him from behind, just as he’d described. Would the musketeer linger there, working him into a frenzy? Or would he move on quickly? He’d talked of taking his time to learn every sensitive spot, making Benoît hope for the former, a long, slow build to give him time to grow used to what they were doing instead of rushing headlong for a completion that still remained a foggy blur in Benoît’s mind. Aristide had mentioned touching him, kissing him, but nothing more. Benoît’s fearful reaction had stopped him before the musketeer could reveal the extent of his desires, leaving the blacksmith still in the dark about the ultimate end of any intimacy between them.

His hand moved lower, circling his cock, squeezing gently before moving down to fondle his sac. Aristide had talked of touching him this way. With a groan, Benoît let himself imagine what it would feel like, how good it would be to know another’s touch again, to know that he wasn’t alone anymore. Was that all this was? His touch grew firmer as he pondered the question. Was this just a reaction to the months of loneliness? A simple infatuation with the first person to show him true kindness since his village was struck by the plague? It didn’t feel like mere loneliness. He’d lived with that for months now. It felt like the same life-affirming warmth his wife had inspired in him when she smiled at him, held him close, scolded him for the scrapes and burns that were part of any blacksmith’s life. It felt like the same mind-numbing rapture he had known in her arms before the baby grew too big in her belly to allow such intimacy. It felt like the same soul-deep connection he had known when their minds, hearts, and bodies aligned perfectly.

With a long, deep groan, he shuddered through his unexpected climax, overcome by the feeling of rightness that filled him as he lay there panting, wishing Aristide were there with him. What was it Esteban had said? Love does not always come where it is expected. Benoît very much feared the Spaniard was correct. And he was not at all sure he could live with that realization.

P
ERRIN
waited silently in the shadows until Aristide’s breathing evened out and his expression lost the set mask of passion before stepping into the room. “Nothing attractive about an unwilling partner?” he questioned gently when Aristide turned his head to look at him.

“In my fantasies, he is never unwilling,” Aristide admitted softly. His eyes wandered to the stairs again before returning to meet Perrin’s understanding gaze. “Reality is not so compliant.”

“He’s a fool,” Perrin replied hotly. “He’ll never find a better man than you.”

“It is that I’m a man he finds fault with.”

“Then he is doubly a fool for rejecting your offer on such trivial grounds,” Perrin insisted, coming to sit in the chair next to Aristide. “I can go beat some sense into him for you, if you’d like.”

“’Tis not a trivial objection to him, I fear.” Aristide shook his head, his blue eyes clouded. “We forget, with the easy acceptance at court, that not all view our tastes as natural. And while a fight might make you feel better, I doubt it would serve to persuade him otherwise.”

“I could fuck you until you forget about him,” Perrin offered with a grin, knowing the offer would be rejected but hoping the long-running joke would bring a smile to Aristide’s face.

“I’m not sure even you have the endurance for that,” Aristide answered, the brash response winning a smile nonetheless, as he knew Perrin intended. Benoît’s words still echoing in his head, his expression soon grew serious again. “Do you ever wish for something more than we have, Perrin?” he asked quietly. “Someone who loves you and you alone? Someone completely devoted only to you?”

Perrin shrugged. “Who’d put up with me?” he asked seriously. “I’m a landless nobody with no income except my musketeer’s salary, and you know how far that goes, so no woman in her right mind would want me even if I wanted her. I’ve got nothing to offer any man either. At least you and Léandre don’t mind my smart-arse comments.”

“You have more to offer than you’ll admit, your loyalty and your humor not least,” Aristide answered, feeling again a stir of anger that Benoît or any other would not see the younger man’s qualities. “But you did not answer my question. Do you never think of something more permanent?”

“I can’t have anything more permanent, Aristide. My family would never accept it,” Perrin reminded him, thinking of his parents, scraping together their
sous
to see he was educated so he could go to Paris and make a better life for himself as a musketeer. “As long as I wear the tunic of a musketeer, they won’t be after me to marry and have children to carry on the family business, but the moment I can no longer wear that mantle, I’ll be sucked back into their vision of my future. One that won’t include you or Léandre or any other man. I’m far better off enjoying your company while I can than pining after pipe dreams.” He pushed out of the chair. “Enough of this maudlin talk. What we need is a bottle of wine, or a few, so we can get drunk enough to forget.”

“Though that sounds a fine suggestion, we return to duty tomorrow,” Aristide reminded him. “I doubt
M.
de Tréville would appreciate our doing so hung over, or worse yet, still inebriated.” Nor would it further their search to identify the author of the incriminating letter. “You are right about one thing, Perrin—’tis better to enjoy what we have than pine over pipe dreams.” He slung his arm around the younger musketeer’s shoulders as he rose, pulling them both to their feet. “Come, let’s wrest some of the blankets back from Léandre and get some sleep. ’Twill be dawn before we know it.”

“I have an even better idea,” Perrin purred, turning his head to nuzzle Aristide’s neck. “Let’s go wake up Léandre and you can fuck me like you didn’t before while I pay him back for my sore arse.”

“You may be overly confident of my stamina,” Aristide chuckled, refusing to look back as they headed toward the bedroom. “But if anyone can rouse me a third time in one night, it’s the two of you.”

They both knew there was one other who, were he willing, would be even more capable of rousing Aristide than his fellow musketeers; and were the other man willing, Perrin would wish them both well, but since he was not, he intended to do everything he could to take Aristide’s mind off him, for tonight at least.

Chapter 11

H
AVING
been his turn to walk to the market for their morning meal, Aristide had splurged on some fragrant pastries and a jug of fresh milk, knowing he was opening himself to relentless ribald remarks from his fellow musketeers for his extravagance. No matter; let them tease. He awoke feeling vaguely guilty for no reason he chose to explore; the treats were a sop to his conscience, hoping they would tempt their houseguest’s still fickle appetite. Entering their townhouse, he was unsurprised to see only Léandre and Perrin at the table. His eyes turned automatically to the stairs to the upper level.

“Still hasn’t come down,” Léandre confirmed with a quirk of his lips, “though I think I’ve heard him stirring. Do we leave him to his rest? There’s no reason he can’t sleep in if he chooses when we return to duty.”

“He’d enjoy that, lying abed all day,” Perrin snapped. “I’ll go roust him from his slumbers. If Aristide goes upstairs, he’s as likely to join him as to wake him.”

Shooting Perrin a betrayed glance, Aristide shook his head. “You’d best curb your tongue by the time we report for patrol,” he said mildly. “
M.
de Tréville may be less accepting of your quips than are we.” Turning away, he took a step or two up the narrow egress to the upper room. “Benoît?” he called. “Breakfast is on the table. We must leave soon, if you mean to join us.”

“I’ll be down in just a moment,” Benoît called back, not quite ready to face the musketeers after the unsettling dreams of the night just passed. Hot, sweaty dreams of long, hard limbs entwined.

“What’s this?” Léandre exclaimed at the pastries, reclaiming Aristide’s attention from his imaginings of the blacksmith’s lean, hard body covered only by the thin linens of the bed. Tamping down his arousal, he turned back to his companions at the table.

“I thought we should start our first day on duty after our less-than-restful leave with a decent breakfast,” Aristide offered, suspecting he was fooling no one.

Perrin shrugged, rubbing at his shin where Léandre had kicked him after his comment to Aristide. “It’s your
franc
,” he commented, picking up one of the pastries and biting into it. “Thank you, Aristide,” he added. “These are delicious.”

“I know your sweet tooth,” Aristide acknowledged, recognizing the compliment as a peace offering and considering himself fortunate neither had made the more obvious remarks. “’Twill feel good to be back at court. I am anxious to hear whether rumor of the letter or any other hint of scandal is circulating.”

“There are always scandals circulating at court,” Léandre waved a dismissive hand. “You’d go deaf listening to the half of them.”

“We don’t need to hear half of them. Just the one that matters to us,” Perrin retorted, looking up as movement at the door drew his attention. “Don’t skulk in the hallway like you’re too good to join us,” he scolded. “Come and eat before there’s none left.”

“Perhaps you should curb your nightly activities, if lack of sleep leaves you so churlish,” Aristide admonished Perrin with a stern look before smiling at Benoît. “Come, join us before we must depart.”

“Perhaps he should curb his since they leave you hurting,” Perrin muttered too softly for Benoît to hear as he walked slowly into the room, not sure of his reception after his conversation with Aristide the night before. The older musketeer greeted him with the same kind smile and genteel nod as ever, though, easing some of the tension investing the blacksmith’s frame. He already knew the dark-haired musketeer didn’t like him, so he ignored him in favor of greeting Léandre and Aristide with a nod and a smile. “
Messieurs
.”

Léandre’s smile was friendly as he inched his chair aside to make more room at the table between himself and Aristide. “How fared your evening after we left?” he asked, sliding the platter of pastries toward the younger man. “Did the Spaniard prove congenial company?”

“We had a most interesting conversation,” Benoît replied, hoping his blush was not immediately apparent to the other three men. “I know almost nothing of Spain, and he proved most willing to talk. I suspect you fared even better, though.”

“What would you care to do today while we are on duty?” Aristide asked, steering the conversation from a topic that would only give Perrin and Léandre more opportunity for ribald jests.

“Perhaps I could spend the day with
M.
Maurisset,” Benoît suggested. “Even if all I can do is work the bellows for him, ’twill be a second set of hands should he need one. I don’t know the streets well enough to simply wander the city, and I would feel guilty if I sat here alone all day doing nothing.”

“That sounds a fine plan.” Privately, Aristide was relieved that Benoît would not be left to his own devices the entire day, half fearing the blacksmith would leave if allowed to brood alone. “Just take care you do not try to do too much, too quickly. Your wound is still not fully healed.”

“He’s a man, not a boy, Aristide,” Léandre chided on seeing the mulish look cross Benoît’s face. “He knows his limits better than any, I warrant.”

“I have no desire to end up bedridden again,” Benoît added with a grateful smile in Léandre’s direction. “I’m beholden to you all enough as it is.”

Perrin just harumphed. He didn’t want to like the blacksmith, yet he knew it would be easy to do, if only he hadn’t seen Aristide’s dejection last night. He couldn’t force the blacksmith to change his mind, but he could make his own dissatisfaction very clear.

The quartet ate in silence, Aristide clearing the plates when they had finished and stacking them near the pump to clean later. “’Tis a fine morning for a walk,” he observed as they stepped outside, amused to find himself reduced to such banal conversation but determined not to further Benoît’s discomfort.

“What’s crawled inside Perrin’s breeches?” Léandre held Aristide back with a hand to his elbow once they reached the street, murmuring softly enough that the others would not overhear. “Were we too rough with him last night?” The younger musketeer had never complained of their games before, but Léandre wasn’t sure Perrin’s pride would allow him to admit if he were truly hurt.

“Too rough?” Aristide snorted. “He’d be more like to complain if he thought you were holding back. No, he overheard something he had no business hearing. He’ll forget about it soon enough.” Aristide hoped that was the case; he had no wish for Perrin’s ill-tempered snips at Benoît to continue.

Léandre frowned, not so sure about the forgetting part. Perrin was like a dog with a bone. Once he got his teeth sunk in something, he didn’t let go easily or quickly. Still, if Aristide wanted to drop the subject, he would let it go for now.

Dropping Benoît off with
M.
Maurisset, the musketeers crossed the courtyard, intending to see where
M.
de Tréville had assigned their duty for the day when the captain’s booming voice summoned them to his office. “And bring the blacksmith with you as well!”

The three musketeers exchanged troubled glances. “He must have got wind of our run-in with the Cardinal’s guard,” Léandre grumbled. “We’ll be lucky to get off with just a dressing down.”

“Try to explain without making matters worse while I fetch Benoît.” Aristide clapped them on the shoulders and turned to speed back to the smithy, leaving Léandre and Perrin to climb the steps to their captain’s office with far less than their usual swagger.

“So do you care to tell me how attacking the new English ambassador constitutes doing anything except getting yourselves thrown in jail?”
M.
de Tréville demanded as soon as Perrin and Léandre came through the door. “You can’t very well protect me if the King orders you thrown in prison for dueling in the streets!”

“It wasn’t exactly a duel, sir,” Léandre offered in a calming voice. “In fact, the ambassador told the Cardinal’s men that himself.”

“And convinced us he had nothing to do with the letter,” Perrin confirmed. Honesty compelled him to add, “I didn’t expect to like him, but I do. I believe we can trust him.”

“And if he’d been a little less accommodating?”
M.
de Tréville challenged. “He could have ordered your execution, and I’d have been powerless to stop it. And don’t tell me he didn’t. I know he didn’t, but you couldn’t have known it when you followed him. And got caught in a trap by his bodyguard to boot!”

“Teodoro has been trapping men for more years than they’ve likely been alive,” Viscount Aldwych interjected, stepping into the musketeers’ line of sight. “There’s no shame in being caught by him. And I’m glad to hear the trust is mutual. It will make finding out who really is behind this scheme easier.”

Entering
M.
de Tréville’s office with a reluctant Benoît in tow just in time to hear the English ambassador’s pronouncement, Aristide bowed, his plumed hat sweeping the floor. “Good morning, Your Excellency. Have you thought of something that might aid us in that regard?”

“He’s come to report us, apparently,” Perrin scoffed.

“Don’t start, Mathieu Jacquet. The ambassador came to make sure I heard both the truth and the edited version of yesterday’s events so I could protect you and myself,”
M.
de Tréville scolded.

Perrin jerked as if slapped.
M.
de Tréville knew of his bourgeois background, of course. The captain of the musketeers took no one into his ranks without knowing all there was to know of him, but until now, he had always allowed Perrin the charade of nobility, however minor. Léandre and Aristide knew the truth—he’d confided in them some time ago—but to have it thrown so casually in his face, and in front of the English ambassador no less, reminded him of the precariousness of his situation. “My apologies, Excellency,” he said with a sharp bow.

“We all appreciate his Excellency’s understanding,” Léandre interjected, hoping to shift the focus from Perrin even if it earned him his own rebuke in turn.

“Perhaps we could do away with all the ‘Excellencies’?” the Englishman suggested. “Since I hope we’ll be working together over the next few weeks, I suggest you call me Christian, just as Teodoro, Esteban, and Javier do when we are not at court.”

“You honor us—Christian,” Aristide hesitated slightly, recognizing the significance of the ambassador offering them his given name. Suspecting the Englishman had more of a point to his visit than reporting their unorthodox meeting to the captain of the musketeers, he repeated his earlier question. “Have you thought of some means of uncovering the author of the letter?”

“Not specifically,” Christian replied, “but the fact that suspicion should come to rest so squarely on my shoulders suggests it’s in my best interests as well as yours to see the truth of this plot come to light, and quickly. I have some experience with the kind of plots that would see a captain replaced or even a King assassinated, and I’d prefer it not to happen on my watch. I also have resources not available to the average musketeer, perhaps not even to the captain of the musketeers.”

“The question returns to who would benefit from
M.
de Tréville’s disgrace,” Léandre pondered. “Since we have of course eliminated you from our list of potential plotters,” he was quick to add to the ambassador with a rueful smile.

“Nor do we consider the Spanish court to be suspect, given the close ties to Her Majesty the Queen,” Aristide interjected. “Beyond that, though, it seems there are possibilities everywhere we look.”

“The Spaniards do not have the right accent anyway,” Benoît added quietly. “For whatever that is worth.”

“It’s worth quite a bit,”
M.
de Tréville replied kindly. “I assume the same is true for the ambassador’s accent.”

Benoît nodded.

“Who has the most to gain by weakening the musketeers?” Christian asked seriously. “Either by being able to take power from you or by being able to get closer to the King because you’re not there?”

“Any country that covets France’s wealth and power,” Aristide mused slowly. “Weakening the musketeers would make it easier to strike at the King, and in the chaos that would be sure to follow even an unsuccessful attempt, any manner of devilry could be set in motion.”

“I have no head for such plotting,” Léandre growled, blood firing at even the thought of anyone daring to harm the King. “Tell me who is behind it, and I will deal with them, but don’t expect me to try to reason out such treason.”

“If it were that simple, your captain would have figured it out already and sent you on the hunt,” Christian replied with a smile, years in court bringing an appreciation for the kind of man
M.
de Tréville was, as well as for the kind of guard dogs he had surrounded himself with. They would kill without question in protection of their master. “Your loyalty is commendable indeed. We must simply discover where best to use your sword.”

“A trap, perhaps?”
M.
de Tréville suggested. “Something that would net us our prey regardless of who it might be?”

“I still suspect the Cardinal is behind it all,” Perrin asserted, unable to keep silent even if it drew his captain’s continued wrath. “We all know how jealous he is of your friendship with His Majesty—he would stop at nothing in order to do you harm.”