Athos' brow furrowed in perplexity.
"It's just dirt and stones, d'Artagnan," he said. "I would imagine that if we are successful in our endeavor, there will be land and titles enough for all of us if we desire them. And if we fail—well, we'll most likely be dead, so it won't particularly matter."
"I hadn't thought of it quite like that," d'Artagnan said.
The other man gave a faint shrug, and laid a hand on his shoulder as he got up to leave.
"Get some rest," he said. "We'll organize the supplies tomorrow and be ready to leave first thing Tuesday morning."
D'Artagnan nodded, and did his best to take Athos' advice. The following day was a whirlwind of activity as food, drink, bedrolls, tents, utensils, clothing, weapons, and valuable gunpowder and ammunition were gathered and packed, amidst mostly good-natured bickering and periodic disagreements about what was most important, or which was the best way to do this or that.
When D'Artagnan fell into bed the night before they were to leave, he was exhausted, but also full of restless anticipation. So it was that, upon being startled from a light doze by an approaching candle flame and the sound of soft steps in his room, he was halfway off the bed with the dagger he kept under his pillow brandished in front of him before he was even properly awake.
"Easy there," said a feminine voice. "It's just me. I've come to say goodbye."
D'Artagnan blinked, lowering the knife as he registered the familiar pale face in the light of the flickering candle flame. "Christelle?"
Christelle smiled and nodded, adding, "The very same. You know, you're sweet when you're half-asleep; has anyone ever told you that?"
"Probably my mother, at some point. Though I seriously doubt I was pointing a dagger at her at the time," d'Artagnan said, stowing the knife back beneath his pillow and hoping the dim light would hide the blood flowing to his cheeks.
"Well, dagger or no, she was right," Christelle said, the corners of her lips still canted upwards as she set the candle next to the bed and came to stand half a pace in front of him where he sat on the edge of the mattress. "So, you'll be leaving in the morning, then."
"Yes," d'Artagnan said, looking up at her as she closed the distance between them even more.
"I'm going to miss you," she said, her smile fading to something wistful. "I think I'd like something more to remember you by."
Trying to ignore how nervous and off-kilter he felt sitting there in his unlaced shirt and smallclothes, d'Artagnan said, "What did you have in mmph—" only to be cut off by Christelle's lips closing over his own. His hands came up of their own volition to cradle her face and twine through her honey-colored hair, even as she gripped his shoulders to steady herself and deepened the kiss, licking into his mouth and sending all his blood rushing to his prick.
Christelle kissed the same way she did everything else—as if it was a contest she was determined to win. D'Artagnan let himself be swept away by her passion for several moments before dimly remembering that he was the man here, and should probably be doing more of the sweeping away part. With a sound somewhere between a growl and a moan, he slid his hands down her neck and across her shoulders to grip her upper arms, using his greater weight and strength to twist them both around and spill her backwards onto the bed. He followed immediately, covering her body with his own and resuming the kiss.
She gasped approval, and slid both hands into his hair to hold him in place. D'Artagnan fumbled for the lacing at the sides of her corset, wishing with sudden and desperate urgency that he were more practiced in dealing with women's clothing. He shifted, and his aching prick brushed against the crease at the top of her thigh through the fabric of her skirts. Unable to help himself, he thrust into the welcoming space there even as his hands loosened the knots in her lacing.
Christelle moaned into his mouth, but then one of her hands was guiding his head back so she could speak, and the other was closing over the top of her corset.
"Wait!" she said breathlessly. "You can't take me that way. I don't want to get pregnant."
Before d'Artagnan could drag together enough coherence to form a protest, Christelle smiled up at him, a blush staining her cheeks becomingly.
"Don't worry," she continued. "I know a better way. My friend Odette told me about something else we could do."
She pushed him off far enough that she could wriggle out from under him and stand next to the bed, looking delightfully rumpled with her hair mussed and her lips wet and swollen from kissing.
"I still want to see you," d'Artagnan begged. "Let me see you, Christelle."
Christelle blushed brighter, but nodded, looking down and to the side shyly before catching his gaze once more, her lower lip caught between her teeth. D'Artagnan surged up, allowing her to show him how best to loosen the lacings on her corset without removing them altogether, whispering to him that this way she wouldn't have to re-lace the whole thing in order to put it on again. He helped her wriggle out of it and watched, rapt, as she undid the ties of her skirts, letting them slide down to puddle at her feet before stepping out of them and kicking them to one side.
She returned to him wearing only her chemise, and he kissed her again, allowing his hands to wander over the soft linen. Her breasts were small and flat; slightly upturned. A surprised mewl of pleasure escaped her throat as he palmed them, feeling the nipples pebble with arousal against his hands. He swept his hands up and then down again, sliding the light underdress down her arms and off, leaving it to settle at her waist.
"No fair," she said, and wrestled his shirt over his head in retaliation.
D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow at her. "It's totally fair. I'm nothing to look at—I'm all over scars."
"Seen 'em before," she retorted. "Don't care."
He grinned, a sense of pleasure and belonging that he had not felt in months and months washing over him.
"Good," he said, and pulled her chemise down completely, baring her to his eyes. She was lean and sinewy; pale as milk. "Christelle, you're beautiful."
Her answering smile was radiant. She dove for the laces of his braies, and he reached down to help her, desperate to get them off. They ended up getting in each other's way more than anything, especially when the brush of her fingers against his cock sent new pleasure sparking through him, turning his own fingers thick and clumsy. Thankfully for his sanity, the knot eventually came loose and Christelle pushed the offending garments down over his hips so he could kick free of them.
"Sit on the bed," she said, giving him a push when he wasn't fast enough for her.
He flopped onto the edge of the straw-filled mattress, his legs falling open. Christelle folded herself into the space between them, kneeling on the pile of discarded clothing. His swollen prick gave an interested twitch as she studied it, reaching out a hand to touch. Her face was so close that he could feel her breath ghosting over the tip, and he shivered involuntarily.
"Odette told me that a man could take his pleasure from a woman's mouth, instead of her cunny," she said, looking up at him with wide eyes. "You'll have to tell me if I'm doing it right."
D'Artagnan could only nod; his voice stuck fast in his throat. Christelle leaned forward slightly until she could place a kiss on his cockhead where it was already leaking slightly. Her tongue darted out to taste the drop of his essence seeping from the slit, and he sucked in a surprised breath.
"Good?" she asked, still looking up at him through her lashes.
"Yes," he managed, his voice hoarse with desire. "Please—please do it again..."
She smiled with delight and bent back to her task, letting the head slip past her lips to slide into the warm, silky heat of her mouth. D'Artagnan moaned, unable to help himself. Christelle alternated kissing and licking around the slit with taking his length into her mouth, a little deeper each time, and d'Artagnan felt his pleasure rise higher with every brush of her lips and tongue. When she licked firmly along the bottom of his shaft and suckled, his hips lifted off the bed involuntarily. Startl
ed, she choked and pulled back, letting him slip free.
"S-sorry," he said, barely recognizing his own voice, but she only shook her head and smiled.
"Here," she said, wrapping her small hand around the base of his cock, "let me just—"
She trailed off, repositioning herself and swallowing him once more. Her hand pumped him up and down in counterpoint to her lips and tongue, and d'Artagnan was lost in moments, hands gripping the edge of the bed until his knuckles turned white.
"Christelle!" he choked out, and came with such force that lights flashed behind his closed eyelids. He was dimly aware of Christelle making a startled noise around his pulsing cock and pulling off with a soft pop. When his vision returned, he looked down to see her watching him with an air of amusement, a dollop of his release sliding slowly down her cheek and a bit more at the corner of her mouth. Something about the sight made d'Artagnan's heart skip a beat, and his spent cock give a halfhearted stir of interest.
Christelle wiped at the mess with the back of her hand, which seemed merely to spread it around rather than removing it. Unable to help himself, he reached down and pulled her up far enough to kiss the life out of her. She hummed approval into his mouth and wrapped her arms around his neck. By the time his mind started working well enough to identify the source of the salty, bitter taste in her mouth, it was really too late to worry about it, and he merely pulled her closer in his embrace.
When they eventually surfaced for air Christelle laughed, breathless and carefree.
"I take it Odette knew what she was talking about, then?" she asked.
"She did, indeed," d'Artagnan replied, reveling in the sense of relaxation and well-being sliding over him.
"Bit messy, though," she said, wiping again at her cheek. "Maybe you're supposed to swallow it all?"
D'Artagnan could only smile at her like a fool. "Maybe so," he agreed. His eyes drifted lazily over her exposed body, noting the hardness of her nipples and the patch of wetness smeared across her inner thighs, shiny in the candlelight. "Come here. Lie on the bed with me."
He arranged her at his left side, shifting them until he could explore her body with his right hand without his scars pulling too badly. Her eyes were luminous in the low light as she looked up at him. Her belly trembled as he ran his hand lower, through the patch of short brown hair that grew between her legs, to the apex where slick moisture clung to the sodden strands. He cupped her mons, letting the evidence of her excitement coat his fingers. Her eyes followed his hand as if bewitched when he raised it to his lips, breathing the scent deeply before licking along his palm, and she released an unsteady moan.
"Taste it," he told her, thinking that this way, their essences could still mingle even if he didn't spill his seed in her womb. She grabbed his hand immediately, sucking his fingers into her mouth with as much enthusiasm as she had his prick. Again, he felt a stir of desire, even though it was far too soon for him to be ready.
"You are so beautiful," he told her. "I could watch you all night."
She slid his fingers from her mouth to growl, "Watch me all you like, but touch me while you’re doing it, damn you."
He grinned at her and silenced her with a kiss, swallowing the desperate noise she made when he returned his hand to her soaking cunt and exploring the folds delicately with his fingers. The little button of sensitive flesh at the front made her hips buck up against his hand, and when he slid a finger back along her inner lips with steady pressure, its tip disappeared into her slick, tight passage, making her groan against his lips.
He amused himself with sliding back and forth between the two points in an unhurried, steady rhythm, circling the slippery nub and then plunging the whole length of his finger into her warm depths, back and forth... back and forth. After a few minutes of the painfully slow, delicious torture, Christelle jerked away from the kiss, cursing him between moans and trying to speed his movements by rolling her hips against his fingers. Grinning, he pinned her lower body with one of his legs across her thigh, and kept right on with what he was doing.
Cursing gradually turned into begging as Christelle gave up struggling and became pliant and soft under his ministrations.
"Please, d'Artagnan, please," she implored. "I need more; I need—oh, I don't know! Something..."
"Like this?" d'Artagnan asked, adding a second finger to her passage. Christelle keened, and d'Artagnan marveled that something so tight could also be so welcoming, seeming to clutch at his fingers as if trying to keep them inside. A sudden idea struck—if going back and forth between her nub and her passage could drive Christelle to such heights, perhaps both at once—?
He shifted a bit lower until he could slide his thumb over the sensitive flesh with two fingers still inside her. Christelle stiffened, trembling; her breath caught in her lungs for several seconds before she shuddered her release, muscles rippling around d'Artagnan's hand. He kept stroking her until she whimpered and flinched away, oversensitive. After gently sliding his fingers free, he wrapped her tightly in his arms and held her as little shivers continued to wrack her body every few seconds. When she had regained her breath a little, she looked up at him in amazement.
"That was... I've never—" She cut herself off, shaking her head a bit. "I didn't know it could be like that."
D'Artagnan felt a wave of pride and protectiveness wash over him simultaneously, and he hitched her warm, drowsy body a little closer so she could rest her head on his chest as he kicked the blanket free of his legs and dragged it over both of them.
"I'm glad it was good for you," he told her sincerely, before quirking a smile down at her. "And you'll have to thank Odette on my behalf."
A small furrow appeared between Christelle's eyebrows.
"Odette died last fall," she said, her voice going quiet and distant. "I miss her. I'll miss you, too, when you leave."
"And I, you," d'Artagnan agreed. "But I'm glad I'll have this night to remember you by. Will you stay here with me?"
He felt her nod against his chest.
"Yes," she said, "but I'll have to leave early enough that we don't get caught."
"Thank you," he said, feeling unaccountably grateful that he wouldn't have to let go of her right away. He leaned over far enough that he could blow out the single candle before burrowing down into the bed with her warm weight sprawled across his body. Within moments he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Chapter III: June 24th, 1631
"D'ARTAGNAN? IT'S ALMOST time to leave."
It was still dark when Athos' low voice roused d'Artagnan from slumber. His eyes blinked open to the sight of candlelight, and immediately flew to the other half of the bed, which was rumpled but thankfully empty. He let out a breath of relief and focused on his host.
"Of course," he said. "I'll get ready and meet you at the stables."
"Eat something first," Athos told him. "There's food in the kitchen."
D'Artagnan nodded agreement and waited until Athos lit the guttered candle by his bed and retreated from the room before sitting up, conscious of his nakedness beneath the blanket. Christelle had left earlier without waking him, retrieving her own clothes and tidying his from the floor to the foot of the bed.
As was his habit, he reached under the pillow to retrieve his dagger, but his hand encountered something else wadded up next to it. He pulled out both items, and found a short length of blue ribbon that he vaguely recognized as having adorned the top edge of Christelle's dress. Unable to keep the smile off of his face, he rummaged around the room until he found a piece of leather thong left over from some piece of saddlery he'd been repairing. He tied the ribbon to the middle of it with a heavy knot and fastened the thong around his neck, wincing as his left shoulder protested the awkward movement.
Dressing quickly, he gathered up his meagre belongings and left the room, the short length of blue silk nestled against his heart.
Madeleine was on kitchen duty when d'Artagnan entered, and she smiled shyly as she greeted him.
D'Artagnan thanked her and helped himself to eggs and coarse, crusty bread. The eggs were still warm, and flavored with dill from the gardens. As he ate, he mused that Madeleine would make someone a very good and sweet wife someday, and hid a smile as he contemplated the sisters' wildly different temperaments.
When he had eaten his fill, he helped Madeleine tidy up the kitchen and they both left the castle to find the others. Dawn was streaking the sky to the east, revealing a few clouds marring an otherwise clear morning—good weather for traveling. Unfortunately, d'Artagnan's punishment for having tarried in bed longer than the others became apparent as he entered the yard, where Athos had already saddled de Tréville's stallion for his own use. Since Aramis had requested use of the carthorse and Milady had her own gelding ready, that left only Grimaud's unpleasant mare for d'Artagnan to ride.
Sighing, d'Artagnan entered the barn and girded himself for battle. When he exited again several minutes later, the mare following reluctantly behind him with her ears pinned back and upper lip curled disdainfully, he was rubbing at a new bruise on his upper arm where the nag's nipping teeth had pinched the skin through his doublet as he tightened the girth on the saddle.
The others were mounted and waiting, but Mme Prevette and Madeleine stepped forward to intercept him. Of Christelle, there was no sign.
"Safe journey, d'Artagnan," Madeleine said. He smiled and took her hand, bowing to press a chaste kiss to the girl's knuckles.
"Be well, Madeleine," he told her.
He turned to Mme Prevette and made to repeat the gesture, but she huffed and batted his hand away gently.
"Don't be silly, lad," she told him, before wrapping him in an embrace. He returned it gingerly, mindful of the elderly woman's slow-healing injuries.
"Thank you for helping us," he told her when they parted.
Book 2: The Queen's Musketeers, #2 Page 4