A Candle For d'Artagnan

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  He rested his chin lightly on her shoulder so that he could whisper to her, “That’s because I’ve never had to wait for them to be loosened.

  She reached back and pinched him lightly. “I might have known you’d have an answer.” Her attitude grew more somber. “I have heard that Mazarin has urged you to marry, to find a suitable woman and have sons.”

  “He has mentioned it,” said Charles in a tone of voice that suggested he did not want to discuss it.

  “And you have refused,” Olivia said, not abandoning the matter. “Why is that?”

  “Not that it is any of your concern,” said Charles, “but I know no one I want to marry. But you, Olivia. You have said already that you will not marry; so, then, neither will I.” He finally got her laces undone; he removed her bodice and went to work on the skirt and petticoats. “You still will not wear boned corsets, will you?”

  “Not unless I must,” she answered. “It is worse than wearing armor.” She hesitated, then added, “It is part of my heritage. We did not wear stays when I was young.” She closed her eyes as he nibbled kisses on her shoulder.

  “I have the skirt unfastened. Two petticoats”—he turned her face so that he could kiss her again, this time with more passion and less playfulness than before—“to go.”

  “And the corset,” she reminded him, feeling the long months of separation vanish. “Magna Mater! how I have longed for you. I have spent nights in my library with no mind for the books because all I could think of was you. When I have waited through the dark for a foal to be born, I have to clap my hands over my eyes to keep from envisioning you with me.” She sighed as her petticoats dropped around her feet.

  “I am curious about your corset,” said Charles as he plucked at the lacing down the back. “I am curious about how you wear it, how it holds you. Like this?” His arms went around her from behind, his hands cupping her breasts. “Such sweetness, Olivia. How can you live with so much sweetness?”

  She leaned back against him. “You give the sweetness. For me this is just flesh. But I am happy that you find sweetness.” Now she put her palm against his thigh. “Were you going to rest before—”

  “Yes; I’m too tired to be much good to you, or to me, if it comes to that. I’m not the boy you met.” He was rueful and just apprehensive enough that Olivia knew he was worried that he might disappoint her.

  Olivia pressed her hand. “Every age has its strength, Charles. If you were still climbing onto coach roofs to help women caught in the middle of riots, I would be nervous for you. I think now it would be wisest for you to command the troops that end the riot completely.” She could feel his posture change and took strange satisfaction in realizing she had said nothing more than the truth.

  He placed his hand over hers. “By noon I will be yours until long after nightfall.” With that, he pulled the laces from her corset and let it fall atop the petticoats. “You do not know how much I have wanted you, Olivia. No woman alive can move me as you do.” He turned her around, his hands as adoring as acolytes. “I cannot tell you how much I cherish my time with you. I value this more than the triumphs I have had in war. We have had just three times together in five years, none of them longer than a week, but those few days have sustained me in everything I do. It is not easy to remember that our time together is so short when it is the savor of all my life.” He got out of his breeches and tugged off his boots. “A little sleep, Olivia, a few hours only, with you close to me, that’s all I will need. Your presence will refresh me most of all.”

  She grinned at him. “I may hold you to those few hours.”

  “I expect no less,” said Charles, leading her to her own bedchamber where he flung back the covers for her. “Will it be warm this afternoon?”

  “Only in the sun. At this time of year the shadows are cold.” She went to close the shutters over the windows. “That will keep out prying eyes, love.”

  “Excellent.” He had thrown himself on the bed exuberantly and lay there naked, watching her set the latches on the shutters. “You are more beautiful every time I look at you.”

  She decided to make light of his words, so that he would not feel he had to recant them later. “That is either a faulty memory or—”

  “Or it is that I love you more with the passage of time,” he finished, seriously but with amusement in his brown eyes. His flying brows were slanted even more sharply up in his face, giving him an impish look.

  “Then I am more blessed than most of the women in the world,” said Olivia seriously as she turned away from the windows, satisfied that the shutters were securely latched.

  “That is because I love you,” said Charles with satisfaction. “If it were otherwise, I could understand why you would have doubts.” He picked up a pillow and held it as a shield as she threw herself at him. In the low light, it appeared that he was wearing a heavy tunic.

  “You’re impossible,” she accused him, laughing and joyous because she was certain now that he was not merely seeking to reinforce a memory of passion. They wrestled gently, then lay back, breathless and grinning.

  “A little rest,” repeated Charles sternly, and destroyed his command by giggling once. “Oh, God, what would the Musqueteers think of this?”

  She did not know how to ask if a decision had been reached regarding the reinstatement of the regiment, and so she said, “Are you so sure you are the only fighting man who plays at battle in bed?”

  “No, but no one does it as well as I do,” he answered, stretching out and drawing the blanket up to his chest. “I will not require you to waken me; I am used to waking on order, from habit.”

  “Your own order, you mean?” she asked, settling down beside him, liking the way their bodies fit together, enjoying the smell and the heat of him.

  “Naturally. Being the Cardinal’s courier means that I cannot rely on anyone but myself to sound trumpets.” He yawned, and the beginning grooves in his cheeks deepened, another sign of the years. “You don’t have to sleep—I know you don’t sleep much, but stay with me, Olivia, so that I will have you even in my dreams.”

  “I will,” said Olivia, and slid her leg over his, one hand across his chest, her head pillowed against his shoulder. “If this will not disturb you.”

  “Cannonfire disturbs me; this is my greatest pleasure.” He turned his head to kiss her forehead, then stretched and, catlike, was quickly asleep.

  Olivia felt the breath move in him with the same steadiness of waves on a beach. She let herself be rocked by it, feeling how much his breath was himself. Though she did not sleep, she dozed, and welcomed the waking dreams of the other times they had spent the days and nights in a world that consisted of little more than their arms and bodies and kisses and union. It would be hard, she thought, to have to leave that behind when he came to her life, but once they both were vampires, they would not be able to give each other that inescapable need—life. In all her hundreds of years, Olivia had never been jealous of those sought by the men of her blood, but she suspected that this time it might be different, that this time she would begrudge every partner he had the life they could give him when she could not. She was both smug and shamed by this realization, and wondered how Charles would feel in a century’s time? Would he still yearn for her, or would she be his most treasured memory and most enduring friend?

  There was always the chance, she reminded herself, that he would not change when he died, that the predations of war would destroy his body so that he would not wake into her life. The idea was so distressing, so distasteful, that she thrust it away as she had for so long held off all memories of her years of torturous marriage to Cornelius Justus Silius. Rather that Charles have dozens of lovers, each more doting than the last, and that he adore every one of them, than that he fall, shattered, on the field of battle.

  “What’s wrong,” asked Charles, his arm pulling her on top of him.

  “No … nothing,” said Olivia, taken by surprise. The light in the room had shifted, and she real
ized that it was now past midday.

  “What nothing?” Charles insisted, looking directly up into her face. “What nothing, Olivia?”

  She gave a small, jerky shrug. “Unhappy thoughts, that’s all. I suppose any woman who loves a soldier has them from time to time.”

  “You mean you fear for my life when I fight?” he asked as directly as he could. “That’s a foolish thing to do. I will not die as long as you love me. You are my talisman against all harm. I swear it, Olivia,” he insisted as he saw her dubious expression. “As long as you love me, I am invincible.” He drew her down to a long, searching kiss, one that left them both with widened eyes and deeper breath.

  “I will try not to worry, then,” she said, her skin warmed and acutely sensitive where he touched her. It was a special magic that Charles alone possessed, she thought, this subtle awakening that reached to places within her that had remained hidden before to everyone, even herself. For all her love for Sanct’ Germain, there had been no chance to make such discoveries before she changed and came into his life. After that, it had taken her from the time of the Emperor Vespasianus to now for her to know such utter happiness with any lover.

  “Not too quickly,” Charles murmured as she found her way over him, hands and lips seeking, exploring. He caught her arm and drew her back to him, opening his mouth to hers, and then expanding his own quest, his brown eyes bright with exultation as he felt her excitement and delectation. “Your skin is better than satin,” he whispered. “Especially here.”

  She could not answer him, not with words. The wonderful delirium he caused in her continued, a rapturous frenzy that was so all-encompassing that she wanted nothing more in the world than the glorification of their bodies, the innovation of their desires, the fulfillment of their shared passion, and the communion of blood.

  It was near day’s end when they finally rested from their exchanges of delight. The bedroom was darker, the light warmed to a pale russet glow where fine lines of it penetrated the shutters and colored the walls.

  “I always think I can remember how you make me feel, and I never can,” said Charles as he kissed her ear. They were lying together like spoons now, his arms around her. Tendrils of his chestnut hair still clung around his face; the clean, sharp smell of his sweat was caught in the damp sheets.

  “I can’t remember, either,” said Olivia, giddy with contentment. She wished she knew how to purr. She turned in his arms and kissed his shoulder, low, soft laughter shaking her when she saw how matted his hair was. “I will have Niklos warm the bath for us,” she offered. “And I will arrange for you to have supper. You must be hungry.”

  “And wanting more of what I have fed on,” he said outrageously, adding, “If you were ticklish—”

  “I would never have any peace,” she declared, sitting up and reaching for the bell that would summon her major domo. “And wine? Some food, wine, and then we will go play like dolphins in hot water?”

  “As you wish,” he said, grinning lazily at her. “I wish I could remain here for the rest of my life, Olivia.” His eyes clouded. “I mean that, or almost.”

  “You mean it as a wish,” said Olivia gently. “You mean it as you pray for peace in the world and hope for men to bear themselves with dignity and goodwill,” she said, looking down at him. “And I share your feeling. I would keep you here forever if that would not cause you to hate me, in time.”

  “I could never hate you,” said Charles, shocked at the suggestion. “Olivia, don’t make light of what I say: I could never hate you, no matter what you did.”

  “Possibly,” she allowed. “But you would not respect me if I compromised you, would you?” She motioned him to silence. “No, don’t argue. I would not want you to be otherwise, because then you would be a stranger to me, not my Charles who—” She broke off and looked up at the discreet knock on the door. “Come in, Niklos.”

  “Olivia!” Charles protested in a whisper.

  “He knows you are here,” said Olivia, “and he has few illusions about me.” She sat cross-legged in the bed, her covers pulled up as high as her waist; as Niklos came through the door, she took one of the pillows and held it out to hide Charles.

  Niklos rarely bothered to bow to Olivia when he spoke with her privately, but on this occasion he did. “You and your guest are giving yourselves some time to recover?” His tone was more affectionate than sarcastic.

  “Yes, and Charles is hungry. Small wonder,” she added as she lifted the corner of the pillow and winked down at him. “He will require supper, wine, and honied warm milk.”

  “And you want the bath heated and filled, unless I miss my guess,” said Niklos. “I have only to give the order and it will be done.” He gave a slight bow to the pillow that concealed Charles. “Is there anything else you need, d’Artagnan?”

  “No,” came the muffled answer, and a burst of laughter. He emerged from behind the pillow. “Yes. Two branches of candles for this room. I do not want to lose sight of Olivia for one instant I am here.”

  “As you wish,” Niklos said, with a quick, wicked wink to Olivia. “Your bath, the meal, the wine, honied milk, two branches of candles. And robes as well, I assume. I have Monsieur d’Artagnan’s waiting for him.”

  “From so long ago?” Charles asked with the semblance of surprise.

  “You are the only man who has been here as Olivia’s guest since she returned from France, and that was more than five years ago, now,” said Niklos. “There is a suit of clothes for you, a robe, two cloaks and a coat, a pair of boots, two pistols and a sword, as I recall, in the armoire she has set aside for you.” He retreated toward the door. “There is a minor piece of business, Olivia, but it can wait, if that is your preference.”

  “What is it?” Olivia asked out of long habit.

  “There is a report from the Villa Vecchia,” he said, using the name by which Villa Ragoczy had been known for several centuries.

  “And?” she inquired and waited.

  “They have finished the ground floor and want permission to begin work on the second floor. It will mean hiring more men, as well as requiring more supplies. Shall I authorize the expenses and the time?” He looked at Charles and added apologetically, “We might as well settle this. It won’t take long, and then neither of you need think about it.”

  “By all means,” said Charles, trying to match Niklos’ casual manner without entirely succeeding.

  Olivia had frowned as she listened and now she said, “All right, how long do they expect this to take and how many men do they anticipate needing?”

  “If they hire another twenty, it will take three or possibly four years. If they hire double that, it will be two or three years. In either case, the supplies will be about the same. If we have bad weather, of course, that will delay the work a little, but the longest it will take is seven years.” He folded his arms. “What do you think?”

  “I think that Sanct’ Germain says he plans to stay in the New World for another fifteen years at least. He has found more of the native priests and physicians, and you know how such things fascinate him.” She bent and kissed Charles on the forehead. “Tell them to hire the twenty men, and they can take up to ten years for all of me.” She rubbed her hands together. “Just tell them I would rather take longer and do it right than hurry the work and have to do it over because it is not correct.” She grinned at Niklos. “Is that answer enough for you?”

  “It will be for Enrico,” said Niklos, referring to the overseer at Villa Vecchia. Once again he bowed, this time with so much respect that Olivia hooted with laughter. Then he was gone and they were alone together once more.

  “I don’t know if I could wait so long to see a thing accomplished,” said Charles when Niklos was gone.

  “That is because you haven’t lived as long as I,” she said, leaning back against him. “Come. If we stay here you will have no food until midnight.” She gave his shoulder a gentle slap. “Niklos will bring robes for us shortly, and we can go down
to the smaller reception room.”

  “Why should we bother?” he asked as he reached for her. “We can have them bring supper here, to your sitting room.”

  “That would mean we are clandestine lovers, and we are not,” she said, her head up. “If it were up to me, we would go to the old baths in the center of Roma and sport there naked, so that everyone from the Pope to the urchins would know that you are the man I love. But Mazarin would not like his courier the object of attention, and so, we will do what we may.” She tossed the covers aside and stepped out of the bed. The room was growing chilly but there was no sign that she was cold.

  Charles sat up, watching her as she looked for a pair of silken slippers. “I don’t know what to say,” he confessed as he watched her retrieve her slippers from under the bed. “You tell me this, and yet there is no marriage for you.”

  She stood up, slippers in hand. “Charles, think: how can there be? You know what I am. How do I swear to be a wife until death, when I have been dead for so long?”

  “You’re not dead,” he protested with some heat.

  “Not in the usual way,” she said, sitting down to don her slippers. “But there are too many questions that would be hard to answer. I have aged very little since I died. If I were to live with one man, how long do you think it would be before someone noticed? And when it was noticed, how long do you think it would be before there were rumors, rumors I could not always refute. And how long do you think it would be before my husband became disenchanted with his unchanging wife? Now, you say it is nothing, but in twenty years, what then? In twenty years, you would be—what? fifty-three? fifty-five?—and I would be … as I am. It will not be a trivial matter then.” She reached out and took his hand; amusement and something much more enduring and profound glowed in her hazel eyes. “But if any man ever could change my mind, Charles, it is you. You.”

  He brought her hand to his lips, kissing her fingers one at a time. “Then I am encouraged,” he said, as he met her eyes. “And I will persevere, every time I am allowed to come to Roma, I will pester you until you forbid me to mention marriage.”