Book 3: The Queen's Musketeers, #3

by R. A. Steffan

  A low, drawn-out, primal sound of pain drew d’Artagnan to the bed, and he reached a hand out to wrap around her shoulder.

  “Wake up, it’s only a dream,” he said, and gave her a gentle shake.

  The result was dramatic, and entirely unexpected as far as d’Artagnan was concerned. Constance shrieked and flailed at him, her small fist rolling off his shoulder to impact stingingly across his jaw.

  Chapter X: September 3rd, 1631

  “DON'T TOUCH ME!” she yelped, and half-scrambled, half-fell off the bed, landing hard on her bottom and crab-crawling backwards until her back met the wall. D’Artagnan nearly lost his footing as well, tripping over the bedroll as he staggered back to give her space, one hand cradling the side of his face where she’d hit him.

  “Constance! It’s d’Artagnan... it’s all right, you’re safe,” he said in a rush.

  Constance stared at him from the floor. Her wide, glazed eyes looked out from a tear-stained face.

  “... d’Artagnan?” she asked, awareness gradually returning to her expression.

  “Yes, it’s me,” he said, trying to make his sound voice calm despite his pounding heart. “We’re in Éparnon, on our way to Paris. Do you remember?”

  Constance stared at him, her mouth working, but no sound coming out. Suddenly, her attention was drawn downward, to her own chest. Her chemise was soaked in two rivulets leading down from her nipples, where her breasts had leaked milk. Her face crumpled and she broke down into tears, grasping the wet material in her hands, curling forward over her knees to rock back and forth as she cried.

  D’Artagnan’s chest ached with the need to go to her, but instead, he backed up the final few steps to the wall opposite hers and slid down it into a crouch, letting his forearms rest on his knees and his hands hang, loose and unthreatening.

  “I’m sorry,” he said simply. “I want to help you, but I don’t know how. I’m here, though. I won’t come any nearer if you don’t want me to, but I won’t leave you alone, either.”

  Constance only cried harder, burying her face against her knees. They sat like that for some time. D’Artagnan felt his own throat close up and his eyes start to sting in sympathy, but he quashed the threat of tears with deep, even breaths. Gradually, Constance’s hitching sobs slowed and quieted.

  “I don’t know how you can put up with me,” she said finally, her voice thick with tears and snot. “I’m such a mess.”

  “I spent months whipping my own back until I bled rather than acknowledge my grief over the death of my family,” d’Artagnan said. “I don’t think I’m in any position to judge. May I come closer to you now?”

  She nodded miserably, her eyes still cast down. D’Artagnan crossed the small space and sat next to her, leaving a small gap between them. He let out a quiet sigh of relief when she closed the distance so that their shoulders touched.

  “I dreamt about Sophie,” she said, her expression far away. “My baby. She was crying, and I wanted to nurse her, but she wouldn’t take the breast. Her cries kept getting weaker and weaker, and I thought, I have to do something—she’ll die if she doesn’t feed. And then I woke up, and I thought you were Jacques. It’s been almost two weeks since I dreamed that dream. I’d hoped I was finally done with the nightmares.”

  “Perhaps it’s merely the unfamiliar surroundings, and the excitement of the day,” d’Artagnan offered.

  “But I was happy today, d’Artagnan!” She looked at him earnestly, as if afraid he would not believe her. “I was... truly.”

  D’Artagnan shrugged the shoulder that rested against hers lightly. “In the weeks and months after I left Gascony, whenever something would give me a flash of happiness or pleasure, afterwards, I would find myself wondering what I had done to deserve something good in my life, and how I could find pleasure from anything when my family was dead.”

  He glanced quickly at Constance, who was looking up at him intently. “The truth is, though,” he continued, “we do deserve happiness if we can find it or make it without hurting someone else. Both of us do. Everyone does. But finding happiness one day doesn’t mean we won’t feel sadness over our losses on the next. Nor does our sadness mean that happiness won’t return the day after that. It’s simply the way the world is.”

  Constance’s eyes grew wet again, but this time, rather than push him away, she let her head fall to rest against his shoulder. “I want to live in that world with you, d’Artagnan. It sounds like a beautiful place.”

  “You’re living in that world with me now,” d’Artagnan said. “You just have to let yourself believe in it, I think.”

  Constance pressed closer to him. “I’m trying,” she said. “I really am.”

  * * *

  The following day saw them somewhat quieter and more subdued as they rode, each tangled in their own thoughts. The inn in the little town of Le Parray-en-Yvelines had burned down that spring, but an enterprising widow on the outskirts of town had since opened her farmhouse to visiting travelers as a way to support herself and her three daughters. The beds were clean and fresh, and the food a vast improvement over the mystery stew in Éparnon the evening before.

  D’Artagnan slept on the floor again that night. Again, Constance’s sleep was restless and punctuated by disturbing dreams, but this time d’Artagnan did not make the mistake of trying to wake her. The next morning they were a bit more rested and returned to their usual talk and banter as they rode. As they approached Montigny-le-Bretonneux, their goal for the night, Constance began to insert sly innuendoes into the conversation, smiling when she succeeded in making d’Artagnan squirm with discomfort in the saddle.

  That evening when they retired to their room, Constance said, “Tonight I want to see you on the bed. I want to watch you touch yourself again, slower this time. I want you to tell me how it feels... what you’re thinking about. Will you do that for me?”

  D’Artagnan felt the blood rush to his prick. “I will do anything you ask of me.”

  The room they were staying in boasted an actual lamp in addition to the candle they’d been given downstairs, and Constance lit the flame as d’Artagnan started to disrobe. He paused when he was down to his linen shirt and braies.

  “Do you want me naked?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Constance said decisively. “I want to see everything.”

  His cock gave an interested twitch, and he hurried to follow her instructions. When he was naked, he lay on his side on the bed and let Constance—still fully dressed—look her fill, blushing slightly as she examined him from head to toe in the flickering yellow lamplight.

  “You’re body is beautiful,” she said eventually. “It reminds me of one of the statues from a fountain I used to love in Paris, only warm and alive instead of cold, white marble.”

  “You remind me of a river nymph,” he replied, “playing in the water, sleek as an otter. Luring men into the depths with your beauty.”

  She snorted softly. “More like a drowned rat, I think you mean. Besides, I believe it was your horse that lured you into the depths.”

  “You are beautiful, Constance,” he insisted, holding her gaze, “and eventually I will succeed in convincing you of that.”

  This time, it was Constance’s turn to blush. “Touch yourself,” she said, effectively changing the subject. “Tell me what you like.”

  D’Artagnan relented, rolling onto his back and sliding his right hand over his chest, tweaking a nipple as he stroked down, across his stomach, skirting his erection to cup his balls instead.

  “How does it feel?” Constance asked, staring avidly.

  “It’s sensitive,” he said, rolling the sac gently back and forth in his palm. “Squeezing too tightly hurts, but cupping it like this makes my stomach swoop—like the feeling of galloping a horse over a big jump, or leaping over a fence and finding that the ground on the other side is further away than you thought.”

  “Touch your prick,” she said.

  D’Artagnan spit on his palm and encir
cled his throbbing cock, catching his breath at the combination of sensation and the way Constance’s eyes darkened.

  “Why did you do that?” she asked. “Spit on your hand, I mean.”

  “It eases the way,” he grunted. “Makes it wet, like a woman’s body.”

  Constance frowned. “I never got wet—not for Jacques. Not until I started touching myself. It was strange—I didn’t know what it was.”

  “But it felt better when you were slick, yes?”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “The little nub of flesh at the front is too sensitive to touch when it was dry, but when I’m wet, it’s the best thing of all.”

  D’Artagnan moaned and sped up his strokes.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking about,” Constance said.

  “I’m thinking about nuzzling and licking your cunt; tasting your slickness and lapping at that bud of flesh with my tongue until you cry out in pleasure,” he said, feeling his balls tighten.

  Constance gave a full body shudder, and her voice quivered slightly as she asked, “Have you... done that before?”

  “Once,” he said dreamily, floating on the crest of his impending release. “It was brilliant.”

  “Stop,” Constance said, breathless. “Take your hand away.”

  D’Artagnan made a little sound of frustration, but quickly let himself go, unsure if he’d done something to scare her or make her angry. He gripped the bedclothes, wavering on the edge of orgasm for a moment or two before bringing himself back under control. When he looked at Constance, though, her eyes were nearly black with desire in the low light and she was chewing her lip nervously.

  “I want to do it,” she said in response to his questioning noise. “Finish you, I mean. Can I?”

  “Oh God, yes,” he said, feeling a drop of seed leak from the tip of his cock at the prospect. He grabbed her hand and placed it around his prick, then grabbed the wooden headboard with both of his own hands to stop himself unconsciously clutching at her during his climax.

  She smiled nervously down at him, and let him go just long enough to raise her hand to her mouth and spit into it. D’Artagnan let out a giddy laugh, which immediately turned into a groan when her slick palm encircled him gently and began a tentative slide up and down. It wasn’t enough—she was barely exerting any pressure—and yet it was also the most amazing thing d’Artagnan had ever felt. He closed his eyes and threw his head back, wanting it never to end.

  It was not to be, though—her grip grew firmer as her confidence increased, and d’Artagnan knew he could not hold out for long. His fingers dug into the wooden plank of the headboard, the knuckles turning white.

  “Kiss me?” he asked breathlessly, and groaned into the lips that covered his own. He licked up into the seam of Constance’s mouth. Her lips parted in surprise and he deepened the kiss, teetering on the edge until a slight twist of her wrist sent him over, back arching, cock pulsing, mind blank with pleasure. Constance kissed him through it, swallowing his moans of ecstasy and only pulling away when he fell back against the mattress, thoroughly spent. He hummed in contentment and shivered when a soft hand stroked over his stomach, swirling through the rapidly cooling streaks of white coating his torso.

  He opened heavy eyes to see Constance examining the mess on her fingers with apparent fascination. Reaching up clumsily, he captured her hand and guided it to his mouth, pulling her fingers in one at a time to lick them clean. The taste was bitter and salty on his tongue. Her indrawn breath of surprise gave way to an expression of deep desire, but when he released her, she only leaned down to kiss his cheek before unfolding the blanket at the end of the bed and covering him with it.

  He frowned at her through his drowsy, blissful haze. “You haven’t taken your pleasure. Do you want me to—“

  She only smiled and shook her head. “Not tonight, my love,” she said. “Soon, though. I promise.”

  D’Artagnan nodded, accepting it. She made him move over far enough that she could sit on the bed next to him, on top of the blanket, back resting against the headboard. He fell asleep to the feeling of her fingers combing through his hair.

  * * *

  Light was filtering through the small, shuttered window across the room when he awoke. Constance was puttering around, packing up their belongings for the final day’s journey.

  “You should have woken me,” he greeted her. “I would’ve slept on the floor.”

  She smiled at him. “I slept on the bed as well, on top of the blanket. It was fine.”

  “Oh,” he said, a smile spreading across his own face. It faded, though, as the events of the previous evening came back to him in more detail.

  “Is everything all right?” Constance asked.

  “I... don’t know,” he said slowly. “I’m not sure I like it when you pleasure me but take nothing for yourself in return. It makes me worry that I’m taking advantage.”

  Her expression cleared in understanding. “Ah,” she said. “Well. In that case, you should probably know that while I was lying next to you and watching you sleep, I touched myself until I came. I’m a bit surprised I didn’t wake you up.”

  D’Artagnan was instantly hard, and suddenly, viscerally aware that he was naked beneath the blanket draping him. “Constance,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut tightly, “you can’t just go around saying things like that to me.”

  “What?” she asked in confusion, and he gestured with one hand at the material tented over his midsection. “Oooh,” she said in sudden understanding, drawing it out, and laughed—laughed—at his sudden predicament. “Well, I’d offer to help you out, but then I’d have to go again, and we’d be late getting started.” She threw his underclothes at his chest, grinning with excitement. “Come on, d’Artagnan! We’re going to reach Paris today!”

  It was true. Paris had been his original destination when he’d left his home in Gascony, and today he was going to see it for the first time. As grateful as he was for the extended detour he had taken since meeting three strange men on the road near Blois, he was excited to finally reach the capitol... even if it meant a new kind of danger and intrigue. He let his own smile grow again, and quickly began to dress.

  The road north of Montigny-le-Bretonneux was far busier than anything d’Artagnan had encountered recently, and the nature of their fellow travelers was different. He found himself on edge as rough characters passed them, raking over them with assessing eyes and making his hand itch to reach for a weapon.

  “That’s just the way things are around Paris since the plague,” Constance said when she noticed his concerns. “Mostly they leave you alone if you don’t antagonize them, and if you aren’t too easy a target for robbing.”

  “How long did you live in Paris?” d’Artagnan asked, curious.

  “A little over ten years. It changed a lot during that time,” Constance said. “Part of me was glad to leave after my husband died, but part of me still missed it, even as bad as things had become. It’s hard to explain; you’ll have to see for yourself. There’s just something about that city. It gets under your skin and nothing else is ever quite the same afterward.”

  They crested a hill soon after, and the outskirts of Paris lay spread out before them. It was true—he had never seen anything to compare. The road soon became a steady queue of carts, riders, and people traveling on foot. The pace slowed to a crawl as they approached the gate to the city, and d’Artagnan was glad that they had not arrived any later—at this rate they would not be inside until it was nearly dark.

  When they finally reached the gate almost two hours later, a surly guard dressed in leather armor with bare, muscular arms halted them, thrusting a sharp-pointed staff to block their way as he took in their provincial appearance.

  “What’s your business in the city?” he asked.

  “We’re here to apply for positions in the palace,” d’Artagnan said. “My wife has connections at court and her godfather invited us to come.”

  “You’re carrying weapons,” s
aid the guard, indicating d’Artagnan’s sword and pistols.

  “The roads are dangerous, monsieur,” d’Artagnan said, not sure what he was getting at.

  “Can’t let you bring those in,” the guard said.

  D’Artagnan looked at the man with increasing consternation, unwilling to hand over his weapons and leave the two of them defenseless in a strange place. He looked over in surprise as Constance spoke up in a soft, cajoling voice.

  “Monsieur,” she said, eyes wide, “my husband is from Gascony, and did not know this would be a problem. He is only trying to keep us safe—we have been accosted twice on our journey by bandits and would have been robbed blind had he not fought them off. Perhaps we could make a small donation to the city’s coffers in lieu of giving up our weapons? That sword has been in my husband’s family for generations. He will not say so, but I know it would break Charles’ heart to give it up.”

  D’Artagnan swallowed against the sudden catch in his throat—in reality, his father’s sword had been broken in a battle long ago, and lay abandoned somewhere in Athos’ castle at Blois. He looked at the guard, who appeared to be wavering. Beside him, Constance counted out coins from a purse in her saddlebag and held them out for the guard’s perusal.

  “All right. Fine,” he grumbled finally, taking the coins in one meaty hand and immediately making them disappear inside his rough leather jerkin. “I’ll let it go this time.” He pointed at d’Artagnan with a blunt finger. “Don’t let me hear about any trouble from you, boy, or you’ll find yourself in the Châtelet, keeping company with the rats.”

  D’Artagnan nodded brusquely, trying not to bristle at the offhand, patronizing tone. He distracted himself with thoughts of the guard’s face, should he find out that the pair in front of him were, in fact, here on a mission to topple the current government.

  “Thank you for your consideration, monsieur,” he said with a sharp little smile, and he and Constance rode into the city.