“In her defense,” d’Artagnan couldn’t help pointing out, “she is actually right about that.”
“Well,” said Constance, “I don’t like it.”
The Cardinal didn’t like it either. Richelieu made his feelings clear in a scathing message delivered through Milady, which included a particularly memorable passage about “blood-soaked old soldiers too lily-livered to effectively remove the only obstacle in their path that matters”.
“Milady says he thinks we should kill Francis and be done with it,” Constance said. Her face was pale and troubled.
“De Tréville would sooner lose his other eye than order the death of a little boy,” Porthos said with complete certainty.
“Is anyone else thinking that by opposing the kidnapping plan and suggesting another plan which he knows de Tréville won’t support, Richelieu could simply be stalling for time and keeping his true allegiances hidden?” d’Artagnan asked.
“Yes,” said Constance and Porthos in unison.
“What does Milady think?” he asked Constance.
“She thinks he’s a brilliant man who is more than capable of running rings around the rest of us,” said Constance.
“Wonderful,” d’Artagnan sighed. “Well. That’s certainly helpful.”
* * *
While strategy and intrigue was being mapped out over their heads, Constance and d’Artagnan continued to navigate the complexities of a court teetering on the edge of chaos. D’Artagnan made every effort to learn about the routines and procedures involved in guarding the young Francis, without inviting any suspicion from the other servants. What he discovered was daunting. To have even the remotest chance of successfully carrying out de Tréville’s orders, he was going to need access to weapons within the palace, and quite possibly additional inside help.
To that end, he broadened his observations to include his fellow servants, hoping to discover whether any of them besides M. de La Porte might be sympathetic to Queen Anne’s cause. His quiet discussions with Constance’s godfather were not encouraging.
“Most of them hate Isabella, but they fear her more,” said the old man. “I have been alone here for a very long time.”
The never-ending stress of attempting to plan a coup while remaining completely above suspicion was exhausting, and d’Artagnan increasingly found himself looking forward to their Sunday mornings off. D’Artagnan had not been a church-going man since before his family in Gascony fell ill, but to be seen attending Sunday Mass was a good way to stay in Isabella’s very Catholic graces. More importantly, though, it seemed to be a comfort for Constance, and he had to admit that the stately, predictable service did help him relax and clear his mind somewhat.
Aramis would be so proud of me, he thought with a wry twist of his lips.
This particular Sunday—their fourth since arriving—the mood in the streets was different. As they walked the short distance from their rooms to l’Église Saint-Sulpice, the people they passed looked away nervously, eyes darting. It was hot—unseasonably so for late September, but slate gray clouds on the horizon promised storms before long. The air seemed to crackle with brittle energy.
D’Artagnan could not seem to settle as the service began. Something prickled at the back of his neck, and he had to fight the urge to keep looking back at the church’s entrance. When screams and shouting erupted beyond the stately doors some half hour later, it was nearly a relief. Without thought, he was up from the pew and pelting down the aisle, Constance only a step behind him. At the altar, priest’s voice stuttered to a halt, and the rest of the small congregation seemed frozen in place like rabbits. The heavy door creaked open on its hinges under d’Artagnan’s hands, revealing a growing mass of people in the street beyond.
“What’s going on?” Constance asked. “Are they after someone?”
“I’m not sure,” d’Artagnan said, trying to get closer.
There were more screams from the front of the crowd, and he climbed up on the steps of a stone monument in the churchyard to get a better perspective. Ahead, where the Rue Palatine met the Rue Garancière, a knot of the Cardinal's guards with their scarlet tabards were hacking away at the leading edge of the mob, trying to keep from being overrun.
“They’ve cornered some guards,” he told Constance, and hopped down, grabbing a man on the edges of the ever-swelling crowd. “You! What happened? What’s going on?”
The man cursed and spat, a deep frown drawing his bushy eyebrows together. “Bloody Cardinal's guards tried to raid the tavern, didn’t they? Something about breaking the price control laws, and serving food to paying customers on a Sunday. It’s likely to be the last warrant those lads ever serve, and good riddance to the lot of ‘em.”
D’Artagnan exchanged a worried look with Constance. The man pulled away and disappeared into the crowd, which was still growing around them, threatening to swallow them up.
“You don’t think Porthos—“ Constance began, only to break off with a small cry of surprise when someone shoved into her from behind.
Without noticing exactly when it had happened, d’Artagnan found that they had been surrounded by a wall of people. As he steadied Constance and turned to glare at the offender, a roar rose from the front of the mob and the mass of humanity around them surged forward, dragging them along with it.
“I don’t like this,” Constance said in a high, frightened voice, clinging to him as they stumbled along.
“Hold onto me!” he said above the noise. “Try to make for the edge of the crowd!”
At that instant, a thin, high-pitched scream of “Maman!” came from a few feet further in. Constance gasped and pulled away from him, diving toward it through the tiny gaps between people.
“Constance!” d’Artagnan called, and tried to follow her. The gaps closed around him, and they were separated for a terrifying moment before he caught a glimpse of her curly hair. “Constance!”
Constance was picking up a young girl who had fallen among the press of bodies, wrapping herself around the child and shouting in the face of anyone who came too near. Through an opening between two women, d’Artagnan saw her brandish the little dagger she kept in her boot with her free hand, making a small bubble of space around them. He shoved at the bodies separating him from the pair, ignoring the resulting shouts of anger. Elbows and fists jabbed against his ribs for his troubles.
Finally, after a horrific few seconds, he barged past the last bodies blocking his way. Gluing himself to the child’s back, he pressed her between himself and Constance, taking the brunt of the crowd’s rush. Constance might as well have been a boulder sitting in the middle of a river as she snarled and threatened and forced the tide of people to go around them or risk being stabbed in the face. He could feel the child between them shuddering and sobbing with fear, and spoke to her in a reassuring counterpoint to Constance’s protective viciousness.
Gradually, the mob passed them by, and the press of bodies eased until they were surrounded only by the curious and the stragglers. The girl quieted, looking up from where her face had been buried in Constance’s shoulder, and d’Artagnan let her go. Constance herself was shaking like a leaf in the wind despite the muggy heat, the knife still raised even though the threat had passed. D’Artagnan couldn’t fault her—to be perfectly honest, he didn’t feel all that steady himself.
“Élise! Élise!” came a near-hysterical cry from nearby.
The girl peered around through tear-stained eyes, as a slender woman with lank brown hair and a streak of blood running down her temple hurried toward them, favoring her right leg.
“Maman!” the girl shrieked, and launched herself from Constance’s arms into the newcomer’s.
“Oh, my precious Élise,” the woman said, holding the girl close. She looked up at them over the top of the child’s head with wet, shining eyes. “Thank you. She’s all I have left. Thank you.”
D’Artagnan managed a nod of acknowledgement, and the woman led the girl away. Beside him, Consta
nce lowered the knife and collapsed into an awkward sitting position on the filthy ground, breathing hard. D’Artagnan slid down next to her a moment later, staring at her flushed, sweaty face.
“Marry me,” he said, because it was suddenly the most important thing in the world.
Constance looked back at him as if his eyes held the answers to all the questions in the world.
“Yes,” she said finally.
Chapter XIII: October 12th, 1631
THEY WERE MARRIED in secret at a church some distance from their apartments and the palace, by a priest Porthos suggested who did not ask too many questions. Porthos himself acted as witness, and when d’Artagnan glanced over at him during the short service, he was somewhat taken aback to see tears sliding down the big man’s cheeks as he sniffled quietly into a large white handkerchief.
Afterward, he hugged d’Artagnan tight—still sniffling—and then hugged Constance for good measure. D’Artagnan watched as she returned the embrace, pressing her cheek into the wide chest and squeezing her arms around Porthos’ broad shoulders; so different from the frightened woman in La Croix-du-Perche, who flinched away from any man's touch.
“It’s real now,” she said with wonder, after they returned to their rooms on the Rue Férou and locked the door. There was nothing to do but kiss her.
When they parted for air, d’Artagnan went to his knees in front of her and took her hands in his, looking up at her.
“Tonight I am your willing slave,” he said, gratified when her eyes darkened with lust. “Command me as you desire, and I will do whatever you ask.”
Constance swallowed, throat bobbing. “Take your clothes off,” she said, her voice husky.
D’Artagnan grinned up at her, and rose to his feet. He removed his clothing piece by piece, taking his time about it; relishing the slow burn of arousal spreading through his belly as he gradually bared himself to her gaze.
“Touch yourself,” she said, “but don’t let yourself come.”
A surprised huff of excitement escaped his chest, but he clasped a hand around his rapidly filling prick without comment, leaning back against the wall behind him and milking his flesh with lazy strokes. It was tempting to close his eyes and lose himself to the sensations, but he did not want to look away from Constance in her pale cream dress, with her hair piled on top of her head in complicated ringlets.
He was rewarded a moment later, when she teasingly began to unlace her corset, sliding the ribbons from one pair of eyelets at a time. When her bodice and underdress slipped down, baring her nipples, he sucked in a sharp breath and slowed his rhythm even further. She continued to unfasten her clothing, her skirts sliding down her legs to pool at her feet. The loosened corset slid over her head and fell on the growing pile of clothing on the floor next to the bed. The chemise followed, leaving them both naked in the candlelight. The points of her breasts lifted as if straining toward d’Artagnan when she reached up to remove the pins holding her hair in place. Once it finally fell free around her shoulders, she walked forward, closing the distance between them.
“You told me once that you fantasized about putting your mouth on me,” she said. “I think you should do that now.”
D’Artagnan gasped and released his prick abruptly, lest he embarrass himself by coming all over his own hand like a callow boy on his wedding night. Without a word, he dropped into a crouch and guided Constance around until she was the one leaning back against the wall, legs spread slightly.
Settling himself between her knees, he looked up at her face, holding her gaze from under lowered lashes as he pressed a sucking kiss on her inner thigh.
Now it was Constance’s turn to hiss in a surprised breath, her palms slapping back against the wall at her sides, as if to steady herself. D’Artagnan kissed and nipped his way up the soft skin, maintaining eye contact the whole time. When he reached the juncture of her thighs, she closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the wall with a light thump, panting lightly.
He closed his own eyes, inhaling her scent of musk and seashells as he nuzzled at her dark curls. He let his tongue dart out and tickle along the outer edges of her folds until she squirmed, trying to position him where she really wanted him. When she was aching and desperate, d’Artagnan finally tilted his head back and tongued along the length of her slit, pressing until she opened for him. She moaned, and a pulse of wetness coated his tongue and lips. His prick and balls hung heavy and throbbing between his legs as he delved deeper into her cunt to lap up her juices. The taste was heady.
Slender fingers touched his temple and combed through his hair, cradling his head for a moment before they tangled in the strands and tugged, directing his mouth forward and up. The sensation of having his hair pulled sent an unexpected jolt of pleasure straight to d’Artagnan’s cock, and he moaned against the little button of flesh under his lips. Constance shuddered against him, the hand in his hair becoming rougher and more insistent until he began to lap dutifully at the small bundle of nerves.
“Unhh,” Constance said, her hips jerking into the contact with tiny thrusts, “don’t stop. Don’t stop... please...”
D’Artagnan hummed his agreement into her flesh, making her tremble as he continued to tease her with the flat of his tongue. Her movements grew stronger and more demanding, her grip on his head tightening until she was grinding against his mouth. Judging that it was time for more, he latched onto the sensitive flesh under his lips and suckled until she cried out and came with a squirt of slickness that dribbled down his chin. He eased her through her climax with slow flicks of his tongue, and eventually her hand relaxed and slid free from his hair, leaving his scalp tingling and his cock aching.
She braced herself against the wall on wobbly legs as he rose smoothly from his kneeling position and kissed her, his face still covered with her juices. Her eyes were wide when they parted.
“How did you learn about that?” she asked, breathless.
He guided her over to the bed with a supporting arm around her shoulders, and spilled her down onto the mattress in a sweaty, contented sprawl before clambering across to lie on his side next to her. Propping his head on one hand so he could look down at her flushed face, his rock-hard erection jutting shamelessly out between them, he said, “It’s scandalous, I should warn you. I’ve never told anybody before, and Athos would probably kill me if he found out.”
Constance blinked, the post-orgasmic haze in her eyes clearing slightly at the prospect of such juicy, forbidden gossip. She rolled onto her side to face him, mirroring his position.
“Well, now you have to tell me, after teasing me with that,” she said.
Even after all this time... even while lying in bed with his brave, intelligent, beautiful wife, d’Artagnan felt himself blush at the memory. He cleared his throat.
“It was the first night I stayed as a guest at Athos and Milady’s castle in Blois. I was restless; I couldn’t sleep. I saw a candle moving down the corridor, and thought perhaps there was someone else awake who wouldn’t mind my company, so I followed it.”
“Who was it?” Constance asked, rapt.
“I don’t know,” he said. “It might have been Aramis—I never found out for certain. I lost sight of whoever it was, but there was light coming through a set of doors that were slightly ajar. When I peeked inside, I saw...”
“Yes?”
“I saw Athos and Milady making love.” Beside him, Constance drew in an audible breath as he continued. “She had him pinned against the wall, sucking marks onto his neck. He lifted her up and swept her onto the edge of the bed nearest the door. I could see everything. I should have left, but I was afraid they’d hear me moving away. So I stayed.”
“And watched?” Constance asked, sounding breathless.
He nodded, still blushing. “I tried not to look, but then there would be a noise or a gasp, and I’d realize I was staring at them again without even remembering when I’d opened my eyes.”
“What did they do? After
he moved her to the bed?” Constance’s hand was drifting down to stroke at her own breast. D’Artagnan watched its progress as if hypnotized.
“She was sitting on the edge of the mattress. Athos picked up one of her feet and kissed it. He kissed his way right up her leg, leaving a trail of love bites along the way. He was teasing her between kisses for being impatient, and she told him to put his tongue to better use. So he did.”
“Did it make you hard? Watching them?” Constance asked, and the fingers that had been tweaking her nipple were sneaking down toward the juncture of her thighs. D’Artagnan swallowed, still watching.
“It did,” he said, his voice slightly hoarse. “It was the first time I’d felt aroused since before the plague came to Gascony. I felt as if all those months of lost desire hit me at once, with no warning. They were so beautiful together.”
Constance’s fingers were sliding in and out of her cunt shamelessly now. When he jerked his gaze up to her face, it was to see her pupils blown wide and black.
“D’Artagnan, you need to take me now,” she said.
“No, Constance,” he said, “I don’t want to take you tonight.” Before the surprise at the edges of her expression could take hold and transform into worry, he continued, “I want you to take me.”
She made a small noise, her hand falling away from between her legs. “How—?” She paused, staring at him with wide eyes. “D’Artagnan, I’m a woman... I can’t—”
“I want to lie on my back in the bed, and have you straddle my hips and ride me.”
Constance gasped, and her voice was a high, strangled thing. “Oh... God...”
“Do you want that?” he asked, suddenly unsure. “We don’t have to; we could—“
“Yes!” Constance said quickly. “Yes, I want it. I just... didn’t know that people did that.”
“I think people do a lot of things that they don’t tell anyone else about,” d’Artagnan said. “And if it brings them pleasure, and doesn’t hurt other people, well... why shouldn’t they?”
Book 3: The Queen's Musketeers, #3 Page 23