Book 1: The Queen's Musketeers, #1 Read online

  "Louis’ brother was always a fool—forging alliances and breaking them on a whim; leaving a trail of enemies behind him. Seems to me that the Spanish simply double-crossed him before he could double-cross them. If it weren’t tearing the country apart, there’d be a certain poetic justice to it, I suppose.”

  D’Artagnan nodded thoughtfully, and asked the question he’d been wondering about since news of King Louis’ ouster first reached Gascony. “Here’s what I don’t understand, though. King Louis’ wife is Spanish as well—closer to the ruling family than even Isabella of Savoy. If the Spanish wanted influence, why not support Louis against his brother? Surely that would have gained them favor with the French government. I mean, Queen Anne is the King of Spain’s own sister. Why would Philip fail to help her in her hour of need?”

  Porthos looked strangely disquieted, and there was a beat of silence around the table before Ana spoke up once again.

  “Since she had not produced an heir, I daresay the Queen held little value to anyone in either France or Spain—not even her brother,” she said, absently smoothing a hand over her swollen belly before returning it to the table. “Evidently, Spain thought it more advantageous to quietly encourage destabilization from behind the scenes than to move overtly. A cowardly tactic... but it seems that honor is dead everywhere these days; not just in France.”

  She looked so deeply downtrodden that d’Artagnan felt a wash of sympathy for her. Beside her, de Tréville set down his spoon and covered her small hand with his large, callused one. She glanced up at him with a faint, sad smile.

  “Present company excepted, of course,” she added, letting her gaze flit around the table to include everyone seated there.

  D’Artagnan cleared his throat, and said, “Well, if the goal was destabilization, I’d say it has succeeded. I’ve travelled a long way these past weeks, and France has become a harsh and ugly place.”

  Athos shrugged his good shoulder. “When you remove the support from a structure, it crumbles into chaos. The old ways are gone—swept away by the plague and political unrest. In a land where there are barely enough workers to produce food and clothing for the populace, it’s little surprise that no one can be spared to impose order and enforce the law.”

  D'Artagnan nodded, focusing on his host. “Speaking of the old ways... Athos, may I ask you a personal question?"

  Athos raised an eyebrow in mild surprise. "You may ask," he replied in a tone that suggested that receiving an answer was another thing entirely.

  "The man in the street called you 'Comte.' Are you a member of the nobility?"

  Aramis released an indelicate snort, breaking the rather melancholy atmosphere that had settled upon the room.

  "That depends entirely on who you ask," the chevalier muttered into his goblet, and d'Artagnan was once again thrown by the casual, teasing camaraderie on display; so different than what he had known these past long months.

  Athos directed a quelling glare at his companion before replying, “To answer your question, d’Artagnan, I was once the Comte de la Fère. However, as we are no longer in La Fère, and as the social structure of France lies in tatters around us, now, I prefer to be known merely as Athos."

  Athos' wife smiled over her cup of wine, fluttering her eyelashes teasingly at him.

  "You may claim to have reinvented yourself and left your old life behind, husband, but you will always be Olivier to me," she said in a velvet tone.

  "As you will always be Anne to me," Athos replied seriously, a glint of something unaccountably weighty that d'Artagnan could not readily identify in his eyes. D'Artagnan had noticed earlier that Athos called his wife Anne, while everyone else in the household called her Milady, apparently to minimize any confusion with Ana María. Aware that it would be the height of bad manners to pursue such an obviously private topic, d'Artagnan returned to the matter of Athos' title.

  "What of your castle here, though?" he asked the older man. "Surely this is still the estate of a nobleman."

  Athos shook his head. "This particular pile of brick and stone is merely a convenient inheritance from relatives who died in the first wave of the plague, six years ago. There is no title associated with the land; it was a gift from Charles VII to a branch of the family that supported him against the English pretender Henry VI after the Treaty of Troyes. For services rendered, one might say."

  "And yet, the people here still know you as a comte," d'Artagnan said, curious about what would make a man wish to leave such a life behind.

  "Whatever his title or lack thereof, we are all very grateful to Athos for his hospitality in allowing us to stay here," said de Tréville firmly.

  "Indeed," said Ana María quietly. "The generosity of our hosts extends further than you can imagine."

  Fighting a blush, d'Artagnan briefly lowered his eyes at the implied censure, and muttered, "Yes, of course."

  "That hospitality certainly extends to yourself, as well, d'Artagnan," Milady said, meeting his eyes with a kind of fearless frankness that d'Artagnan had never previously encountered in a woman. "You should stay here for a few days and recover from your recent trials. After all, who am I to turn away a young man who would set me among the heavenly host?"

  Unable to completely suppress the blush that crawled up his neck to heat his face, d'Artagnan muttered, "Thank you, but I should continue toward Paris."

  "Nonsense," said Aramis. "For one thing, you have yet to make good on our contract. You promised me a full set of shoes for my horse, and yet—thanks to the timing of that ugly little skirmish in the streets—rather than having four shoes or even two, she now has none at all."

  The blush rose higher at the realization that he had not, in fact, kept his word to the other man. "Forgive me," he said. "I had certainly not intended to break my word. Obviously I will complete the job at once."

  Porthos rolled his eyes, and directed a pointed look across the table at Aramis. "He's only teasing you. For God's sake, d'Artagnan, relax and finish your chicken. Despite what Aramis thinks, his precious mare will keep until tomorrow."

  D'Artagnan nodded in understanding and lowered his eyes to his plate, applying himself to his meal as the others continued to speak of this and that. Darkness was fast approaching when the remains of the meal were finally cleared away and the others retired one by one. Athos led d'Artagnan to one of the spare bedrooms, lighting the way with a candle and making sure he had everything he needed before taking his leave with a wordless nod of the head.

  The room was spartan, but what furnishings existed were of good quality. Apparently, whoever had examined and treated his wounds after he collapsed had also washed the travel dust from his body, so he merely rinsed his hands and splashed water from the basin sitting on a low table next to the wall over his face and neck before readying himself for bed and blowing out the candles.

  As had become his habit while travelling, d'Artagnan only removed his boots and doublet before lying down on the bed, preferring to remain ready in case anything unexpected happened. He missed the presence under his pillow of the dagger that had been stolen from him on the road, but at least now he had an unbroken sword to lean against the wall by the bed, within easy reach.

  With a sigh, he settled onto his side on the firm mattress, staring into the unfamiliar darkness of the room. A few minutes later, he rolled onto his back. The salve that had been placed on his wounds made them itch, and he rubbed back and forth with small motions, trying to gain friction against the bandages swathing his torso to ease the sensation.

  The result was wholly unsatisfying.

  After more long minutes of staring at nothing, it became apparent that spending most of a day unconscious had unfortunate consequences on one's sleeping patterns. Feeling an itch that was now as much mental as physical, d'Artagnan rose and began to pace around the room restlessly, his eyes having adjusted to the darkness enough that the moonlight streaming in through the single window was sufficient to allow him to avoid stumbling into anything.
/>
  What was the story behind this strange collection of individuals? They seemed almost familial, and yet, with the exception of Athos and Milady's marriage, and whatever bond connected Ana María to her battle-scarred guardian, d'Artagnan was almost certain there was no relation between them. How could such a diverse group become so close? They must have lost people... these days, everyone had. Why would they voluntarily cleave to others when more loss and heartbreak was inevitable?

  It was as if they didn't realize the danger... or were laughing in the face of it. D'Artagnan found it maddening—almost as though it were a personal affront to him—and he wasn't quite sure why. He ceased his pacing, chewing on a fingernail instead.

  Through the archway that opened into his room, he heard the indistinct murmur of distant voices. The movement of a soft light caught his eye—perhaps a candle flame reflected off of walls in the hallway. Evidently, he was not the only one still awake this night.

  Moved by curiosity and the desire for company to still the chatter in his mind, he found himself easing out into the hall on stocking-clad feet without having truly made a decision to do so. The moving candle had disappeared, but there was a faint, flickering light coming from a room several doors down from his. D'Artagnan crept toward it, not wanting to draw attention to himself before gaining some insight into whether his presence was likely to be welcome.

  As he approached the lighted archway, his brow furrowed at the sound of soft weeping. Keeping himself to the shadows, he peeked in and saw Ana reclining on a chaise longue, her head resting in de Tréville's lap. Tears flowed down her cheeks, the tracks reflected in the light of the single candle on the table next to them. De Tréville's posture was weary; his single eye closed, but his hand stroked through the young woman's hair in a gentle, comforting rhythm.

  D'Artagnan was struck in the chest by a depth of feeling he did not expect, and swallowed the harsh breath that might have given him away to the pair inside. Feeling like a thief in the night, he crossed to the far side of the shadowed corridor and crept past the archway quietly, moving further down the hall toward a brighter light coming from his left, where the hallway split into a T-shaped junction. The new hallway led into a different wing, and terminated in an entryway which, unlike those in the guest wing, was hung with large double doors. One of the doors was ajar by several inches, allowing enough light to spill into the corridor to indicate that the suite within was well illuminated with lamps and candles.

  As he approached, he heard the distinct sound of a male gasp, followed by a grunt and the thump of a body shoved against the wall. Pulse racing, d'Artagnan hurried forward on silent feet, wishing suddenly that he had thought to bring his sword. Flattening himself against the wall, he peered through the gap of the open door and scanned what he could see of the room to assess the threat.

  Expecting to find thieves or worse assaulting his injured host, the sight that greeted him jolted through his chest like a pistol recoil, forcing the breath from his lungs. Athos stood pinned against the wall not by an intruder, but by Milady, naked with her hair hanging in loose curls to her waist. She was beautiful... flawless except for an indistinct mark or scar on her shoulder, half-covered by her hair. D'Artagnan had never in his life seen a sight to compare to the vision of her pale, milky skin and the perfect flare of her hips.

  Athos' clothing was in disarray, shirt unlaced and hanging off one shoulder. Milady's lower body pressed close to his, his good arm holding her right leg hitched up to his hip. His head was thrown back, baring his neck to her lips and teeth, eyes closed in ecstasy.

  "Yes," Athos groaned into her ear, more emotion in his voice than d'Artagnan had yet heard from the man. "Mark me now, but soon I'll put my own brand on you and take you until you scream."

  Milady pulled back from her husband's throat, revealing the livid love bite she'd made there. "Promises, promises," she purred, and gasped as Athos reversed their positions, pressing her back against the cool stone and thrusting a leather-clad thigh between her legs for her to rub against.

  Athos growled and fumbled for the laces of his breeches and smallclothes with his good hand until Milady batted him away and attacked them herself, letting the garments slide low over his hips.

  In the hallway, d'Artagnan stood frozen except for the pounding of his thundering heart against his ribcage. Heat pooled in his belly even as mortification flooded his mind. As a young man, d'Artagnan had bedded his share of lovers, but it had always been a quiet, clandestine affair involving slightly embarrassed fumbling carried out in darkness and secrecy... not against a wall in a well lit room with the door left cracked.

  The open door led d'Artagnan's thoughts back around to the uncomfortable fact of his presence here. He had to leave. Now. Except... surely if he moved, he would only draw attention to himself? As long as they didn't know he was here, no harm was done, but if they caught him trying to sneak away, it would be disastrous. Certainly Athos would demand satisfaction for the slight. He was injured, and though d'Artagnan had seen that he was still a fierce swordsman, it was possible that he would end up killing his host, and that would be a terrible waste, not to mention breaking Milady's heart.

  No, much better to stay until they fell asleep afterward, and sneak away then.

  Athos chose that moment to sweep Milady into a one-armed embrace, swinging her around and depositing her on the edge of the large bed covered with furs, inadvertently giving d'Artagnan a perfect view of her cunt as he pushed her to lie back and dropped to his knees between her spread legs. Athos lifted her foot in one hand reverently, kissing her instep, her ankle, her calf, and the back of her knee.

  She moaned as he sucked the first mark onto her inner thigh, and by the fourth, she was cursing fluently.

  "Such a tongue," Athos teased. "And you, the wife of a former Comte..."

  "Put your own tongue to better use, husband, unless you want me to break your other arm," Milady growled.

  "Whatever my lady desires," Athos said with a hint of the same dry humor d'Artagnan had seen him employ earlier with his friends, and applied himself to the juncture of his wife's thighs with purpose, kissing and licking at her folds until she threw her head back, grasping fistfuls of ermine and fox to brace herself.

  D'Artagnan's eyes grew round at the sight of her unselfconscious abandon as Athos pleasured her, and he was suddenly, viscerally aware that he was hard in his breeches for the first time in many months. Such weakness of the flesh had not much afflicted him since the death of his family and the girl he'd been promised to. And to feel it now... at the sight of another man's wife! He squeezed his eyes shut, shame and excitement mingling like water and wine poured into a glass, only for them to fly open again moments later at Milady's startled, breathy cry.

  Athos had thrust his fingers into her, and d'Artagnan watched, rapt, as each stroke pulled a low moan from Milady. Athos released a groan of his own when one of her hands darted out to tangle in his hair, pressing his lips back against her sex.

  "Mine," he growled against her skin, and latched onto her with his lips, suckling at the nub of her pleasure as his fingers slid in and out of her in the same slow, relentless rhythm.

  "Yours... God!" she agreed on a high breath, as if the words were being punched from her. "Olivier... I... oh, God..."

  She arched and keened her release, hips pressing against her husband's face and hands as he coaxed her through the storm with broad swipes from the flat of his tongue, drawing a final shudder from her.

  "So beautiful," he murmured against her skin. D'Artagnan leaned his head back against the wall, breathing nearly as hard as she was. His hand was pressed against the front of his breeches and he jerked it back as if burned, not remembering having put it there; biting back a whimper at the sudden loss of sensation.

  "Take me now," Milady said, sounding as wrecked as d'Artagnan felt.

  Athos rose up, bracing himself above her with his good arm on the bed. "Insatiable woman," he said, faint amusement tingeing his voice.
/>
  He leaned closer as if to kiss her, but stopped with a hair's breadth between them.

  "Beg me," he said into the minute space between their lips, before backing away, and the air left d'Artagnan's chest in a whoosh.

  Milady looked up at her husband with liquid eyes. "Please," she said without a trace of artifice. "Please take me, Olivier... I need you; I need it right now..."

  "Then you will have me."

  Athos grasped his wife's ankle and hooked her leg over his unhurt shoulder, entering her with a swift thrust that left both of them gasping. He set a punishing rhythm, and soon Milady was crying out with every stroke. The faint friction of d'Artagnan's linen braies against his painfully hard cock was like torture, and his hand once again dropped to the front of his breeches as he tried to adjust himself.

  "So good," Athos murmured. "My beautiful Anne..."

  Milady's cries took on a desperate, gasping quality, and Athos wrapped his arm around her raised thigh so he could stroke her above the place where they were joined. She froze, trembling; body tensed like a drawn bow for one heartbeat... two... three... before letting loose the promised scream as she arched and bucked out her climax. Athos' own low cry followed as his release was wrenched from him, and d'Artagnan clenched his eyes shut, slumping into the wall as a wave of heat and pleasure crashed over him without warning, his own prick throbbing and spending inside his clothing with warm, wet spurts.

  Humiliation more complete than he had ever known flooded d'Artagnan, and he staggered away on shaky legs, fleeing toward his room with no thoughts of stealth; only escape.

  Chapter IV

  DAWN FOUND D'ARTAGNAN in the stables, sitting in the corner of his gelding's stall and unraveling a length of stout rope with deft fingers. The animal watched, chewing its hay with heavy, lugubrious movements of its jaw as he separated the thick rope into three tails, and each of those three tails into three more, knotting them tightly as he went.