“I’m ready,” d’Artagnan replied.
They dropped Constance off with a plump, red-cheeked woman named Edwige, who clucked over Constance like a biddy hen and hustled her away to show her around.
M. Delacruz was part of Isabella’s original retinue from Spain. Dark and sharp-featured, he had the air of a man who considered most of the people he met to be beneath his station.
“Married, you say, M. de La Porte?” he asked disdainfully. “Pah. Where I come from, no one would even consider hiring a married footman.”
“The position has been open for quite some time, M. Delacruz,” Adrien said. “Perhaps you might make an exception under the circumstances.”
“Hmm,” M. Delacruz said, sounding deeply unimpressed. He circled d’Artagnan, who tried to ignore the way the small hairs on his neck and back stood up as the other man passed behind him. “I suppose he’s still reasonably pleasing to the eye. You—boy.”
“Yes, sir?” d’Artagnan replied, deciding that even though he had been in Paris less than a day, he was already heartily tired of people calling him a boy.
“Remove your jerkin and unlace your shirt.”
D’Artagnan couldn’t help throwing a quick look of confusion toward Adrien, but the kindly old man merely shook his head with a tiny movement and directed his attention back to Delacruz. At a loss, he followed the instructions and folded his jerkin neatly, draping it across his forearm to stand before the other man with his shirt hanging open almost to the navel.
“Hmm,” the other man said again. D’Artagnan stiffened as Delacruz stepped into his personal space, running clammy hands over his chest and upper arms, squeezing and assessing as one might do to a horse or bull one was considering purchasing. It was shock more than manners that kept him still when those same cold fingers gripped his jaw, prying it open to examine his teeth before peering at his eyes and ears.
“Take off your boots,” Delacruz ordered, stepping back far only enough for d’Artagnan to comply.
Utterly bewildered by this point, but still acutely aware of the importance of his mission, d’Artagnan toed off first one boot, then the other. Delacruz pulled a chair over and set it in front of him.
“Put your foot on the chair.”
Feeling completely ridiculous and vaguely humiliated, d’Artagnan did so. Delacruz squeezed his calf muscle through the worn leather of his breeches, and made a little sound like, “Ah!”
D’Artagnan’s skin crawled as Delacruz ran fingers over his knee and thigh muscles, before finally stepping back and gesturing for him to put his clothing to rights.
“Very well, Adrien,” said the Spaniard. “You’ve convinced me. One doesn’t find such finely developed calf muscles very often these days. You may come back in the morning, boy. You will present yourself to M. Villenueve for your uniform, and then to myself for training. The wage is fifty livre per week, and you will have Sunday mornings off unless you are needed.”
“Thank you, sir,” d’Artagnan managed, trying not to choke on it.
Delacruz turned smartly and left without acknowledging him.
“Not quite what you’re used to, Charles?” Adrien asked quietly, but not without sympathy.
“It’s not a problem,” he said, but he couldn’t help wondering why gaining a position at court was such a sought-after achievement if it meant being treated like livestock.
“That’s good,” said the other man. “And before you ask—yes, things around here are like that all the time. Though I have high hopes that they will change for the better soon. Here, let me take you back to Constance. I’m sure you both have much to do before tomorrow morning.”
* * *
After he and Constance left the palace, they went to take Porthos’ advice about getting rooms nearby. Mme Janvier was a tiny, wizened woman who smelled of lye soap and fish. She directed them to the Rue Férou, where they were able to rent a little apartment for 25 livre per week. The area must once have been a desirable one—it was mere steps from an overgrown tangle of trees and grass that Constance called the Luxembourg Gardens. Now, though, it had faded into disrepute. Still, the rooms themselves were quite tolerable, or would be once they’d been swept and aired.
They were a little farther from the palace than d’Artagnan would have liked, but they did have the advantage of being close to Porthos’ storefront on Rue Mabillon. In fact, since their new employment would soon take up most of their available time, he and Constance decided to make their first public visit to Porthos once they had stowed their belongings in their new rooms.
The little boulangerie that Porthos had purchased from its former owner with the Queen’s coin had a wooden sign with a carving of a loaf of bread hanging over the door. The building itself was in relatively good condition, and as they entered, the smell of fresh baked goods overwhelmed the nauseating funk of the city outside.
“Greetings!” Porthos boomed from behind the long counter, which was piled with the day’s wares. “Now, I know I’m a new arrival myself, but I haven’t seen you two around before. What can I do for you?”
Behind Porthos, two sweating apprentices labored over large chunks of dough laid out on wooden tables covered in flour, and d’Artagnan knew that the play-acting was for their benefit.
“I’m Constance,” Constance said brightly, “and this is my husband, Charles. We’re to start work at the palace tomorrow, and we just took rooms on Rue Férou. I’d thought we might lay in a few supplies today, and we saw your sign as we were passing by.”
“Lovely! What’s your pleasure? The baguettes are fresh-made this morning, or I can give you a deal on these pastries from yesterday.”
Constance wandered over to peruse the boulangerie’s offerings, and d’Artagnan sidled closer to Porthos, dutifully playing the part of the bored husband. “So,” he said, “tell me. What does one do around here to pass the time? Can you recommend a good tavern nearby?”
“Well,” Porthos said, drawing out the word, “that all depends. If it’s excitement you’re after, you should join me sometime at the Leaping Bard on the Rue Guissarde. ‘Course, I suppose you might prefer something a bit quieter...”
His innocent expression was spoiled by a quick wink, and d’Artagnan laughed. “No, no, my friend—I’m all in favor of a bit of excitement to liven things up.”
“In that case,” Porthos said, “join me there whenever you wish. I can be found there most evenings, and God knows I could use a decent drinking companion. These two are barely old enough to grow chin whiskers, and besides, they’re sick of the sight of me by the end of the day.” He nodded over his shoulder to indicate the apprentices, both of whom quickly returned their attention to their work when d’Artagnan glanced at them.
“I might take you up on that tonight,” d’Artagnan said as Constance returned with a selection of bread tucked in her carrying basket.
She counted out a few coins from the dwindling supply the Queen had sent with them, and looked at Porthos sternly. “Now, don’t think I wasn’t listening in to the pair of you. I’ll thank you not to keep my husband out drinking until all hours when we both have to be at the palace first thing tomorrow.”
Porthos put a hand to his heart, eyes twinkling. “It’s the very farthest thing from my mind, madame. A good day to both of you, now—come again soon.”
D’Artagnan left in higher spirits for knowing that Porthos stood behind them, and they continued making the rounds of various stalls and merchants, gathering what they would need for the next few days. Constance seemed thoughtful as they walked. She smiled and reassured him when he enquired after her well-being, though, so he let her be.
It was only mid-afternoon when they returned to their rooms, laden with packages, food, and wine. They efficiently cleaned up the small space and stowed everything in the apartment’s rickety cupboards and dented chest. When they were done, Constance looked down at herself and wrinkled her nose.
“Do you think our new landlady might oblige us with a bath?�
� she asked. “I don’t like the idea of presenting myself at the palace tomorrow morning covered in grime.”
“I’ll ask,” d’Artagnan said.
After a bit of grumbling, the landlady sent a boy up with the washtub, and showed d’Artagnan the buckets to heat water. An hour later, the bath was ready and d’Artagnan closed and locked the door behind the boy after pressing a sous into his small, eager hand. Constance swirled her fingers through the lukewarm water.
“I want you to bathe me,” she said, sounding nervous. “And I’ll bathe you when I’m done.”
D’Artagnan felt excitement leap in his breast. “I would love to. Will you undress for me first, while I watch?”
Constance bit her lip and nodded. D’Artagnan sat on the bed, looking on avidly as Constance unlaced her corset and removed it. She fumbled slightly with the ties of her skirts, but soon the heavy material was pooling around her ankles, and she stepped out of them, leaving her clad in her shift. Finally, with a deep breath, she gathered the thin material of the underdress in both hands and pulled it off.
He had seen her breasts before and found them entrancing. Now, it appeared that the swelling associated with her milk production was finally starting to go down; he knew they had been tender and uncomfortable for days after she stopped nursing Henry. Eagerly, he let his gaze travel lower. Silver stretch marks framed her small navel, showing where her own lost infant had distended her belly, and d’Artagnan’s heart ached with tenderness for her. Her nest of curls was dark at the apex of her legs, and she flushed when she saw him looking. Her legs were long and muscular; her feet and ankles, dainty.
“You are a stunningly beautiful woman, Constance,” he told her. “I will never get enough of looking at you.”
Her blush grew deeper. “I’m nothing special, d’Artagnan. But I’m glad you don’t find me ugly.”
He shook his head, frustrated at her lack of confidence in herself. “I find you perfect.”
Constance climbed into the bath, her cheeks still ruddy with embarrassment. “Well, for now, I just need you to find me with that soap,” she joked awkwardly.
D’Artagnan removed his jerkin and crossed to the bath with the rag and sliver of soap the boy had brought them. He wet the cloth and scrubbed up a lather, kneeling to wash the dust and sweat from Constance’s shoulders. She leaned forward to give him access to her back, and he scrubbed over the pale skin with wide, firm strokes, pleased when she sighed and started to relax.
“Do you want to wash your hair?” he asked.
“Yes, please,” she said.
“You’ll have to show me how to take it down—I don’t know where the pins are,” he warned.
She nodded understanding and reached up, pulling the pins out one by one until the thick braid she was wearing today uncoiled and slipped over her shoulder. He picked up the end and carefully untangled the soft strands until everything fell loose. There was a pitcher on the table nearby; he filled it with water and directed her to lean her head back before letting it pour over the mass of curls, soaking them.
She took the soap and lathered it between her hands before giving it back to him so she could scrub at her scalp and rub the long strands back and forth between soapy palms. When she was finished, he poured several more pitchers of water over her to rinse it before taking up the rag again. After a faint hesitation, she leaned back against the rim of the copper tub to give him access to her front.
“Are your breasts still sore?” he asked as he washed her arms.
“A bit,” she said.
He moved the cloth very gently over the soft flesh, and she sighed in appreciation, her nipples pebbling as the rag passed over them. He dipped under the surface to pass over her stomach; then sat back. “Give me your foot.”
She lifted first one leg and then the other for him to wash, flinching a bit and smiling sheepishly when the rough cloth tickled her arches. When he made to straighten from the second leg, she met his eyes and whispered, “You haven’t finished yet.”
D’Artagnan’s cock stirred and began to fill, pressing against his breeches. “How remiss of me,” he murmured. He knelt again at the end of the tub and lifted her left leg, letting the ankle rest on his shoulder. He ran the cloth along her calf and over the hollow at the back of her knee before inching slowly up her inner thigh with little circling movements. His hand dipped under the water as he came closer to her center, and he watched her face intently to gauge her reaction. She lay back against the edge with her eyes closed, an intent frown wrinkling the skin between her eyebrows.
Constance jumped a bit when the cloth brushed her sex, but relaxed a moment later. Still watching her, d’Artagnan let his fingers trace her contours through the soapy rag. After a few moments of this, the last of the tension drained from her face and body.
“All right?” he asked.
She nodded against the rim of the tub, not opening her eyes. “Yes... just like that. That’s really nice.”
He continued the gentle movements, exploring her folds and trying to ignore his own growing need. After several minutes, she moved her legs restlessly. “I think... maybe... that’s enough for now,” she said in a hesitant voice, and he immediately removed his hand, running it up her leg to ease her ankle from his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, d’Artagnan, but I don’t think I can come like that while I’m in the tub.”
“Don’t apologize,” d’Artagnan said, tamping down any disappointment he might have felt. “As long as you enjoyed it, that’s the only thing that matters.”
“It felt good,” she said, “but let me get out now so you can bathe. I’m about to wrinkle up like a prune.”
She took the threadbare towel he offered her and rose, drying off her upper body and accepting his arm as she stepped out of the tub. “Go on, then,” she said as she rubbed down her feet and legs. “Why am I the only one who’s naked here?’
He didn’t need to be told twice, and she smirked at him when his erection sprang free as he shimmied out of his braies.
“I believe you enjoyed my bath as much as I did,” she said.
“I’m afraid you’re right,” he agreed, climbing into the slightly murky water.
Constance set the towel aside and padded over to him, her hair hanging in damp ringlets around her face. She picked up the rag and the soap, and began to scrub away at him with the efficient ease of one who had helped care for siblings as a youngster. D’Artagnan couldn’t help the little moan of bliss that escaped as the rough cloth scrubbed away layers of grime.
“Your hair needs washing, as well,” she said.
“Mmm,” he agreed, and let her tilt his head back and pour water over him. Her hands returned, slick with soap, fingernails scraping deliciously along his scalp as she scrubbed. She rinsed him off and washed his feet and legs as he had done for her. He groaned aloud when the cloth caressed lightly over his balls and up his shaft, toes curling at the wash of pleasure.
The cloth stilled, and he looked up at her through hazy eyes, nearly coming on the spot when she said, “I want you to take me now.”
It took a moment for his brain to reconnect with the rest of his body, but then he was clambering gracelessly from the tub, dripping water everywhere and nearly slipping in his haste. She handed him a towel and he made a hurried attempt to dry off while she crossed to the bed and arranged herself on it. By the time he’d joined her, he had come back to himself enough to take note of her pale complexion.
“Are you sure about this?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “I want to do this with you.”
He settled next to her, his heart beating like a rabbit’s, and leaned down to kiss her. She returned the kiss and let him deepen it, shivering as his hand slipped over her breast, caressing the nipple and continuing lower, until he could cup her sex. She was damp, but not sopping, which he put down to the bathwater having washed away her juices. At his touch, her legs fell open and his cock throbbed insistently, eager to find its home.
Pullin
g away from the kiss, he looked down at her. “Are you ready?”
She nodded, chewing on her lower lip nervously, and he eased himself into the cradle of her thighs. She looked up at him with wide eyes, and he gently nudged between her folds until he felt the place where her body accepted him. Pressing in slowly, he closed his eyes and held his breath against the heady grip of her passage; it felt like hot silk.
When he no longer felt that he was in danger of embarrassing himself, he started a slow, easy rhythm. For a few precious seconds, it was perfection, but then it all started to go wrong. Constance’s body went still and silent underneath him, and when he opened his eyes and looked down at her, her expression was growing distant and glazed—the same expression she had worn this morning when the guard at the palace pawed her, searching for weapons.
He froze, a jolt of nauseating worry making his stomach drop. “Constance?” he asked tentatively; then, stronger, “Constance. I need you to look at me. Are you with me?”
Beneath him, Constance blinked, and blinked again. Her eyes, which had been looking straight through him, seemed to come into focus. “D’Artagnan?” she asked in a small voice.
“Yes, it’s me,” he said. In his momentary relief, he let out a huff of breath that jostled her where their bodies were joined together, and she jerked as if stung by a wasp.
“Oh, God,” she said, and started to shiver beneath him. “Stop. I’m sorry, stop! Please... I’m so sorry!”
D’Artagnan’s heart skipped a beat, and his prick was already wilting as he disengaged and rolled off of her, stumbling a couple of steps away from the bed to put space between them. Tears overflowed Constance’s eyes, and she swallowed a sob.
“Constance,” he said, his own voice not completely even. “It’s all right. You’re safe. Everything’s all right.”
“It’s not all right!” she said in a high, quavering voice, and slammed her fist into the lumpy mattress. “I want this to be over! I don’t want to be this broken... thing, anymore!”
Book 3: The Queen's Musketeers, #3 Page 20
