Milady was vaguely aware of Aramis being drawn into a vigorous discussion of religious ethics, while she nibbled at the edges of a passionate political debate. As the conversation broadened out into more personal gossip and news, she broached the topic of the illegible letter she carried with her. Several people were eager to help, but no one in the group recognized the mysterious seal.
She forced herself to react with a shrug, as if it were a mere point of curiosity, nothing more. Perhaps later in the evening she could seek opinions from the group Aramis had joined. Despite the long odds against finding an answer so easily, it was difficult to quash the wave of disappointment and renewed worry over Charlotte and Olivier.
Fortunately, before anyone could notice or remark on her change of mood, a stir came over the room. Milady realized a moment later that the musicians had stopped playing, From the corner of her eye, she saw Aramis easing his way around to a place where they could see each other clearly.
Silverware clinked rhythmically against crystal, drawing all eyes to Mme de Sévigné. She and her attractive, fawning boy had been joined on the bed by Ninon, and the two young people kissed lazily across the salonnière’s legs as she cleared her throat.
“My dears,” said Mme de Sévigné, “it has been a lovely evening so far. Now, though, I’ve just been informed that the tea is ready.”
There was a ragged cheer from around the room that seemed all out of proportion with the announcement. Milady sought Aramis’ eyes and he gave a slight shrug, indicating he was none the wiser. Both of them returned their attention to the groups they were with.
“Forgive me,” she said to the young man beside her, “but that seemed quite an enthusiastic response to the notion of tea. Is this some aspect of Parisian life I’ve missed out on as a visitor?”
The man, who had been flirting gently with her as the evening progressed, laughed. “Oh, my provincial beauty, you truly have no idea! Mme de Sévigné serves poppy tea whenever she can get it. Drinking it is quite a transformative experience, particularly if you have never previously indulged in such delights.”
“I see,” she said. “Ninon mentioned tea earlier, and I had wondered. Thank you for explaining.”
She made her excuses as smoothly as she could and rejoined Aramis. If she recalled correctly, the poppy plant was the source of the drug opium, which was used in laudanum. It was a powerful substance, but she also knew enough to understand that different preparations and different parts of a plant could have wildly differing affects.
Aramis smiled, a dutiful husband welcoming his wife back after a short time apart. He bent to kiss her cheek, and under cover of the gesture, whispered, “Poppy seed tea. Safe enough, if somewhat unpredictable in its effects. Be cautious, though.”
She smiled back when he straightened and gave him a nearly imperceptible nod of understanding.
“I see you’ve found some like-minded companions with whom to discuss philosophy,” she said at a normal volume. “Would it be frightfully rude of me to enlist their help in attempting to solve my small epistolary mystery?”
Several of the people standing nearby made noises of interest.
“Ah, yes, of course. I’m afraid I’d quite forgotten about that little matter,” Aramis said. “Gentlemen, my wife received a letter a few days ago. It was during that frightful rainstorm, and the boy who delivered it was careless. The letter was soaked, and the ink had run until it was completely illegible. Charlotte seems set upon the idea of identifying the sender by his seal, so she can write back and tell him that the message was lost. I don’t suppose any of you would care to take a look and see if you recognize it?”
Several people stepped forward, and Milady handed the letter around. She forced herself not to hold her breath, but again, no one knew the seal. When the last person handed it back to Aramis, shaking his head, he only smiled and said, “Oh, well. I’m sure it’s nothing terribly important. Thank you all for indulging us.”
He gave the letter back to Milady, his fingers briefly grasping hers in a supportive squeeze that would not be obvious to those standing nearby. She steeled herself against the wash of disappointment that flooded her mind, and forced herself back into character.
“Yes, thank you,” she said. “As René says, it’s probably nothing of import. Only I do so hate a mystery.”
There was a smattering of amused agreement in response, and then everyone’s attention turned to the servant approaching with a tray filled with delicate porcelain cups, steam rising lazily from the rim of each. Aramis took two from the tray as it passed, handing Milady one, but giving her a subtle look of warning.
She sniffed the cup and pretended to take a sip, but did not allow the liquid to pass her lips. Aramis waited until several of their companions had drunk eagerly, and she watched him closely as he drew in a mouthful and rolled it around on his tongue, presumably trying to judge the strength and quality of the decoction. After a moment he swallowed and gave her a tiny nod.
Milady raised the cup to her lips and tasted the contents cautiously. The brew was bitter and unpleasant, but the addition of honey and bergamot kept it from being completely undrinkable. Around her, the other guests—including Aramis—were draining their cups in short order and returning them to the servants. Not wishing to stand out, Milady held her breath against the taste and did the same.
There were no immediate effects that she could detect, and everyone else returned to the discussions they’d been having before the tea was announced. Milady briefly considered trying to find a new group to join, in hopes of being able to ask them about the seal on the letter, but her thoughts were interrupted by a call from the hostess’s bed.
“René! Charlotte!” said Mme de Sévigné, her voice cutting through the chatter surrounding them. “Come here for a moment, my dears, if you would.”
Aramis glanced at Milady with a raised eyebrow and gestured her to precede him. The two of them crossed to join the salonnière, who still lay tangled with Ninon and the statuesque—though as yet unnamed—young man.
“How are you enjoying your first taste of the salons? Did you partake of the tea?” Mme de Sévigné asked, her left hand stroking rhythmically through the boy’s hair as he lay curled, catlike, half in her lap. Behind him, Ninon smiled up at them from where she was kissing her way down the side of his neck.
“We did, and I cannot remember the last time we passed such a pleasant evening,” Aramis said.
“Indeed,” Milady agreed. “Your generosity as a host is unmatched in my experience. It’s enough to make me wish to pull up roots and move to Paris permanently.”
Mme de Sévigné smiled. “Well, you would not be the first to do so, and I’m certain the two of you could do well here. Now, though, I called you over because Ninon mentioned that you were an aficionado of poetry, René.”
Milady glanced at Ninon, amused when the girl winked at her mischievously.
Aramis cleared his throat, playing at being uncomfortable. “Well... that may be overstating the matter somewhat. I correspond with a scholar who has been working on a French translation of some of the books of the Old Testament, and she recently sent me a copy of the Song of Solomon she’s been working on. Some of the content is, shall we say, eye-opening.”
A small, but growing cluster of people was crowding around the bed. A couple of them laughed softly.
“The Song of Solomon, you say?” said one of them, a man somewhat older than most of the others present, his salt-and-pepper hair framing a craggy but handsome face. “Yes, that is a somewhat surprising book. Is the translation from the Greek, or the Latin?”
“It’s from the original Hebrew, actually,” Aramis said, drawing a murmur of interest from the group.
“Well, well... that is interesting,” said the man. “Who is the scholar, may I ask?”
“Ah... that is a bit awkward,” Aramis said. “I’m afraid the individual in question extracted a promise from me at the beginning of our correspondence that I would
not share her identity. At the time, her efforts would likely have brought serious scrutiny—and, quite likely, censure—from the Church.”
An older woman spoke up. “I imagine it still would, if Cardinal Richelieu got wind of it. I can understand her reticence.”
“Pfft. Nonsense. The Cardinal is a practical man,” said the salt-and-pepper gentleman dismissively. “He knows France has far more serious problems than scandalous translations from the Old Testament.”
The conversation turned to Richelieu for a few minutes, with some people couching him as the devil on earth, while others defended him as the mastermind behind France’s tentative resurgence after the years of plague. Milady kept well out of it, having definite opinions on the matter, but not wishing to be seen to know too much of politics in the capital.
Eventually, Ninon cleared her throat softly, drawing everyone’s attention. “Forgive me for diverting the conversation back to its beginnings,” she said, “but what is so scandalous about these translations? Do they contradict the Church’s established teachings?”
Aramis chuckled. “In a manner of speaking. Perhaps not quite in the way one would assume, though.”
“Charlotte,” Ninon said, mischief entering her tone, “did you not tell me that René brought a copy of this translation with him tonight?”
“As it happens, I did,” Milady said. A pleasant, warm feeling was starting to creep over her, making her feel languid. A wicked smile spread across her face, wholly without her intending it. “I’m told René was known for his fine reading voice as a young man. Perhaps we should find out if his talents have faded with age.”
“You would know the answer to that if anyone does, dearest,” Aramis said, and several people laughed. “But if you are all truly interested in gaining a new perspective on the Good Book, I am pleased to oblige.”
He made a production of pulling a small pamphlet from inside his doublet, and cleared his throat theatrically. Some of the people in the group went to bring chairs and place them in a half-ring around the foot of the bed.
“Come up here with us, both of you,” Ninon said, holding a hand out to each of them. “Make yourselves comfortable.”
Aramis looked questioningly at Mme de Sévigné, who said, “Yes, do.”
“Well, we can hardly turn down such a kind invitation, can we, my dear?” Aramis said, and held his hand out for Milady’s.
As they spoke, Milady felt a second, stronger flush of pleasure, almost elation. It took several moments longer than it should have for her to make the connection between the odd, inappropriate rush of feeling and the poppy tea. Beneath the formless wave of pleasure and happiness, she felt a tug of worry... how much stronger would it get, and would she be in danger of losing herself completely?
Chapter VI: November 19th, 1640
“CHARLOTTE?” ARAMIS PROMPTED GENTLY, and she realized that she had remained frozen for too long.
She blinked, and raised a hand to her head. She was suddenly, acutely aware that the painful ache which had plagued her for days was gone as if it had never existed. In fact, her head felt wonderful. “Forgive me, René,” she said, trying to keep the alarm out of her voice. “I believe the tea is starting to affect me.”
Mme de Sévigné laughed gaily. “Yes. It’s lovely, isn’t it?”
Milady smiled and nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She took Aramis hand, and he helped her onto the huge bed before joining her. He propped himself in a seated position against the headboard, leaving a respectable space between himself and their hostess. Guiding Milady down beside him, he arranged them so that she was curled against his side, nestled under one of his arms... a pose that would appear casually intimate to their onlookers without actually requiring them to touch each other inappropriately.
She felt an almost uncontrollable surge of affection for the man cradling her lightly against his body, and closed her eyes for a moment, breathing deeply. This was dangerous. She should have avoided the tea altogether, or at the very least drunk less of it.
Aramis was examining her when she opened her eyes again. “I think perhaps the poppies hit you a little harder than most,” he said. There was a faint hint of worry hidden behind his gaze, but it did not color his tone. “Not to fear, though. You’re safe here. Just relax for awhile and enjoy the poetry, yes?”
Milady nodded, affection and relief swelling once more. It was true—Aramis seemed markedly less compromised than she, and he would not allow any harm to come to her. It was foreign to her nature to rely on another person in such a way, but perhaps the drug was eroding her usual defenses, or perhaps she actually did trust him that much. Either way, she let her head fall against his shoulder and drifted, floating on the warm waters of the poppy tea’s embrace.
Ninon had crawled across the bed to lie on her stomach next to them, and she watched the brief exchange with her chin cradled on her hands.
“So sweet, the two of you,” she said with complete sincerity, a soft smile curving her lips. Milady looked down at her, wondering how she could have thought the girl anything less than stunningly beautiful earlier. She was arresting... irresistible.
Ninon levered herself up enough that she could stroke Milady’s cheek with one soft hand, and Milady pressed her cheek into the contact. The young woman stretched forward and kissed her softly on the lips, then curled up so that her head was in Milady’s lap, her large green eyes gazing up at Aramis.
Milady buried her fingers in the girl’s thick, wavy hair, which had been freed from its stylish chignon at some point during the evening and now fell loose around her shoulders. It was like caressing the finest silk.
Ninon hummed in pleasure at the sensation. “Read to us now, René,” she said in a low, melodic voice. “Please.”
“It would require a stronger man than I to ignore such a plea,” Aramis said, a half-smile pulling at his lips. “Very well... let us begin.”
He opened the small booklet and began to read, his voice clear and deep.
“This is Solomon’s song of songs, more wonderful than any other.
Kiss me and kiss me again,
for your love is sweeter than wine.
How fragrant your cologne;
your name is like its spreading fragrance.
No wonder all the young women love you!
Take me with you; come, let’s run.
The king has brought me into his bedroom...”
Milady stopped fighting and let the strange euphoria wash over her, listening to Aramis as he wove the sensuous tale of King Solomon and his bride. Ninon nestled in her head in Milady’s lap like a child, and she let herself imagine that it was Charlotte curled there, safe and secure. The fantasy made her smile. She let her eyes fall closed and her cheek press against Olivier’s doublet. The man wearing it was not Olivier, but he would keep her safe until she and Olivier were reunited... at the cost of his own life, if necessary.
She drifted for a while, listening to the cadence of the poetry but not the words themselves. When she came back to herself slightly, the king had finally claimed his young wife, and was pleasuring her with his mouth.
“Your lips are sweet as nectar, my bride.
Honey and milk are under your tongue.
Your clothes are scented
like the cedars of Lebanon.
You are my private garden, my treasure, my bride,
a secluded spring, a hidden fountain.
Your thighs shelter a paradise of pomegranates
with rare spices—
henna with nard,
nard and saffron,
fragrant calamus and cinnamon,
with all the trees of frankincense, myrrh, and aloes,
and every other lovely spice.
You are a garden fountain,
a well of fresh water
streaming down from Lebanon’s mountains...”
The girl in whose hair Milady’s fingers were entwined was no longer innocent Charlotte, but once again the coquettish Ninon. T
he young courtesan sighed in pleasure, rubbing her cheek against Milady’s thigh. Milady opened her eyes and looked down. Further down the bed, the beautiful boy who had been attending Mme de Sévigné all evening was nuzzling his face between Ninon’s legs, her skirts hitched up and tangled around her hips. Soft, wet noises formed a counterpoint to Aramis’ steady voice as the boy lapped lazily at Ninon’s sex.
Milady looked up, eyes tracking slowly around the rest of the room. Some people still congregated in small groups, talking quietly, but others had retired in twos and threes to the various couches and settees scattered around the space, their bodies moving together in a slow, primal rhythm.
The crowd surrounding the bed had grown larger. In one chair, a woman straddled a man’s lap, her arms thrown around his neck, kissing him deeply as she rose up and down on his cock. Elsewhere, another man leaned against the wall, an aristocratic woman kneeling before him, his hand guiding her head as he fucked into her mouth with slow, rolling movements.
Ninon shuddered her way through a silent climax in Milady’s lap, and she ran a soothing hand through the girl’s hair, feeling an answering shiver work its way through her own body. The boy between Ninon’s legs did not stop or slow the languorous strokes of his tongue, merely pressing deeper into her body to lap up her release with an appreciative hum.
A wave of desire for Olivier rose up unexpectedly, drowning her. Surrounded by lovers taking their pleasure in each other, and Aramis’ voice describing how the king claimed his virgin bride and elevated her over all others, Milady let her mind drift back to the night she and her husband first met, her body singing with such ecstasy from the drug that she could almost feel Olivier’s eyes watching her; his hands and mouth on her skin.
* * *
After fleeing the convent where her parents had sent her, she’d followed Father Gabriel north. The fallen priest was a questionable guardian for a girl barely turned eighteen, but he had taught her more about survival in the short months of their acquaintance than anyone else had done in her entire life.
Book 4: The Queen's Musketeers, #4 Page 9
