Book 4: The Queen's Musketeers, #4

by R. A. Steffan

  She stilled, listening to her body. She did not feel ill. In fact, she felt wonderful... that was rather the root of the problem. But, still... Aramis was right. There was no real harm done. Things far more scandalous than a woman moaning in her dreams were going on all around them. Aramis still seemed to be in control of himself. He would take the lead. She need only remember that she was Charlotte d’Herbault, wife of René d’Herbault, visiting Paris from Blois. She could do that, even when her body was singing with unnatural pleasure.

  “No, I don’t feel ill,” she answered finally, aware that her voice still sounded dreamy. “I feel very, very good. Just... strange. Sleepy.”

  She could feel his silent exhale of relief from where she lay resting against his chest. When he next spoke, Aramis was once again playing the role of charming husband to their onlookers. “So, my poetry reading has put you to sleep then? Such a sad state of affairs, when one’s wife is also one’s harshest critic. Ah, well. You are lucky that I love you anyway.”

  There was light laughter from around them. Ninon righted herself, her chin resting on her hands in Milady’s lap. “Your words did not put me to sleep, René,” she said. She leaned forward to place a kiss on Milady’s inner thigh, followed by a second one, a few inches higher, watching Aramis’ face the entire time. Simultaneously, her hand crept forward to trace a path over the closure of Aramis’ breeches. “Quite the opposite, in fact. They have made me feel quite playful. Would you and Charlotte like to play with me now, monsieur?”

  From her place in the crook of his arm, Milady could see the bulge in Aramis’ breeches; the way it twitched under Ninon’s butterfly touch. However, he merely smiled and caught the courtesan’s hand gently in his, raising it to his mouth and kissing her fingertips, one by one. His gaze was directed at Ninon, but Milady still caught the heat at its edges.

  “Such a tempting offer, mon ange,” he said. “However, Charlotte and I gain our greatest pleasure from watching others. You will please us more by continuing to play with your young friend.”

  Ninon smiled and withdrew her hand, but her sharp eyes flicked from Aramis’ face to Milady’s and back, setting off distant warning bells in Milady’s head.

  “Very well,” she said, her cupid bow lips turning down in a teasing pout. “I can see I will have to make my own fun.”

  Mme de Sévigné had evidently been keeping half an eye on the conversation from the other side of the huge bed. “I believe René’s reading has inspired our dear Michel to, how shall I say it, new heights,” said their hostess.

  Milady looked over toward the older woman. The young man, now identified as Michel, lay back in her arms, fully naked. His cock stood proud and stiff, rising from the nest of dark curls between his legs as he fisted it slowly, obviously basking in the attention turned his way.

  “Ninon, pet,” Mme de Sévigné said, running a proprietary hand up and down Michel’s smooth, hairless chest. “Why don’t you and Michel show our guests your special trick?”

  Ninon caught her lower lip between her teeth and smiled, still maintaining her scorching eye contact with Aramis, who made a politely interested noise. She sat up and slowly stripped off her clothing, piece by piece, until she was as naked as Michel. Holding her hand out to the boy, she pulled him close for a kiss. When they parted, she crawled to the edge of the bed, and he rose to stand in front of her, his erect prick jutting out obscenely.

  Ninon lay back so that her hips were positioned at the edge of the decadent feather mattress, with her legs hanging off the side. Tilting her head back to smile at her attentive audience upside down, she lifted her legs, folding her knees to her chest. Spreading her legs even farther, she stretched and contorted until her ankles were crossed behind her own head, and her arms braced atop the crooks of her knees to hold her legs in place.

  Bent completely double, Ninon’s sex was exposed like an offering. Michel grinned and stepped up to her, running a hand over it and sliding three fingers inside, making her shiver.

  “What do you think, René?” Mme de Sévigné asked in a velvety tone.

  “A delectable oyster,” Aramis said, “offering up the most beautiful of pearls. What say you, Charlotte?”

  Milady knew that he was trying to keep her mentally engaged and present. She forced herself to concentrate on the unlikely spectacle before her. “I fear I am too old for such acrobatics, René. But the truth is, even when I was young I don’t think I could have achieved that position.” Michel drew his fingers out of Ninon’s sex and pressed them to her lips until she sucked them in and licked them clean. A frisson raced up Milady’s arms at the sight.

  “I like how vulnerable it makes her look, though,” she continued, some part of her mind protesting that she was saying too much. The lethargy and euphoria of the tea prevailed, however. “The way she gives herself over to him totally, and he looms above her.”

  Michel arched over Ninon, grasping her ankles in his hands. Lining himself up at her entrance, he slid in to the hilt. It must feel impossibly deep that way, Milady thought, and writhed faintly in Aramis’ loose embrace.

  They watched as the two beautiful youths fucked each other. Michel brought Ninon to a shuddering completion with his slow, deep strokes. When she was finished, he pulled out and painted his own release over her stomach and the backs of her thighs.

  “Beautiful,” Mme de Sévigné sighed, as Ninon smoothly unbent, stretching like a cat and using a corner of the quilted bedspread to clean herself off. Both she and Michel crawled up to kiss the salonnière on the lips before pressing themselves into her arms, arrayed on either side of her like bookends.

  Milady tried to focus on her wider surroundings past the haze of drugged lust that covered her like a blanket. The room had grown quiet. Some people had left; others lay listlessly on various pieces of furniture, either alone or with others, in various states of deshabille. Aramis’ hand gripped her shoulder where he held her, gaining her attention.

  “Truly an intoxicating evening, Mme de Sévigné,” he said, addressing their host. “Ninon. Michel. It is always pleasing to know that there is such beauty in the world, and to be able to admire it firsthand in such a way is a rare and piquant experience for the two of us. Now, however, I fear we must take our leave of you all. I’m afraid the evening may have become just a bit too intoxicating for my dear wife.”

  “I’m all right, René,” she murmured, slurring the words and playing the role Aramis set out for her. Not that it required much acting, unfortunately. “I jus’... just feel a bit strange.”

  “Hmm, yes, sometimes the tea affects people that way, especially the first time,” Mme de Sévigné said. “The cold night air will soon revive you, dear—never fear.”

  “I’ll be fine, I’m sure,” she said, forcing her leaden limbs into action as she sat up. “Thank you again for your kindness, Madame.”

  She allowed Aramis to help her to her feet, relieved to find that she was not terribly unsteady. His charming words of farewell to their host and the others washed over her without really penetrating, and soon, he was leading her back to the front doors, wishing the footman a pleasant evening as he retrieved their cloaks.

  As they exited the stately home, he started to lift her cloak onto her shoulders, but she blocked him with a raised arm. “Best not,” she said, struggling to gain control over her senses. “I’m far too warm already. Let the night air do its work for a few minutes, at least.”

  “Of course,” he said, folding the cloak over one arm and offering his other arm for her to take.

  They were silent until they had walked far enough to be sure that no ears from the salon were nearby to hear them speak.

  Then, Aramis said, “Please accept my sincerest apologies, Milady. I had no idea that the tea would affect you so profoundly.”

  She shook her head, the motion sending shadows dancing at the edges of her vision. “Not your fault. You told me to be cautious, and I wasn’t.”

  “Well. Whatever the case, it would
be for the best if you avoided such teas completely in the future. Poppy tea once in awhile is one thing, but using it regularly causes some people to suffer withdrawal pangs that make a drunkard’s craving for wine look mild by comparison,” he said. “Were you telling the truth earlier about not feeling sick? No nausea?”

  “None. My head doesn’t even hurt any longer. I feel wonderful, and I can’t seem to worry about the things I should be worried about.” Some of the distant, detached panic that she was feeling behind the euphoria crept into her voice. “I don’t like this, Aramis.”

  “It will fade over the coming hours,” he promised. “In the mean time, keep reminding yourself that we are following the plan you laid out. Worrying or not worrying will make no objective difference in our progress.”

  That made sense, and she nodded, somewhat comforted by the thought.

  “Tomorrow we will visit the salon of the Duchesse d’Aumale,” he continued. “If we have no luck there, we will use the new connections we are forging to gain access to other people who might help us.”

  “Very well. You’re correct, of course.” Milady looked at him from the corner of her eye. “Though I confess I do find it rather vexing that you appear so unaffected. Did the tea do nothing for you?”

  “I’m affected enough,” he said with a huff that might have been amusement. “In fact, I’ve been enjoying quite a lovely sense of intoxication for the last hour or so, which will probably require quite a number of Ave Marias to atone for once it passes. That said, this is not the first time I’ve tried opium, so I know more or less what to expect. Also, my tolerance is apparently higher than yours, for whatever reason.”

  “Well, thank heaven for that, at least. Otherwise the evening could have taken a most unfortunate turn.”

  They made their way back to the Rue d’Assas, the November chill completely failing to penetrate Milady’s warm haze. It was nearly midnight when they arrived at Aramis’ rooms, and he insisted she sit at the table and eat something before going to bed.

  “I should warn you that you won’t be able to sleep properly tonight, merely drift and dream like you were earlier,” he said, still puttering around as he prepared cups of some herbal tisane. “Also, you may feel more melancholic than usual tomorrow as your body tries to rebalance its humors.”

  “Wonderful,” she said, picking at the bread and cheese in front of her, though she had no appetite.

  “If it makes you feel better, I’ll no doubt be feeling particularly bad about this whole thing tomorrow, myself,” he said, plonking a cup containing an infusion of mint leaves sweetened with honey down by her plate.

  “Oh, good,” she said. “I suppose that’s something to look forward to, at least.”

  She drained the cup, and excused herself to retire to bed.

  * * *

  The rest of the night was, as promised, a strange tangle of dreams that grew gradually less pleasant as the effects of the tea wore off. Before the sun rose, Milady heard Aramis moving about as usual, readying himself for the day. A bit later, she heard the front door open and close as he left for morning Mass, correctly guessing that she would be in no mood for his company.

  Her dull headache returned with the sun, as did the press of her worries for Charlotte and Olivier. She lay for a bit in a sort of fugue state, hoping that real sleep would overtake her but knowing it would not. Yet, even knowing that no good would come of staying in bed, the idea of rising seemed like too much effort for her weary body and mind.

  Staring up at the peeling plaster on the ceiling, she took a moment to indulge in the vindictive hope that Aramis did, in fact, feel as badly today as he’d promised her he would.

  Eventually, her strength of will—augmented by her increasingly desperate need to piss—won out over the lethargy. Her skin itched oddly. Scratching only made it worse, so she made herself stop, and simply bear it. Cursing opium, poppy plants, and tea on general principles, she wandered around the room, washing her face and arms, dressing, and setting her hair to rights.

  She wondered how many of the patrons last night made a habit of the drink, and had fallen completely under its spell. After only a single dose, she could feel a slight, nagging urge to try it again, with the lure of easing her headache and her cares for a few more hours. She shook her head, irritated with herself.

  Breakfast held no appeal—her stomach was sour and her guts constipated. With nothing to do until Aramis returned later in the day, she distracted herself with his small but eclectic library.

  When he arrived that afternoon, he had Porthos unexpectedly in tow.

  “Milady,” the big man greeted. “I trust you’re feeling better today, after this fool let you drink opium tea last night.”

  “I warned her to be cautious with it!” Aramis said irritably, closing the door behind him.

  Porthos raised an unimpressed eyebrow and ignored him, still speaking to Milady. “If you like, I can have Athos thrash him for you once we spring him out of the Bastille and his leg’s better. Unless you’d rather I do it for you now?”

  “You can try,” Aramis muttered.

  “Tempting,” Milady said, feeling her mood lighten a bit for the first time that day. “Though I suspect he’s doing an adequate job of beating himself up, all on his own.”

  “Hmm... perhaps so. You will let me know if you change your mind, though,” Porthos said.

  “You’ll be the first to know,” she replied. “Now, to what do we owe the pleasure? We need to leave before too long for our next appointment with Paris’ most rich and influential.”

  “Constance and d’Artagnan just wanted to update you both on the girls,” he said. “We thought it would be best if we took it in turns to contact you, on the off chance that anyone is watching.”

  She nodded. Given the current political crisis and Olivier’s involvement, it was quite possible that the Cardinal was taking an interest in the movements of her husband’s friends. She would have to be more careful about her own comings and goings from Aramis’ rooms. Thank goodness the man had taken advantage of his connections to the extent of keeping a private apartment at the seminary; at least they weren't trying to hide her inside a tiny, one-room sleeping cell inside the old convent.

  “Anyway,” Porthos continued, “they just wanted you to know that both of the girls have agreed to stay with them. They’re doing well enough, all things considered, though the quiet one still hasn’t spoken. Seems like she’s taken to Constance, though—the girl sticks to her like a limpet.”

  “Constance emits more or less the same aura as a broody mother hen,” Milady said dryly, “so I can’t say I’m terribly surprised.”

  “Heh. I’ll tell her you said so,” Porthos replied with a brief, mischievous smile.

  “What those girls have been through will leave a mark on their souls that can’t be erased so easily,” Aramis said, his voice sober. “However, I am glad that they are in such good hands.”

  “Me too,” Porthos said. “It’s not right... stuff like that going on practically in the shadow of the palace. Well... anyway. I’ll let you get back to your plottin’ and schemin’. Brought some food along for you first, though.” He placed a satchel on the table, and turned his attention to Aramis, raising a finger to point in his face. “You think about what we talked about, yeah?”

  “Of course,” Aramis said. “You must promise me, though, Porthos, that you will not act unless it becomes absolutely necessary. Our current efforts may yet bear fruit.”

  “Let’s hope for everyone’s sake that they do,” Porthos said. “I’ll wish you a good evening, then, Milady.”

  Porthos clapped Aramis on the shoulder and let himself out.

  Milady turned to Aramis, who was already moving to unpack the hot dinner Porthos had brought along for them.

  “I’m in no mood to perform an interrogation tonight, Aramis,” she said wearily, “so please don’t test my patience. ‘What we talked about’?”

  Aramis sighed. “Porthos and
d’Artagnan are concocting a plan to break Athos out of the Bastille if it appears that the Queen intends to capitulate to the Spanish and allow his execution.”

  “Thereby committing treason against the Crown,” she pointed out.

  Aramis shrugged. “Quite so. Given their positions within the musketeers, they might well be able to pull off the rescue, under the guise of a prisoner transfer or some such.”

  “After which we would all be on the run for the rest of our—probably rather short—lives.”

  “Indeed. I’ve chosen to view this as added motivation to get the information we need before such a thing becomes necessary,” Aramis said. “I should very much regret having to leave my students with the poor grasp of Latin they currently demonstrate.”

  “Agreed,” said Milady, wondering for the thousandth time at the stupidity—and loyalty—of her husband’s friends.

  * * *

  They did not attempt to contact Lavardin again before beginning their sojourn to the Duchesse d’Aumale’s salon, instead relying on his letter of introduction and the fact that some of the patrons they met last night would almost certainly be present tonight as well, and recognize them.

  Milady wore a different dress that was unfortunately not quite as fine as the first, since wearing the same one twice in a row would be unthinkable in such circles. Aramis had only the one doublet liberated from Olivier’s wardrobe, but there was nothing to be done for it. The walk from the seminary was considerably longer than the one to Mme de Sévigné’s residence the previous evening, but as they did not have access to a carriage, arriving on foot would be more acceptable than to arrive with Milady riding astride a ewe-necked nag in her satin skirts.

  They were pleasantly surprised to find Ninon arriving at nearly the same moment they did, alighting from a fine carriage bearing a crest Milady did not recognize. The young woman looked around as the carriage drove off, her eyes lighting up with glee upon noticing them.