Thief of Hearts

by Leda Swann

  The fullness she had felt before was nothing to what she felt now. What was one finger, or even two, compared with the long, hard cock she felt inside her now?

  She moved tentatively against him, exploring the sensation of having him inside her. It felt strange somehow, as if he were a part of her and yet not a part of her all at the same time. She had thought that having a man inside her would be brutal – that she would feel invaded and violated by his presence. Instead, she felt completed, as if this was how she was meant to be.

  Slowly he withdrew and then moved into her once more, setting her nerves on fire with the slow, tantalizing friction of his desire. He set a gentle rhythm, rocking first into her and then out again with deliberate slowness.

  She thrust her hips up to meet him, eager to join with him, to experience this wonder together.

  His thrusts became slowly more urgent and more demanding. Slowly but surely she spiraled higher and higher, until she was no longer in control of the feelings that flooded her body. Harder and harder he plunged into her body. His breath grew short and his body started to shake until he gave one last thrust and held himself there, flooding her body with the essence of his soul. She felt herself falling, falling, falling, and as she fell she heard someone scream.

  They huddled together in the aftermath of their loving. Jean-Paul drew a blanket over them both and held Miriame in his arms.

  Too limp to move, she lay still and watched the flames leap in the grate. She felt as though her body had been wrung out and left to dry, but her mind was active now.

  A shame, she thought to herself, that her mind had not kicked in some minutes before – before she had allowed, nay welcomed, Jean-Paul spilling his seed into her. What would she do if she were to become with child?

  A moment’s softness stole over her as she imagined a boy with golden-blond curls like his father, or a little girl with dark eyes just like her darling sister Rebecca. How she would adore to have a girl just like Rebecca to love and to care for.

  She stifled the emotion deep within her. She could not afford such weakness. She was alone in the world, and her only livelihood was her wits – and her sword. With a child in her belly, she would have no way of using either to her advantage. Besides, what was to say she could look after a child of hers any better than she had looked after her sister? She could not bear to lose a son or daughter to the cruelty of poverty.

  Jean-Paul was handsome for sure, but he could not support her, especially not if she were carrying his babe in her belly. She would not drag him back down into the misery she had only just escaped herself.

  She looked again around his meager chamber but saw no evidence that he had any hidden wealth. She had been naive enough to think that because she had stolen great wealth off him once, that he had money enough to spare. He was foolish in the extreme to think that he could take a wife.

  She sighed and rolled over, her back towards him. He was not as foolish as she was. She was three times a fool not to look deeper into the matter before she became so involved with him. In her innocence, she had thought that all Musketeers save her alone would have apartments like those of Courtney, where comfort and luxury were treated as a matter of course. She had not thought that many of her comrades might be quite as poor as she was, with nothing to live on but their soldier’s pay.

  She had had her moment of pleasure with him and she must now take her leave, with her fingers crossed that she did not take away a lasting memento of the desire they had shared. With a sigh she kicked off the blankets and slouched over to the corner where their discarded clothes were tangled all in a heap together, in a parody of their own coupling.

  Jean-Paul rose on to one elbow and blinked sleepily at her. She could not read the expression on his face. Was he, too, regretting their moment of shared lust? If so, she did not want to know. She did not want to leave him with any regrets on her account.

  He cleared his throat and then hesitated as if he, too, didn’t know quite what to say. “You are leaving?” he said at last.

  She slipped on her linen drawers and breeches, knotting the cut laces together until she had a long enough pieces to hold them up around her waist. Haste made her clumsy. She did not want to create a scene – just to leave without a fuss. She hoped he would not make it more difficult for her than it had to be. “Yes. I think it is best for me to go now.” She had bedded him with her eyes open, and had no one but herself to blame for any consequences that might ensue.

  He stared at her as she pulled her shirt over her head and buttoned up her jacket over her breasts. “Goodbye,” he said simply, his eyes not leaving her for a moment.

  She looked over at him in surprise. Did he not care that she was going without a word after all they had shared?

  How contrary she was. Now that he had accepted her departure so easily , she could wish for him to show some sorrow at least: maybe to get on his knees and beg her to wed him, rise up and bar the door against her and forbid her to go, even just ask her nicely to stay a few moments longer. “You do not care that I am leaving?” she said, as she tied up her stockings and pulled on her boots.

  He closed his eyes as if in pain. “I cannot ask you to stay.”

  She buckled on her sword. “I did not want to be asked,” she lied.

  “You are a desirable woman, but you are also a liar and a thief. You have hidden your real self from me for weeks, until tonight, when you chose to show some of your real self. How do I know what other secrets you are keeping from me? How can I truly know you? And until I know you, how can I trust you?”

  He sat up on the bed, letting the blanket fall off his naked shoulders, and forced himself to look at her. “I am sorry to see you go, but in truth I do not want you to stay. You are too beautiful, too seductive for a man such as me. How can I ever trust you? And if I cannot trust you, how can I bear to fall in love with you?” His face was contorted as if he were in pain.

  “I do not want you to fall in love with me.”

  He turned his face to the wall, unable to bear looking at her any longer. “Please, Miriame. Just go.” The words sounded as though they had been dragged from the depths of his soul.

  She could not bear the suffering she heard in his voice. Closing the door quietly behind her, she walked out of his life without looking back.

  In the weeks that followed, Miriame threw herself into life again with a passion. Who knew how much longer she could remain a Musketeer? Who knew how soon she might have to lose all that she had gained? She would make the most of every adventure that came her way while she could. Her new friends were only too glad to help her out.

  Sophie, now returned from her mission to England, wanted to rescue a prisoner from the Bastille? Miriame agreed to help her, just for the hell of it. What did she have to lose save a life which was hardly worth the living? At the very least the excitement would help to break up the monotony of her days and ease some of the ache she felt in her heart at Jean-Paul’s rejection.

  Courtney wanted to start a rebellion against the King in favor of his spineless younger brother, Monsieur the Duc of Orleans? Why should she not join it? The pay was good, and her sword was for hire to whoever would pay her best. King or Duc, what did she care who sat in luxury in the palace? It was all the same to her. Neither of them cared a bean for the common folk like her. Either of them would have her hanged in a trice if they knew who she really was. She might as well try to make her fortune with whoever offered her the best pickings. If she could not have Jean-Paul, she may as well have excitement and danger and the chance to earn her fortune instead.

  The prisoner died before she could be rescued, and the rebellion failed before it had even begun. Sophie had to flee to Burgundy and soon after Courtney was forced to join her. They both had to give up their lives as Musketeers and live as women again.

  Miriame grieved their loss. They had been her comrades and her friends. She had given a piece of her heart to them, though she had sworn she would not. When they were gone,
a part of her went with them.

  Even as she mourned the loss of their company, she shuddered at their fate, hoping never to have to join them. Not that she minded the thought of living in Burgundy – indeed, she heard travelers tales that made her wish to see the place – she just could not conceive of giving up soldiering and having to wear a gown. As a Musketeer she had an adventurous life and the faint possibility of hope for the future. As a woman, she had nothing – not even the love of the man she had once sighed over in secret.

  Her folly was past now. Jean-Paul was not worth sighing over. She ignored him when they passed each other in the practice yard. Some times he looked as though he would speak with her, but she looked through him as if he wasn’t there. He was nothing to her. Nothing.

  She had played the fool for him once, and he had spurned her. She would not give him another chance, just to have him reject her all over again.

  She diced, she gambled, she even cheated at times – but either her life was charmed or her cheating so adept that none suspected her. She felt no guilt for her cheating. She only played with those who could afford to lose, and who could pay the forfeit out of their pocket change without blinking. The coins they lost to her were a fair enough payment for an evening’s entertainment.

  Besides, she evened up the score by deliberately losing on the odd occasion to a thin, hollow-eyed new recruit, barely more than a child, who looked as though he never got enough to eat.

  Each night she counted her winnings and added them to the pile behind the loose brick in her chamber. Heaven help her but she would not starve, even if she were to bear a babe for her folly.

  She counted the days with growing anxiety. Would she have to pay for her sins, or would God overlook her misdemeanor this time? Would he take pity on her and show her mercy? She was not a hardened criminal, after all. She wondered, then, how the Marquise managed to keep her shape and stay free of babes. She would have to be sure to ask next time she paid the woman a visit.

  If the Marquise ever asked for her again. Francine had not sent for her lately – the Marquise must be smarting over Miriame’s failure to turn up the last time she was called, on that fateful night that she diced with Fate itself and opened her heart to Jean-Paul.

  Twenty-one days came and went without a spot of blood. Miriame’s fingernails were red and bleeding from being bitten to the quick.

  On the twenty-second day, her bleeding came. She fell on her knees in thankfulness when she saw the telltale spots of blood appearing between her thighs. Feeling as though she had just received a reprieve from an execution, she bounded into the barracks, ready for the first time in nearly a month to start to live again, to care about her life.

  No more would she pass the days in a frantic whirl, deliberately courting danger, as if keeping close to death was the only way she could feel more than half alive.

  From now on she would keep herself to herself. She would not admit her sex to anyone else – not ever. She had escaped this time by the grace of God, but He might not take it kindly were she to make a habit of it.

  No more loving for her. No more frantic tumbles in a darkened chamber. She was a man again, and a man she would stay.

  Jean-Paul Metin stared after Miriame as she turned on her heel and strode away from him, ignoring his plea to talk to her, as she had ignored all his pleas for the past week. God damn it, but he was a fool to have let her alone for so long. He had let her stew for a fortnight or more, too proud to crawl up to her on bended knee, asking for her forgiveness for his cruelty. She would not find it easy to forgive him now.

  He had been so angry with her when he had first found out that she and the Musketeer who had stolen his name were one and the same person. He had taken her to bed out of lust, true enough, but also out of anger. He had wanted to bury his rage in her body, to punish her for making a fool out of him for so long, and she had willingly accepted him. Too willingly for his peace of mind.

  The thought of how he had used her so cold-bloodedly made him cringe. He had not done right by her. He was a soldier and a Musketeer, not some lowlife scum who treated women like dirt under his feet.

  He still could hardly believe how she had fooled him – and all their comrades – for so long. He watched her as she strode away, her legs straight, her hips hardly moving from side to side, moving just like a man. If he had not seen her naked body with his own eyes, tasted the delights of her very womanly body with his eyes and hands and cock, he would doubt his own senses.

  No, he could never doubt those. She had been unforgettable – a mixture of sweetness and spice, of innocence and eroticism, such that he would never forget her again for as long as he lived. He felt himself growing hard again at the memory, and he shuffled his feet in agitation as he shifted himself to a less obtrusive position.

  As soon as he could move again without discomfort, he strode after her. This time he was not going to let her get away with slighting him. This time he was going to force her to sit down and talk with him. By Heaven, he may owe her an apology for his rudeness, but she owed him some answers to his questions. He would not wait any longer for them.

  She was walking quickly, but not fast enough to avoid him. He strode up behind her. “I want to talk to you, boy.” He could not call her by her assumed name, but neither could he call her Miriame when they were in the middle of the barracks. That was more than his life was worth.

  At the touch of his hand on her shoulder, she snapped her head back with a scowl. “What do you want from me?”

  Not exactly the reception he would have chosen, but at least she was talking to him again. And her eyes were still the most beautiful deep brown he could imagine. Even knowing what he knew about her, he could willingly lose himself in her eyes. “You owe me some answers.”

  The scowl on her face deepened and she spat on the ground at his feet. “I owe you nothing.”

  She certainly had the manners of a Musketeer – and those were nothing to boast of. He hated to imagine what his mother would think of her. His poor mother would be truly scandalized and think the wench was possessed with devils, no doubt. She’d have the priest around with bell, book and candle to exorcise her in a trice. “That is where we disagree.”

  Her face lit up with an impish grin and she put her hand on her sword with a threatening look. “Do you want to fight about it? I’m itching for a good fight.”

  He’d rather have her looking full of mischief than scowling any day. “I’d rather kiss you instead.”

  Her grin vanished at his words and he could see her hand creeping perilously close to her boot where she hid her knife. She certainly had a temper on her, his Miriame did. She would keep him on his toes once they were wed. She did not look impressed at the thought of him kissing her. “Don’t forget that I’m a soldier.”

  “I’m hardly likely to forget it, with the way you are dressed.” Even as he spoke the words, he knew they weren’t true. He liked the look of her in her red dress, her breasts spilling out of the top of her bodice, but now that he thought about it, he liked her equally well in her breeches. They clung to her hips and legs, showing off a part of her figure that would normally be shrouded in a skirt. “Though I have to say that you’re definitely the best-looking soldier in the barracks.”

  “That’s where we have to disagree again,” she said, the grin beginning to creep back. “I would give that honor to Javert De Toile.”

  “De Toile?” He racked his brains, but he couldn’t match a face to the name. What was Miriame doing looking at him anyway? Whoever De Toile was, he might just find himself with a new scar shortly that would spoil his beauty.

  “You must have noticed him. He’s the one with the dark curling hair, the elegant moustache, and those glorious muscles.”

  He most certainly did not like Miriame noticing any other man’s muscles. “I thought you had turned Musketeer to fight, not to ogle men’s bodies on the sly.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t bother with most of them, but some of the
m are more worth ogling than others.”

  He touched his fingertips to his chest where the livid red scar ran across his body. Had she been revolted by it? The idea had not crossed his mind before, but now he could not shake it. She could not have received any pleasure from looking at his mutilated body. The thought gave him pain, especially since her beautiful body had given him so much pleasure. “Does he know you are a woman?”

  The look she gave him was pure disdain. “Do you think I am an utter fool?”

  He shrugged, hardly knowing how to answer her. Foolish? He supposed not. She was still alive, which said much about her wit and cunning. Foolhardy in the extreme? Absolutely. He had never met a woman, or a man either for that matter, who took such huge risks so blithely.

  “Well, I am not,” she hissed furiously as he remained silent a moment too long. “Nobody here knows I am a woman.”

  “Except me.”

  “I didn’t bother to count you. As far as I am concerned, you are a nobody.” Her voice was vicious.

  He did not like being dismissed so readily. “I have kept your secret.”

  She looked briefly down at her boot in a warning. “And if you hadn’t, you would be sorry.”

  Did she think he had kept her secret out of fear? “I would?”

  “There’s a lot a woman can do with a knife when a man is sleeping.” Her smile as she looked up at him was cold and hard.

  The tone of her voice, even more than her words, sent shivers of unease down his spine and quieted his restless arousal. That in itself was a blessing. He was finding it difficult to concentrate on being angry with her when his body was demanding quite a different reaction.

  As far as her threat went, he didn’t know whether or not she meant it, but he was not about to take the risk and find out. Her secret was safe with him. “I would never give away your sex,” he said loftily. “I would hate to miss the opportunity of ogling you in those delightful breeches you wear.”