All for One (11 page)

“We are hardly fighting in the streets,” Aristide added in a calm voice, not sure why the man they all but attacked would come to their defense, but not about to dispute his explanation. “We chose a quiet corner of the park so that we could practice undisturbed.” He stared down the Cardinal’s man without blinking, daring him to press the matter further.

“If we had been fighting in earnest, would we have brought along an unarmed spectator?” Léandre pointed out, indicating Benoît with a flick of his hand. “Really, my good man, you must see the ridiculousness of your accusation. If he’d feared for our lives, he would have run for help instead of standing here watching.” He slid his sword into its scabbard, hoping the others would follow his lead, though he knew he could well be drawing it again if the guards insisted on trying to arrest them. “Since our presence here is so troubling to you, though, we’ll simply return to the tavern and toast the ambassador’s good health instead.”

The guards’ gaze flickered uncertainly between the combatants, but there were six armed men (seven, if they counted the allegedly unarmed observer) and only three of them. And if the fellow with the exceptionally fine garments truly was as important as his attitude seemed to indicate…. Not at all anxious for the half-a-dozen blades which had returned to their scabbards to be drawn against them, the senior guard cleared his throat and took a step backward. “Well, then—next time find someplace you will not disturb the public peace with your… practice. Or the Cardinal will hear of it.”

Not bothering to dignify the threat with a response, the group turned to head out of the park, Perrin going so far as to clap the guard’s spokesman on the shoulder with a cocky grin as they passed. No one spoke until they were back inside
Le Bon Laboureur
, the ambassador gesturing to the owner for more wine.

“I really will drink to your health,” Léandre addressed the Englishman, “though I don’t understand why you didn’t denounce us to the Cardinal’s guard.”

“Two reasons,” the ambassador replied, “which I’ll share in a moment, but first, your names, if you will. I make it a policy never to drink with strangers.” A wink at his companions accompanied his words.

Aristide rose to his feet, sketching a graceful bow to the Englishman and his party. “Aristide, of His Majesty’s Royal Musketeers, at your service.”

“Léandre.” Léandre’s bow was no less elegant, but his face bore a ready smile in contrast to Aristide’s more restrained demeanor.

“Perrin,” Perrin finished, “though ’twas your companion who first challenged us, not the other way around, so perhaps you should give us your names as well.”

Léandre kicked Perrin’s ankle under the table, though it would make little impact through the heavy boots they all wore, and Aristide gave him a hard look. “You might let everyone introduce themselves before demanding names in return. Our manners are not all so poor,” he added to the ambassador, before turning back to the fourth member of their group, whose erect posture hinted at his discomfort.

The Englishman nodded an acknowledgment and turned deliberately to the man who had not yet spoken, who had not entered the fight. “Benoît of Montredon,” the blacksmith said softly. “A simple blacksmith by trade who owes my life to these kind gentlemen. If not for them, a brigand’s ball would surely have taken my life.”

“I recognize Your Excellency from court, though we have not been formally introduced,” Aristide added. He recognized the man who sat so protectively at the ambassador’s side as well, from court as much as
M.
de Tréville’s comments about the ambassador’s Spanish bodyguard, but the youngest member of the group was unknown to him.

“His Majesty and I have differing opinions over who I need to meet in my new role,” the ambassador replied easily. “He insists I should spend hours meeting with fawning advisors and sycophantic courtiers when I would far rather meet the loyal men who defend him. Christian Blackwood, Viscount Aldwych, ambassador of His Majesty Charles I,” the Englishman introduced himself. “My companions are Teodoro Ciéza de Vivar and his son, Esteban Ciéza de Vivar who acts as my secretary. Now, to answer your question, if the Cardinal’s guards had arrested you, they would have attempted to arrest my friends and me as well, a situation I could not accept; and secondly, you mentioned treason, and I wish to know what exactly you would accuse me of so that I can make sure I don’t find myself embroiled in a plot I’m unaware of. I had enough of that in Spain to last a lifetime.”

The elder Ciéza de Vivar’s unreadable gaze met the ambassador’s for a moment before flicking back over the musketeers, pausing to consider Perrin coolly, then lingering on Benoît. “Your impetuous friend mentioned a treasonous letter, delivered by a man with an accent, presumably other than French. I would be interested to hear your answer.”

“Neither your accent nor the ambassador’s matches the one of the man who gave me the letter,” Benoît assured the heavily moustached Spaniard. “Nor do either of you resemble him in any way except, perhaps, for the quality of your clothes.”

“What was in this letter?” Aldwych asked, addressing Aristide since he seemed the nominal leader of the group.

Aristide considered before answering, grateful that his companions—especially Perrin—remained silent as well. If the Englishman’s actions were a ploy to win their trust, it either meant that he was already in league with the Cardinal—which, given Richelieu’s hatred of all things English, he found hard to believe—or the ambassador was an excellent actor. His instincts urged him to believe the young nobleman’s sincerity, but it was not his secret alone to keep. While he hesitated, the Englishman spoke again.

“I move in circles you cannot,” the ambassador reminded them. “If I know what to listen for, I might well see or hear something that could aid you, but I can do nothing if I’m in the dark.”

“And if you’re our enemy, then we’ve revealed what we know and made your job easier,” Perrin retorted hotly.

“Your blacksmith friend has absolved me, my companions, and our countrymen from involvement,” Christian reminded him. “If the plot is so complicated that it involves me conspiring with some other foreign power to attain my goals, it is far too complicated for the Royal Musketeers alone to solve, which is all the more reason to trust me.”

“If the ambassador wanted to weaken the musketeers, he could have let the Cardinal’s guard arrest us,” Léandre interjected. “That’s proof enough for me of his good intentions.”

Aristide rubbed his chin, evaluating the three foreigners again. The ambassador leaned forward, his expression open and guileless, if he were any judge. Ciéza de Vivar’s hard eyes were locked on Perrin at the continued insult, while the young secretary watched them all with thinly disguised tension. Deciding to trust his instincts, Aristide nodded once, leaning closer and lowering his voice to ensure they were not overheard.

“You must understand that our loyalty to our King and our captain makes us cautious,” he began. Aldwych and Ciéza de Vivar both inclined their heads in agreement. “A little over a week ago, we found Benoît here wounded on a country roadside. He had, perhaps, been set upon by bandits. But he carried a letter accusing
M.
de Tréville, captain of the Royal Musketeers and a man of unquestionable loyalty to the King, of treasonable conduct. The letter was to be delivered to Cardinal Richelieu.”

“A distracted guardian is worse than no guardian at all,” Aldwych mused aloud. “Was there no indication who the letter was from? Or anything to suggest who might have benefited from its delivery?”

“All we know is that a well-dressed gentleman with an unknown accent paid our blacksmith friend well to deliver it,” Léandre said. “And he may or may not have been shot because of it.”

“So someone seeks to render the King vulnerable by removing his best defense against whatever would attack him?” Christian mused aloud. “How very… Machiavellian of him. I assume you’ve thought about who would benefit from such a plot and my name, or at least my country, was on the list, which explains today’s events. You needn’t tell me who else you suspect. I’d prefer to see what comes to me on my own. A fresh view, so to speak. If I hear anything at court, I assume a request to any musketeer for you to meet me here will reach your ears.”

“It will, though we will be on duty ourselves again as of tomorrow.” Aristide rose, the increasingly hungry looks Perrin was exchanging with Léandre not lost on him. A good fight always heated their blood; ’twould be best to get them home before one or the other became indiscreet. “I look forward to seeing Your Excellency again at court.” His bow including the ambassador’s companions, he turned to find Benoît still in his seat.

Benoît had noticed the same increasingly urgent glances between Léandre and Perrin and had no desire to spend the rest of the afternoon and evening alone in his room listening to the sounds of the three men’s passions—for while Aristide had managed to be more discreet, he had no doubt the third man would be joining them. “I’ll stay here a little longer, if you don’t mind,” he said without further explanation. “I find I’m not quite ready to return home.”

“Can you find your way on your own?” Aristide was not at all sure he wanted to leave Benoît alone in the tavern, though he was more certain what the blacksmith’s reaction would be if he protested. Still, it could be dangerous for a stranger to the city to wander alone after dark, especially after drinking. “Perhaps I should stay as well.”

“I wouldn’t want to keep you from your time with your friends,” Benoît protested. “Your townhouse is only a few blocks from here. I’m not so hopeless that I can’t find my way back.”

“I’d be glad of another drink as well,” Esteban, the third of the foreigners, interrupted. “If you don’t mind drinking with a new acquaintance, I’ll keep you company and even see you home to reassure your friends.” He glanced to Aristide for approval, understanding easily the balance of power between the Frenchmen.

“Yes, let him stay with our new friends,” Léandre agreed, wrapping an arm around Aristide in a manner that could be construed as mere camaraderie, had he not tweaked Aristide’s arse beneath the concealment of his cloak. “’Tis good for the lad to further his acquaintance in the city.”

Aristide frowned, as much at Léandre’s effrontery as at the Spaniard’s suggestion, but could find no reasonable objection to press the matter. “Very well, then. Lock the door behind you when you come in.”

“And don’t bother waking us,” Perrin added. “We’ll just see you in the morning.”

Benoît flushed at the suggestion he might willingly walk in on the three of them doing who knew what. “I’ll be sure to wait for you to call me to breakfast,” he assured the dark-haired musketeer, shaking his head as the two younger men jostled each other out the door. He was quite sure they’d use that as an excuse to touch each other all the way home and into bed. He had started to turn away, to turn his attention back to his new drinking partner, when he saw Aristide pause and give him one last, piercing look. He scowled at the thought that the musketeer did not trust him to get home alone.

The older Spaniard nodded silently at Esteban, conveying his own message with a twitch of his heavy moustache. “Enjoy the remainder of your evening, Your Worthies,” he bowed, waiting for the ambassador to precede him.

The English noble’s lips twitched as he turned toward the door, his bodyguard close on his heels. He recognized the look on his companion’s face. Free of the gaze of the musketeers, his smile broadened. “I find myself eager to return to our lodgings,” he murmured in a voice soft enough to carry no further than the table where Benoît and Esteban still sat.

Taking the ambassador’s hand, the Spaniard examined it before turning it up to press a kiss in the palm. “You grow more skilled in handling your weapon,” he said just as softly, his voice husky with promise. “Perhaps it is time for some more—private—lessons.”

Esteban rolled his eyes as the door closed behind the two before turning back to Benoît. “They are so happy to be free of the dangers of Spain that they forget France should not be any more tolerant.”

Benoît gaped at the Spaniard in shock. “You mean they…?”

Chapter 9

T
HE
young Spaniard’s expression froze, his hand falling unconsciously to the hilt of his sword. “Are you among those who would condemn them? Judging from what I saw of your friends, I expected you to understand. If you mean them harm….” He trailed off, his gut churning at the thought his indiscreet tongue might have put the two men to whom he owed his life and his position into peril.

Benoît shook his head. “I don’t understand,” he admitted. “I met Aristide and the others a week ago, when they saved my life. Their ways are completely foreign to me, but you did not misjudge what you saw, only my ability to make sense of it. And now you tell me that the ambassador and his bodyguard… I feel like I have slipped into some strange dream where everything is the opposite of what I believed to be right.”

“I, too, found it hard to accept at first,” Esteban admitted, the grip on his sword-hilt easing. The blacksmith appeared country-bred, as he had been, without the benefit of his life with Teodoro to open his eyes to the ways of the world before having it shift around him. “But if you could see the emotion between them, if you knew what they have endured to be together….” He took a mouthful of wine to ease the tightness of his throat.

“They had a hard time of it?” Benoît asked, curious despite himself. If he could understand what had drawn them together, perhaps it would help him understand his own inexplicable fascination with Aristide.

Esteban’s laughter rang loud in the noisy tavern. “You could say that,” he agreed, shaking his head as he sobered. “It is not my story to tell. Perhaps when we get to know each other better, they will share it with you themselves. But not even the Inquisition was powerful enough to keep them apart.” He met Benoît’s troubled eyes, his own shining with loyalty and pride. “They would die for one another… but they would much rather live for each other.”

“They faced the Inquisition and survived?” Benoît gaped. “But I thought the Inquisition had no tolerance for….” He paused, not wanting to use any of the derogatory terms so often applied to men who preferred each other’s company. “For men like them.”

“It does not,” Esteban agreed grimly. “’Tis one of the reasons we left Spain. Cristian—the ambassador—assured us France would be more accepting, at least privately. But you make me wonder if that is true.”

“The Inquisition holds no sway here like it does in Spain,” Benoît commented slowly. “Beyond that, I don’t know. As you must surely have guessed, I am new to the capital and its ways. I don’t know what kind of reaction your friends will receive here, only how my friends from home would react. What about you? Do you… share their preferences?”

The Spaniard’s expressive eyes sparkled. “No, I am one for the
señoritas
, myself—” He paused, thinking of Christian’s first bodyguard with a smile.
Señor
Hawkins had certainly been a ladies’ man before meeting Raúl! “Though
quién sabe
? I have learned enough to know that love does not always come where it is expected.” He drank again, considering his companion. “And what about you?”

“I lost my wife only a few months ago,” Benoît protested. “I’m not looking for anyone right now!”

“Neither was Teo.” Esteban chuckled. “But then he met Cristian.” His grin widened, thinking of how the two were undoubtedly working off the hot blood roused by the sword fight. “It will not be safe to return home for at least another hour,” he added, motioning for another bottle.

Benoît squirmed uncomfortably beneath the amused gaze that seemed to see his deepest secrets. “I’ll be lucky to be able to sleep at all tonight,” he blurted out, cheeks flaming at the admission. “I can hear them all the way upstairs in my room.”

Esteban poured his new friend another glass of wine. He’d been thinking to seek out some willing female companionship himself, but given Benoît’s admission, he didn’t think the other man would choose to accompany him. “We’ll just have to keep ourselves amused until they wear themselves out, then.”

He didn’t want them to wear themselves out, Benoît realized with a pang. Or rather, Perrin and Léandre could do whatever they wanted, but he didn’t want Aristide to be involved. Muffling a curse at the thought, he summoned a smile for his companion. “Then we’ll undoubtedly need another bottle.” Maybe if he got drunk enough, he could forget about Aristide.

Though he had only attained a score of years, Esteban had experience enough to judge that Benoît’s forced smile hid more than annoyance at his slumbers being disturbed. “Does the thought of it trouble you so much?” he asked. “Then why do you stay with them?”

“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” Benoît admitted, “and they—Aristide, anyway, keeps insisting I stay. I try to leave, and he has another reason, then another, why I shouldn’t. I don’t know anyone in Paris. I’m still too weak to earn my living. I might hear something that would help them identify the sender of the letter. He rolls over my every objection, and I can’t seem to find a way to counter him.”

“And you want to counter him?” Esteban pressed. “Because you object to the life he chooses to live?” He hoped his new friend was not as close-minded as that.

“No, of course not!” Benoît insisted. “He’s been nothing but kind to me from the moment he picked me up from the side of the road, but I can’t spend my life dependent on his generosity. Who he takes to his bed is his business. I just wish he wouldn’t….” He trailed off. “I know they’re his friends, and I’m sure they’re good men, but they’re so… casual about it. He deserves better.”

“He is a soldier. Soldiers can seldom afford to be other than casual, or so those I know have told me.” Benoît’s slumped posture told Esteban he wasn’t convinced. Beginning to see that his companion had not examined his own feelings beyond the initial shock—which Esteban understood very well—he pushed further. “So it is not that he takes men to his bed, but who he takes that bothers you?”

“No…. Yes…. I don’t know.” Benoît couldn’t quite believe he was having this conversation with a total stranger, but at least he knew Esteban would not judge him harshly for the conflicted thoughts running through his head. “When I first realized he liked men, I was shocked and a little scared. I think horrified would be the right description when I realized he had two lovers, not just one, but I can’t condemn him. He’s been too kind to me, the first person to do so since I left home.”

“That is how it was with Teo and me,” Esteban confided. “He was my hero, the cynosure I measured every other man against—still do, to tell the truth. When I realized how much he had come to love Cristian—” He drank deeply, still ashamed of his behavior toward the Englishman he had perceived as a rival. “I could not see it at the time, but I was more threatened than shocked. I was used to having Teo’s attention, even his affection, though he is not one to show it easily, all to myself. I was jealous and afraid that in caring for Cristian he would forget about me.” He shook his head at the folly of the youth he had been. “As if a heart that big only had room for one kind of love.”

Benoît drained his wine and poured another glass, offering the bottle to Esteban as well. “How did you find out about them?”

Esteban refilled his glass, staring into the ruby depths as he remembered that day. “It was after Cristian rescued Teo from the Inquisition,” he said softly, the terror of those days still enough to chill his blood. “Our apartments in Madrid were so small he and Cristian were forced to share his bed. I had gone to the market and walked in on them sleeping—I had not suspected, but to see them tangled together in the sheets so intimately—there was no mistaking what it meant.” Taking another drink, he added with a grin, “Nor to ignore the noises when I slept on my cot outside the room afterward.”

“You must have been shocked,” Benoît sympathized. He had at least been spared the sight of Aristide in bed with Perrin and Léandre, though the noises that filtered up to his little room left no doubt how he spent his nights there.

“At first,” Esteban confessed. “But once I understood what they meant to one another, and that their loving each other did not mean they cared for me any less…. They are the two best men I have ever known, and I cannot believe the feelings they share are evil.” He considered Benoît again thoughtfully. “How did you find out about your musketeer?”

Benoît blushed furiously, sipping at his wine to hopefully hide the telltale coloring. “We were on our way back to Paris, but I was too weak to ride the usual distance so we had to stop for the night in a small town with a tiny inn. They only had the one room, and Aristide insisted I share it with him. I thought… I thought he was interested in me,” he mumbled, “but I must have been mistaken. Despite what he said, I’m sure he was only thinking of his friends.” If he’d truly been thinking of Benoît, he shouldn’t have found it so easy to return to Perrin’s and Léandre’s arms.

The blacksmith’s blush was not lost on Esteban. “That must have been awkward,” he nodded. “But if you did not know his preference, it might as easily have been thoughts of a woman that aroused him. What made you think he was attracted to you?”

“I overreacted, trying to get up, to leave. He told me he was attracted to men and promised nothing would happen that I didn’t want,” Benoît replied in an uncomfortable whisper. “Nothing happened, just as he promised, but then we got back to Paris and….” He stared down into his wineglass. Could he do it? Could he admit, even to this sympathetic audience, that he was jealous of the thought that Aristide could desire him but still go to his friends’ bed every night?

“And you can’t help but wonder?” Esteban asked quietly.

Benoît squirmed uncomfortably, unable to meet Esteban’s eyes. “I should get back. I don’t want Aristide to worry.”

Draining his glass, the Spaniard rose to his feet. His new friend was older than he was, but for once Esteban felt like the more experienced of the two. “I won’t presume to tell you what you should feel or how you should act,” he said, slinging an arm around Benoît’s shoulders as the blacksmith also stood, a bit unsteadily. Tossing a handful of coins on the table, he led them through the door and into the cool night air. “That is something each man must decide for himself. Just be sure you are acting on
your
feelings, not what you have been taught to believe without question.”

Benoît nodded numbly, not asking how he was supposed to know the difference. Esteban was clearly younger than he was. It would be ridiculous to expect him to have all the answers. He simply let the Spaniard guide him out of the tavern and down the street toward the house he shared with the musketeers.

A
S SOON
as the door slammed shut behind them, Léandre caught Perrin by the arm, marching him into the bedroom. “I thought we’d agreed to keep our swords sheathed,” the blond growled, glaring at the younger man. “Your hot-headedness nearly got us taken by the Cardinal’s men!”

Perrin struggled more for form than from any desire to actually escape. “That bodyguard was looking for a fight,” he protested as Léandre pushed him down onto the bed.

“That may be, but you didn’t need to volunteer to give him one,” Aristide countered, lounging against the doorframe. “We’re fortunate the ambassador is not a vindictive man, or this might have ended much worse than it did.”

“I think such rash behavior deserves to be punished,” Léandre announced, cracking his knuckles and staring down at Perrin, sprawled invitingly on his back.

“Oh, really?” Perrin drawled, his cock jumping at the thought of Léandre manhandling him. “And you think you’re the one to do it?”

Léandre’s gaze turned back to Aristide, who shook his head slightly. “I’m sure you’re capable of handling it without my help,” Aristide demurred, thoughts still back in the tavern, wondering again if he ought to have left Benoît there alone.

“Then yes, I’m the one to do it,” Léandre agreed with a wolfish grin. “Take off your uniform before it gets damaged,” he ordered, already pulling his own tunic over his head.

Perrin debated refusing, just to see if Léandre would force the issue, but there was one thing in this world Perrin feared, and that was appearing before
M.
de Tréville in disgrace. If word of today’s escapade reached their captain’s ears, he did not want to add injury to insult by having to wear a torn uniform to his dressing down. With a quick, economical movement, he stripped the tunic off, leaving him in his undershirt and breeches. He had enough of those that he intended to make Léandre work for it, at least a little.

Pleased to see Perrin cooperate, even more pleased at the glimpses of his toned chest through the sheer undergarment, Léandre stripped quickly out of his own garments. His cock stood tall against his belly as he pulled the long leather belt from the pile of discarded clothing, letting it snap against his palm. “The rest, too,” he commanded, anticipating the struggle sure to come.

“You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you?” Perrin asked, rising to a crouch. He had no doubt Léandre would win—he always won their wrestling matches—but the tussle was half the fun. He glanced over at Aristide who never joined in these games, though he always watched avidly. The older man’s gaze was hooded today, though, not sharp and focused like it usually was. “You’re going to need Aristide’s help for sure.”