All for One (19 page)

“You seemed to have eyes for everyone in the room,” Teodoro growled, though he had no doubt of the truth of his lover’s claim. Their years together had left him confident of Christian’s love, as hard as he yet found it at times to believe he deserved it. Still, his lover had been enjoying himself far too much—he deserved a taste of his own medicine.

“Only in jest,” Christian promised, his arms tightening. “None of them can hold a candle to you,
amante
. I only meant to tease you a little and perhaps help them in their scheme. Tell me you forgive me?”

“Perhaps you should convince me.” Wrenching open the door to their room, Teodoro spun Christian inside, closing it behind them and leaning against the thick wooden panel. Esteban would just have to see their guests out.

“Any way you like,” Christian promised, pulling Teodoro’s head down for a deep, passionate kiss.

Teodoro’s hands settled on the ambassador’s hips, cupping his buttocks and drawing him closer until the lithe body pressed against his, but he made no other move to claim control. He was more than pleased to let his lover take the lead when he so desired. Shifting his booted heels to allow Christian to settle even closer between his thighs, he turned his attention to returning the kiss, wondering how his Englishman would go about winning his forgiveness.

Feeling Teodoro acquiesce, Christian broke the kiss and sank slowly to his knees, keeping his eyes locked on his lover’s the entire time, not needing to look to defeat the laces on Teodoro’s breeches. When the fabric parted beneath determined hands, he pulled out the Spaniard’s cock, licking lightly over the tip.

“
Dulce Madre de Dios
,” Teodoro groaned softly at the teasingly light touch. It seemed his lover meant to torment him as part of his act of contrition. Pressing a palm against the wooden door panel for support, the other wove into Christian’s golden hair, the silk sliding through his callused fingers in a wordless caress.

“What do you want,
mi amor
?” Christian asked, lifting his head slightly. “My throat? My arse? My cock? Tell me how to convince you I want no one but you.”

Teodoro’s libido argued for spinning Christian around and claiming him, hard and fast, against the unyielding door frame—and loud enough to send a message to all who could hear that Christian was his alone. Through the years, though, he had learned the pleasures to be had from ceding control to his endlessly inventive lover. “Oh, no,” he purred, his fingers flexing against Christian’s scalp without pressure. “You are supposed to be convincing me to forgive you.” His rare smile flashed, bright against his heavy moustache. “Persuade me that I alone fill your thoughts and your heart.”

Christian’s eyes danced as he dipped his head again. If Teodoro wanted to play that game, he’d use every trick in his arsenal to snap the older man’s iron control.

Back in the parlor, the musketeers waited patiently for Christian to reappear. When the minutes dragged on, though, it became clear that was not likely to happen. As the silence began to stretch, Esteban cleared his throat uncomfortably. “They must have been delayed by matters of state,” he said, trying to come up with an acceptable excuse for what were undoubtedly intimate matters, not political ones.

Aristide raised an eyebrow, willing to accept the secretary’s explanation until a long, deep groan echoed down the hall through the open door of the drawing room. Taking pity on Esteban’s flaming cheeks—it was apparent he knew all too well what the sound denoted—the musketeer rose to his feet, motioning for his companions to join him. “We understand how—delicate—such negotiations can be,” he answered, managing to keep from breaking into a smile. “Please pass our farewells to His Excellency and
Señor
Ciéza de Vivar, along with our thanks.”

Benoît kept his observations to himself, but he couldn’t get over how casually they all accepted the relationship between the ambassador and his bodyguard. It should have been a shock at least, but it wasn’t. Everyone simply accepted that the two men belonged together. He had to admit to himself that perhaps they did. He’d recognized the look in their eyes, the utter devotion. Esteban had said they would die for each other, but they’d rather live for each other. Benoît was beginning to believe that was right.

“
I
N WHAT
world was this a good idea?” Perrin asked, irritation clear in his voice as he fidgeted with the red tunic of the Cardinal’s guards. “This doesn’t even fit right. We look like scarecrows in this getup.”

“At least you only had to shave,” Léandre retorted, winking at a flirtatious lady-in-waiting across the room more to keep in practice than from any real desire to bed her—though if Perrin remained this fractious, perhaps he’d reconsider the lady’s charms. “I feel like a play-actor with this colored hair.”

“Just keep your mouths closed and your ears open,” Aristide murmured as he passed to take up a position behind the Queen’s throne, where he would be less easily seen and close enough to counter any real threat. That was their hope, in any case. In the three days since they had explained the Cardinal’s plan to
M.
de Tréville and received his approval to proceed, they had heard nothing more than the courtiers’ stunned reaction to the musketeer captain’s disgrace. Even that had waned as the days passed with no official action on the King’s part to the accusations, beyond members of the Cardinal’s guard replacing the Royal Musketeers at official court functions.

Perrin grimaced and did as he was told, slouching against the wall, the posture hiding the tense readiness of his hand near the hilt of his sword. Had he been wearing black instead of red, he would never have lounged so, but he cared not what people thought of Richelieu’s men.

“How long will we need to maintain this masquerade?” Léandre muttered into Perrin’s ear, the demoiselle who had been simpering at him having followed another noblewoman out of the hall. “We’ve heard nothing and seen nothing. I’m beginning to think the entire affair is a plot by the Cardinal to disgrace
M.
de Tréville after all.”

Perrin humphed. “It can’t be over soon enough,” he agreed grumpily, the idea of Léandre bedding anyone besides him or Aristide enough to turn his stomach jealously, “or else you’ll have to bed that saucy wench just to keep her from getting suspicious.”

“You only say that because it’s a woman. Were it another man, you’d be threatening to run us both through.” Despite his grouchiness, Léandre would need to make certain to see to Perrin’s needs this evening. Truth be told, he was feeling the lack as much himself, but it felt increasingly awkward to give in to passion with Aristide conspicuous by his absence from their bed, and Benoît’s disapproving presence in the room above them. The blacksmith be damned, he was fucking Perrin through the mattress tonight!

“No, just him,” Perrin contradicted. “I’d be using a different sword on you.”

“It’s been too damned long since we’ve used either sword,” Léandre growled, his hand falling to the hilt of his blade, grateful for the long tunic that hid his reaction to the thought of feeling Perrin’s “sword” in a more intimate setting. “I wish whoever it is would make their damned move already!”

Before Perrin could respond, a herald announced the arrival of His Excellency, the English Ambassador. Heads throughout the audience chamber swiveled to catch sight of the charming
vicomte
Aldwych and his equally handsome retinue approaching the Queen’s throne.

“Your Majesty,” Christian said with a deep, reverent bow, his eyes deliberately not straying to the guards around the room, “we are honored by your invitation today.”

“It is always a pleasure to visit with you,
vicomte
Aldwych, especially since you are familiar with my brother’s court.” Anne smiled at the Englishman and his Spanish bodyguard, who she had yet to see farther than a few steps away from the ambassador’s person. Keeping her reflections to herself, she extended a slim white hand. “Come, sit with me and tell me all the gossip you remember from your last visit there.”

Teodoro moved behind the ambassador’s chair as his golden head bent closer to the Queen’s. He gave a small nod of acknowledgement to the red-coated guardsman behind the throne, one brow lifting in silent enquiry. An almost imperceptible shake of the head was his only reply. The Spaniard stroked the end of his moustache and pondered whether there was some other way to bring the plotters out into the open.

“I am sure you have more recent news than mine,” Christian demurred, “but I will tell you all I remember if you wish. The last time I was there, the current
on-dit
was the rather sudden marriage of one of the ladies-in-waiting. It seems she was found in a compromising situation. The King ordered her immediate nuptials.” He paused for effect before adding, “To a different man.”

Anne’s laughter pealed out at the salacious story. “My brother still remembers me as a rather annoying child, I fear,” she confided. “He would never share so risqué a tale with me.”

“Have I overstepped myself?” Christian asked, though he thought the Queen’s laughter was answer enough. “I would not want to alienate so lovely a lady as yourself.”

“It is refreshing not to be treated as a fragile flower who might wilt at the faintest hint of life’s realities,” Anne countered. “I suspect I might know some tales that could shock even so worldly and powerful a man as you.”

“Do tell,” Christian pleaded with a charming grin. “I am always interested in life’s gritty reality. Unless you think your guards will disapprove.”

“I have complete confidence in my guards and their discretion.” A twinkle lit the Queen’s luminous eyes. “Even when they appear in other than their usual uniforms,” she added in Spanish. Her ladies-in-waiting would think she was exchanging some bit of gossip too delicious for all ears to hear, but
vicomte
Aldwych would understand her message. She needed all the allies she could find in this still hostile court. The
vicomte
and his bodyguard had saved her brother; she hoped they might be trusted to help her, too, should the need arise.

“Your Majesty is indeed wise,” Christian agreed in the same tongue. “You will not find more trustworthy men in all of Paris.”

His attention caught by the change of language, Aristide leaned subtly closer. He could not understand the exchange, though he recognized it as Spanish. Glancing casually to where Teodoro stood at his side, he received a short nod of reassurance. The Queen laid her hand on
vicomte
Aldwych’s for an instant; then the conversation resumed in French, the ambassador regaling the Queen with another tale of Philip’s court.

Chapter 17

B
ENOÎT
swigged another glass of wine, sitting alone in the darkened townhouse, grumbling to himself about the fact that he was alone on his birthday. Of course, there was no reason why the musketeers would hurry home. They didn’t know it was a special day, and they had their duty anyway. They couldn’t very well neglect the Queen’s safety for one lowly blacksmith. Realizing his glass was empty, he poured another one, gulping it down to dull the pain in his chest at being alone.

At least he was sleeping better these days since the noises from the room below had stopped. It was a petty pleasure on his part, but it was one of the few he had these days. He still went to
M.
de Tréville’s
hôtel particulier
and worked with
M.
Maurisset or trained with the recruits, but the swordplay was meaningless without Aristide there to mark his progress, and his shoulder injury still kept him from doing much more than busy work around the forge. He wasn’t sure he could be any more of a waste of space. It was no wonder Aristide preferred the other musketeers to him.

He missed his wife, his friends in Montredon. They had been such a close-knit community, taking every excuse possible for a celebration. He never would have been alone on his birthday at home. He missed Pauline most of all, missed the closeness of having someone to call his own. While she was alive, he was never alone in a crowd, never one against the world. Right or wrong, she had stood with him, even if she scolded him in private. He missed that companionship, that warm body next to his at night, the unquestioning loyalty she had provided, the same loyalty he saw between the musketeers.

His eyes closed as he wrestled with the now familiar demon. He could have that same companionship, that same loyalty again. All he had to do was accept the fact that it would come from a man, and not in any fraternal sense, but in the same carnal sharing he had known with his wife. He tried to cling to Javier’s assurance that if Aristide was worthy of his regard then gender didn’t matter, but those words, however firmly uttered, were one moment’s wisdom against a lifetime of conditioning in the contrary vein, conditioning he was finding harder to throw off than he would have believed.

Grimacing, he drained the glass in his hand and poured another, having long since lost track of how much wine he’d consumed. He only knew he’d had far more than his usual cup, a fact attested to by the spinning of his head.

Their apartments were dark when Aristide arrived from duty, the sun setting earlier with each shortening autumn day. Perrin and Léandre had drawn night duty for a dinner at court, and though he felt guilty admitting it even to himself, Aristide was looking forward to an evening without them. He had not shared their bed for more than sleeping the past sennight, and he could not help but note that the younger two musketeers had behaved much more circumspectly in that time, whether through respect for their guest’s sensibilities or in pique over his distance, he could not say. While he sincerely hoped it was the former, the unusual tension between them and his own unrelenting attraction toward Benoît had made the atmosphere more than a little strained. He was looking forward to a few quiet hours in which to sort out his own thoughts and emotions.

Not bothering to light a candle, Aristide unbuckled his sword and set it aside, dragging the hateful red tunic over his head with a sigh of relief. Casting it to the floor with a carelessness he would never show toward his musketeer’s tabard, he ran a hand through his clipped hair, beginning to feel like himself for the first time since the masquerade had started.

The sight of Aristide appearing in the moonlight, seemingly a spirit conjured from Benoît’s own fevered longings, stole his breath. The outer layer of clothes landed on the floor, leaving the musketeer clad only in a thin undershirt that clung to his body, outlining the curve of hard muscle. Benoît bit back a groan as Aristide stretched, his shirt riding up to reveal the planes of his belly and the bulge at the apex of his thighs. Lust hit him hard as he stared at the man, finally admitting to himself the attraction he was feeling. He wanted that body to arch for him. He wanted to watch that bulge swell even more and know he was the cause. “Aristide.”

The voice that haunted Aristide’s dreams spoke so softly that at first he thought he had imagined it. As his eyes adapted to the soft glow of moonlight, he saw a form silhouetted against the window, just the outline of firm muscle making him stiffen in longing. “Benoît. I thought you were assisting
M.
Maurisset still.” His voice sounded harsh in comparison to the blacksmith’s quiet tone.

“He sent me home early,” Benoît answered, his voice loud with longing in his own ears. “He said I shouldn’t be spending all my time with an old man like him. Especially not tonight.”

“Why is tonight different than any other night?” It was more words than Aristide had exchanged with Benoît all week. The darkness made it easier to speak somehow, without having to see the smith’s disdainful expression whenever it fell on him. In the darkness, he could imagine acceptance on the handsome features; he could imagine far more, as he did when lying alone at night listening to Léandre and Perrin sleeping beside him, imagining himself in another bed with Benoît as his partner—his lover.

“It’s not every night I get to celebrate my birthday,” the blacksmith replied bitterly, the gentleness in Aristide’s voice lulling him into speaking the truth. “Alone, of course. I’m so tired of being alone.”

You don’t need to be alone
, Aristide longed to assure him, but he would not continue to importune him for a response it was clearly not in Benoît to give. “You should have told us it was your birthday,” he said instead, wondering at finding him sitting in their dark rooms. “I should have thought your new friend Esteban would be more than willing to help you celebrate,” he could not forbear to add, wishing the curt words back as soon as he uttered them.

“Esteban might have, had he not already had plans for the evening,” Benoît replied, “but ’twas not his company I desired anyway.”

Unable to deny a spark of relief that the young Spaniard was unavailable, Aristide still wondered that the smith would choose to mark his birthday in solitude. “Any musketeer not on duty would gladly help you celebrate,” he suggested. Benoît had become a familiar presence among the King’s guardsmen, most of whom would be glad of any excuse to raise a glass or two with him. Unless, despite his words, he wished to be with Esteban or no one? In any case, he certainly would not wish to be alone with a man he could barely stand to stay in the same house with. “My apologies for disturbing you,” Aristide murmured, turning to leave the common room for the isolation of his bedchamber.

“No!” Benoît begged before he could stop himself. “Don’t go. Please.”

“Why would you have me stay?” Aristide snapped, the intimacy of darkness making it harder to guard his emotions. “You have made clear time and again that my presence is distasteful to you.”

“Distasteful?” Benoît echoed, rising shakily to his feet and taking a stumbling step in Aristide’s direction. “You’re the reason I’m alive, the reason I’m still in Paris, the reason I can’t sleep at night. Your face haunts my dreams. You’re the one I wanted to spend my birthday with, except how could I possibly ask you to do that when it’s taken me so long to get myself sorted out?”

“You…
I
haunt
you
?” Aristide shook his head, wanting desperately to believe but half afraid he was dreaming himself.

“Do I have to beg?” Benoît asked softly, reaching Aristide’s side. He tipped his head up, asking silently for a kiss.

Aristide lifted a hand, gently smoothing Benoît’s cheek as if to reassure himself the man was real and would not vanish at his touch. When Benoît leaned into the caress, the soft hair of his beard scratching against Aristide’s knuckles, the musketeer’s resistance snapped. He threaded his fingers into Benoît’s hair, angling the upraised head as he leaned forward, hesitating just before their lips met. His pulse pounding, he lost himself in wide brown eyes, searching for the surety that this was what the smith truly wanted.

The tension was nearly unbearable as Aristide leaned closer, yet not quite close enough. The wine giving him courage, Benoît closed the distance between them, their lips meeting. The brush of Aristide’s moustache was still a shock, but not enough to cause Benoît to pull away this time. Instead, he let it heighten the experience, let it serve as a reminder that he was finally kissing Aristide. His head spun as he clung to the broad shoulders, his knees trembling.

Benoît’s breath was warm against Aristide’s lips, and then the smith’s mouth was pressing against his, tentative and unsure. Struggling against making any move that might frighten the younger man away again, Aristide let Benoît control the kiss, standing in awkward stillness until the smith clutched at him unsteadily. An arm wrapped instinctively around Benoît’s shoulders to support him, drawing him closer until their chests bumped, the contact tightening Aristide’s nipples beneath the thin linen of his undertunic.

Passion swamped Benoît’s senses, the contact of their bodies the first loving touch he had known since his wife died. Suddenly achingly hard, he shifted in Aristide’s embrace, needing more contact. He felt like an untried youth again, and his entire body clenched as he thought of what could come of this night. He moaned into the kiss when the musketeer’s arm caught his weight, bearing him up as if he were light as a feather, though the weeks of good food had done much to restore him to his usual stature. The thought of that strength being turned on him left him trembling again.

“Sshhh,” Aristide whispered against Benoît’s lips, stroking his back gently as if he were a nervous colt. His mouth moved softly over the thin curves, pressing moist, tender kisses, the almost chaste caresses enough to rouse him desperately. Praying for control, he let the tip of his tongue trace the outline of Benoît’s mouth, demanding nothing, the taste so sweet he could be satisfied with nothing more than this.

Benoît’s lips parted on a surprised gasp, the moist heat of Aristide’s tongue promising untold delights if only he would agree to them. Desperate for more, he flicked his tongue out to meet the musketeer’s, extending an invitation he hoped the older man would accept.

A shudder shook Aristide’s frame when Benoît’s tongue met his, the sweet mouth parting to invite him in. He ventured slowly, exploring the velvet interior of Benoît’s lips, tracing the line of his teeth. When Benoît’s tongue nudged against his, he dared to probe deeper, a light touch against his palate leading farther into the moist cavern. His tongue swept against Benoît’s, above it, beneath it, around it, then stilled, his heart soaring when Benoît’s tongue moved against his in its own hesitant discovery.

With infinite care, as if he might spook Aristide as badly as he had spooked the first time their lips met, Benoît met the musketeer’s tongue with his own. When Aristide didn’t pull away, he grew bolder, tracing the other man’s lips as Aristide had first traced his, learning the feel of the slightly chapped skin, the tickle of facial hair, then the line of sharp teeth. He moaned as Aristide’s lips parted wider to admit him. “Aristide,” he murmured.

The sound of his name in Benoît’s awed voice moved Aristide as little in his life ever had. “Benoît,” he echoed, affirming that the blacksmith was truly willing in his arms after so many weeks of yearning dreams. Perhaps it was not too much to hope that one day he would hear Benoît murmur his true name in that same breathless voice. His clasp tightened, drawing the younger man closer; his touch grew bolder, moving over Benoît’s side, down his hip, up the curve of his buttocks, still marveling at the freedom to explore the body he ached for. Opening himself to Benoît’s kiss, he returned it with all the emotion filling his heart.

Benoît moaned lustily as he felt hard hands begin to move over his body. He arched into the caresses, rubbing against Aristide needily.

As hard as he fought giving in to his own desire, Benoît’s groan of need shook Aristide to the core. An erection as rigid as his own pressed against him, Benoît’s hips rocking in instinctive time to the throb of Aristide’s blood in his veins. He worked a hand between their bodies, meaning to gently move Benoît away, but the heat of the younger man’s arousal was too strong a pull to ignore. Long fingers curled around Benoît’s manhood as his kiss grew more heated, silencing any possible protest.

Benoît’s cock jumped at the touch, disgorging a sudden spurt of creamy fluid. Surprised, embarrassed, and totally out of his depth, he pulled back, breaking the kiss and the embrace.

Lost to the passion building between them, Aristide was stunned by Benoît’s sudden withdrawal. One moment, his arms were filled by a warm and very willing lover—the next, he was all but shoved away as Benoît wrenched himself free of his embrace. Breathing raggedly, Aristide stared at the blacksmith through the shadows, trying to reconcile the man who melted into his arms and initiated their kiss with the stiff and angry posture of the stranger drawing away from him, as he had all too often since the first night they shared a bed.