All for One (17 page)

Aristide could almost feel Benoît’s disapproving stare boring into his back as he led them toward
l’hôtel de M.
de Tréville. What did it matter to him who Aristide fucked and when? He’d made it clear time and again that the musketeers’ sleeping arrangements disgusted him. It was only Aristide’s own longing that made him see an impossible spark of jealousy in the blacksmith’s reaction—but he also knew that even had they not been interrupted that morning, he would not have been able to give Perrin the reaming he’d all but demanded. Berating himself for a fool, his head snapped up as he caught sight of a trio of men approaching from the opposite side of the street.

“Benoît,” the youngest of the trio called. “Well met!”

Benoît’s face lit up at the sight of his newest friend, the tension of the morning fading at the prospect of having an excuse to avoid the musketeers’ afternoon exploits. “Esteban, my friend, how are you?” He nodded politely to the ambassador and his bodyguard, but his attention was solely for the younger man.

“Just enjoying a walk in the city on this fine morning,” Esteban replied. “What about you? You’re out and about early today.”

“We had early morning visitors,” Benoît explained, not sure how much the musketeers would want to reveal about the Cardinal’s summons.

“Richelieu’s men,” Aristide explained in response to Christian’s and Teodoro’s inquiring looks. After a glance up and down the street confirmed there was no one to overhear, he fell into step with the diplomat and his bodyguard, relating the morning’s encounter in a low voice.

Leaving the musketeers to talk politics with the ambassador, Benoît fell in step with Esteban. “All of this is so far over my head, I don’t even know why they drag me along,” he confided softly to Esteban, mimicking Aristide’s body language and leaning in toward the Spaniard so his voice would not be overheard.

Aristide listened without comment as Christian and Teodoro worked through much the same reasoning he had presented to Perrin earlier, reaching a similar conclusion that they had no choice but to trust the Cardinal, at least for the moment. From the corner of his eye, he saw Benoît move to the young Spaniard’s side, the two dark heads leaning together to engage in intimate conversation. He told himself it was natural for the smith to gravitate to one closer to his own years, but the logic did nothing to calm the spark of jealousy that flared at their closeness. Turning his attention back to his companions, he asked casually, “What plans have you for this morning?”

“We had none in particular, but now we have met, perhaps we might take you up on the offer to spar again?” Christian asked. “I seldom have the opportunity to practice with anyone other than Teodoro, and as fine a swordsman as he is, it would be well to test myself against others.” His companion’s eyes narrowed, making Aristide suspect he was not alone in feeling possessive, but the Spaniard remained silent.

“We are at your disposal until we must report to duty this afternoon,” he agreed.

“Can we not eat breakfast first?” Perrin muttered grumpily in a voice low enough for only Léandre to hear. “No fucking, no food…. This day just gets worse, and it’s barely even nine.”

“It will help you build up your appetite,” Léandre laughed, clapping Perrin on the shoulder. Not that his dark-haired partner needed much help in that regard at any time, but Léandre could look forward to sating at least one of those appetites once they got off duty that evening.

“My appetite is just fine as it is,” Perrin groused. “Aristide, are you sure we can’t get pastries at least to hold us until luncheon? My belly is empty.”

“A full belly would only slow you down,” Aristide chuckled.

“Give us an hour of your time, and it will be my pleasure to provide a luncheon to make up for your delayed meal,” Christian offered.

Perrin’s face brightened at the thought of a meal provided by someone else’s pocketbook, his own being perpetually empty. “In light of such a generous offer, how can I refuse?” he replied with a courtly bow. “Lead on, Your Excellency.”

“Are they always so… brash?” Esteban asked Benoît softly, amusement coloring his voice and his face.

“Perrin is,” Benoît replied with an answering grin. “Everything’s a game or an argument for him, it seems. I’ve yet to see him serious about anything not touching on the honor of
M.
de Tréville.”

“And the other two?”

“Less so, but even they are far more boisterous than I would have expected,” Benoît admitted. “I never quite know what they will say next.”

“I thought we’d agreed to forego the ‘Excellencies’,” Christian chided Perrin. “Unless we are at court, I’m Christian, please.”

“Lead on, then, Christian,” Perrin repeated. “We’re at your disposal.”

“Perhaps somewhere other than our last encounter?” the Englishman suggested with a smile. “I would not care to run afoul of the strictures against dueling a second time.”

“We can use the practice yard at musketeer headquarters,” Aristide proposed. “It will do the recruits good to see some real swordplay.”

“That we can promise to provide.” Teodoro’s hand settled on the hilt of his sword, the corners of his lips curling beneath his heavy moustache.

Benoît bit his lip, watching the men in front of him. He had seen them fight once before, and it had taken his breath away. Part of that had been fear, at the time, that his companions would be hurt or even killed, but part of it, too, had been sheer awe at their prowess. He was not entirely sure he could sanguinely watch another demonstration without the fear to hold the awe in check. Particularly not since Esteban would certainly participate, leaving him without conversation to distract him. He would just have to find something else to look at often enough to keep his admiration from showing on his face.

It was a short walk through the crisp morning streets to
l’hôtel de M.
de Tréville, the colorful autumn leaves beginning to pile on the cobblestones crunching beneath their feet. The guard on duty looked curiously at their companions, but a nod from Aristide secured their entry. Circling behind the main building, he led them to a large open courtyard, where half a score of young musketeers were conducting exercises beneath the bored gaze of an older guardsman.

“
Salut
, Emilien,” Aristide called with a wave. “Will it disturb your recruits if we use a corner of the practice yard for some exercise?”

Glad for any break from the tedious training maneuvers, the sword master swept his arm expansively. “Go ahead. Perhaps you can wake these dullards up by showing them the kind of swordplay they can expect to face in a real battle.”

Shrugging out of his cloak, Aristide tossed it over the low wall surrounding the practice yard. If it was not his imagination, he could feel Benoît’s eyes following him, and he turned to the blacksmith despite his resolution to keep the distance between them.

“Will you fight?” he asked, reasoning that if Benoît was defending himself it would keep his attention occupied—and away from Aristide. He did not want to face Teodoro distracted by Benoît’s gaze.

“Against any of you, I would be a poor match,” Benoît demurred, not wanting to look foolish in front of Aristide. “I would be better joining the recruits than you and the others.”

“As you please. You should practice in any case—merely wearing a sword does not make one a swordsman.” His brow lowered as he realized Benoît was not even carrying the blade he had given him in the armory. “Nor will it protect you propped against the wall at home. Emilien!” he turned to the sword master. “May my friend borrow one of your swords and join your students? He has need to learn to defend himself.”

“I will tutor him myself,” the old Breton agreed, noting the irritated tone in Aristide’s voice. It took much to rattle the leonine blond’s composure. Training his protégé might prove much more interesting than drilling a pack of ham-handed recruits.

Confident that the sword master would keep Benoît well occupied, Aristide nodded his thanks and turned to the others, who had also shed their capes and hats. He observed that they had fallen naturally into the same pairings as in
le
jardin de Luxembourg
—Léandre facing Christian and Perrin squared off against Esteban, leaving Teodoro to him. Inclining his head to the Spaniard, he swept his sword from its scabbard. “
En garde
!”

Benoît had flushed beneath Aristide’s scolding. “I’m not yet used to wearing it,” he defended himself, though the other man had already turned away, “and we hardly had time for reflection as we were leaving this morning.” His breath caught in his throat as the two older men engaged swords, the elegant movements as choreographed as any dance, but far more deadly. They were not dueling this time, merely honing their skills one against the other, but that was no guarantee of their safety.

“They are well-matched,” the sword master commented at Benoît’s elbow. “It’s not often I see Aristide’s equal with a sword.”

His blade hissing through the cool air to meet Teodoro’s thrusts, Aristide spared a glance at his companions. Perrin was grinning as he and Esteban crossed blades, his other hungers sublimated in the joy of mock-battle. Léandre seemed more hard-pressed with Christian, the ambassador slowly pressing him back as they fought—if he wasn’t careful, Léandre would find himself pinned against the wall, restricting his range of motion. Then Teodoro pulled a wicked-looking dagger from the back of his belt, and Aristide wrenched his attention back to the challenge before him.

“You need two blades to face me?” he challenged, though the skill with which the Spaniard wielded the knife in his off-hand was an education to observe.

“In battle, one uses whatever advantages he has,” Teodoro answered, his own gaze flicking to his companion, teeth flashing when Christian scored a touch to the blond musketeer’s chest.

Perrin enjoyed the novelty of sparring with someone whose every move was not as familiar to him as his own. Esteban was a worthy opponent, if not as skilled as either the ambassador or his bodyguard. Perrin was honestly happy to leave Teodoro to Aristide. That second knife looked wicked!

Benoît gasped when Teodoro drew the knife from the small of his back. Aristide countered the dual assault, but it was clear he was hard-pressed by the other man. He took a step forward as if he could somehow intervene on the musketeer’s behalf, a hopeless intention since he had no skill compared to either of the men.

The flash of movement in the periphery of his vision caught Aristide’s eye, and in the instant he turned his head to warn Benoît back, Teodoro’s sword tangled with his, the point of the
main gauche
nudging his throat. Biting back a curse at succumbing to a distraction that in a real battle could have proved fatal, he lowered his blade, ceding the victory to the Spaniard. Léandre had already conceded to Christian, only Perrin and Esteban still having at each other with enthusiasm.

“He is your weakness,” Teodoro said as he clasped hands with the musketeer, in a voice only the two of them could hear. Before Aristide could speak to deny it, the swordsman’s face twisted into a wry smile. “It is one I have cause to recognize.”

“How do you overcome it?” Aristide asked, relief at finding someone, even a stranger, who understood his conflicted emotions overcoming his natural reticence.

“I have yet to manage it myself.” The Spaniard’s eyes found Christian’s across the practice yard, a warmth kindling in their cool depths that only one standing as close as Aristide would notice. He met the musketeer’s troubled gaze with a raised brow. “But you may find he is also your strength.”

Chapter 15

O
NE
appetite sated by the delicious meal the ambassador had generously invited them to partake of, Perrin felt another one come to the fore, one the Englishman wouldn’t be sating. For this particular appetite, he had other partners in mind. Slinging an arm around Léandre’s shoulder, he leaned against him companionably as they walked. “So what do you suppose it’ll take to get Aristide to fuck me tonight?” he asked in what he’d intended to be a whisper. The amount of wine he’d imbibed, however, skewed his judgment, the words loud enough to reach Aristide’s and Benoît’s ears as well.

Benoît flinched. Aristide had been as good as his word during the day, keeping Perrin focused on the sword training and then on dinner rather than on sex, but it seemed the younger musketeer had slipped the older one’s leash now that they were alone again and on the way home.

Well aware of Benoît’s reaction, Aristide’s lips tightened. Perrin did find it possible to remain discreet while they were in public, at least most of the time, but they had never needed to censor themselves between the three of them. Now there were four of them, though, and it was obvious the fourth wished no part of anything they shared. Aristide had to admit to himself, especially after the words he had exchanged with Teodoro, that his inclination had changed as well. He would never denigrate what had passed with his lovers, but his desire now ran in a different path, one that had but a single focus. He had long felt the want of something more than the casual pleasures the three of them shared, though he had seldom spoken of it; but now he knew what had been lacking, and he did not think he could be satisfied with less.

Aristide’s silence did not go unnoted by Léandre. Even though the older musketeer walked a few steps apart from Benoît, neither of them looking at the other, the tension between the two was evident—at least, to everyone but Perrin. “Perhaps not tonight, Perrin,” he answered, throwing an arm around him in turn to support his erratic gait and murmuring into his ear, “but what say you to having me instead? That’s an offer you’d never get from Aristide.”

Perrin had to chuckle. “That’s for sure,” he agreed as they arrived at their lodgings. “And I can think of far worse ways to spend my evening than buried balls-deep in your arse.”

“Excuse me,” Benoît said, pulling away from the others and mounting the stairs. “I’ll leave you to your pleasures.”

Mindful that he had promised Benoît to keep those pleasures from disturbing him, Aristide gazed at his companions balefully. “Try to keep from rubbing his nose in what you’re doing. He doesn’t need your shouts keeping him awake all night.”

“Our shouts?” Perrin repeated. “Our shouts aren’t the ones bothering him. And you make plenty of noise of your own.”

“Not tonight,” Aristide murmured, unknowingly echoing Léandre’s words. “I am too restless to make for bed this early. I think I will walk for a time.”

Léandre’s foot trod heavily on Perrin’s when the younger man started to voice a protest. “We’ll do our best not to disrupt our guest’s slumbers,” he promised. “And should your walk tire you sufficiently, we will be here.”

Aristide smiled crookedly at Léandre before slipping out the door, leaving the other two musketeers staring after him.

Perrin shook his head, turning to Léandre with a sad smile. “I hate seeing him like that.”

“Aye, so do I, but I fear the cure does not lie in either of us.” Léandre pulled Perrin’s head down to his, dispelling his melancholy in the heat of the dark-haired musketeer’s kiss. Though saddened by Aristide’s distance, there was nothing he could do to remedy it unless the older musketeer chose to return. In the meantime, he would do his best to drive away thoughts of anyone but the man in his arms.

Léandre was right, Perrin decided, and Aristide’s choice was his own to make. He kissed the blond in his arms with abandon, losing himself in the meeting of their mouths, as powerful as it was passionate. A part of him wished he could have this always, but he knew better than to dream that way. His hands worked their way down Léandre’s sides, loosening fastenings as they went so that the tunic of their rank fell aside. He slid his fingers beneath the light undershirt, lifting it up and breaking the kiss just long enough to pull it over Léandre’s head, leaving him bare to the waist.

The night air was cool on his bare torso, pebbling Léandre’s nipples even before Perrin’s broad thumbs coasted over them. A low groan broke from his throat, quickly bitten off when he realized they still stood in the common room and that any sounds would communicate without hindrance up the narrow stairs to their guest’s chamber. A part of him wanted to let Benoît hear them, paltry revenge though it was for the pain he was causing their friend; but he had given his word, and his innate sense of justice could not truly fault the blacksmith for not sharing their tastes. He only wished it was not wearing at Aristide so. The sooner they found the
salaud
behind the accusations against
M.
de Tréville, the sooner Benoît could return to his village, and, he hoped, Aristide would return to their bed. In the meantime, he shoved at Perrin with his hips in the direction of the bedroom, generating a degree of salacious friction in the process. “Bed. Now.”

Perrin thought that was the best idea he’d heard all day. He stripped his own tunic and shirt over his head as they moved into the room, pausing only to pull his boots off before tackling Léandre onto the bed. He kept expecting to feel another pair of hands on his body or encounter them on the one beneath him, but Aristide was not there to complete their usual threesome. It was different than when they had chosen to separate in their urgency to inform
M.
de Tréville—he hadn’t expected Aristide to be there then—but now, back on duty in Paris, it seemed odd not to have their third lover there with them. That was no reason to short-change Léandre and himself, though. To that end, he attacked the blond’s nipples, surprising a hoarse shout from his lips.

Engaged in tracing the enticing trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath Perrin’s waistband, Léandre was caught by surprise when the younger man lunged forward, the first hard nip at his chest choking a cry from him. He pushed back, grappling despite Perrin’s refusal to release the nub between his teeth, until they’d flipped on the bed and he was straddling the dark-haired musketeer. “We’re supposed to be keeping quiet,” he growled, skilful fingers wreaking near the same retribution on his lover’s darker areolae.

Perrin snorted. “Yeah, right,” he gasped as Léandre rose up over him. He wrestled with his lover’s breeches, getting them open and his hand inside to find hot, hard flesh. “That’ll never happen, even without Aristide here to drive us wild.”

As soon as he shoved the restrictive garment far enough down his legs to kick it free, Léandre turned his attention to bringing Perrin to the same state of undress. Once freed, their cocks met in delicious friction, already seeping enough to ease the way when Léandre ground his hips with wanton intent. “Are you implying I can’t drive you wild by myself?” he purred, one hand returning to pluck at Perrin’s brown nipples while the other delved back between their splayed legs to cup Perrin’s balls.

“I’d never imply such a thing,” Perrin moaned. “Just that the two of you are even more potent together than you are by yourself.”

Though he could not argue with the sentiment, Léandre determined to drive thoughts of their missing lover from both their minds, at least for the moment. Leaning forward, he mouthed Perrin’s peaked nipples, moving from one side of his chest to the other until both were swollen from his attentions. His hips set a steady rhythm that dragged his cock over Perrin’s, base to tip, again and again, each pass drawing an increasingly louder groan from the man beneath him. Bracing himself on one arm, his other hand rolled the furred balls in his palm, his long fingers slipping back to bestow random caresses to the sensitive skin behind them.

Perrin really did try to be quiet, wanting to respect Aristide’s promise to the blacksmith even if he thought their fellow musketeer was giving the other man too much consideration given the smith’s condescending attitude. Léandre made that impossible, though, his unpredictable attentions wringing a hoarse cry from Perrin’s lips.

Perrin’s unbridled reaction sent Léandre’s own desire surging, but even though he had promised his arse to the younger man, he was enough of a pragmatist to recognize how unlikely either of them would be to keep silent once Perrin was fucking him. Releasing his grip on his lover’s jewels, he swung a leg over Perrin’s chest, pausing to cuff him affectionately before dropping a kiss on his full lips. “Quiet!” he scolded, though his eyes were sparkling as he reversed himself on the bed, bobbing his head to lap at his lover’s leaking cock.

Perrin grunted at the reprimand, too occupied with the sight of Léandre’s heavy shaft bobbing in his face to care about anything else. He grasped the ruddy length, stroking it firmly a couple of times before guiding it to his lips, reciprocating the caress the blond so eagerly bestowed on him, with the fortuitous effect of silencing—or at least muffling—the noises that rose in his throat as the pleasure continued to build and build and build.

Though he had intended to draw out Perrin’s pleasure until his lover was near-frantic, ensuring he wiped away every thought but the bliss Léandre was bestowing on him, Perrin’s attention—the hot, rough, absolutely perfect suction of his mouth around Léandre’s cock—was eroding his own control just as completely. Judging from the heaviness tightening his sac that he couldn’t stave off his climax much longer, he raised a hand to his lips, sliding two fingers into his mouth and rubbing teasingly over Perrin’s shaft, wetting them enough to provide a modicum of slickness before working them around and into his lover’s tight pucker.

Perrin’s hips thrust up, driving his cock deeper into Léandre’s mouth and the blond’s fingers deeper into his arse. His hands gripped the firm cheeks in front of him tightly, his thumbs coasting over the clenching hole, but he didn’t want to stop sucking long enough to wet them, so he settled for caressing the edges of the rosette. Feeling his climax fast approaching, he increased the suction on Léandre’s cock, wanting to take his lover with him when he came.

The pressure built as Perrin sucked harder, sending sparks dancing behind Léandre’s closed eyelids. Fighting to hold back a little longer, he dragged them open, twisting his head just enough to glance up the length of his lover’s body beside him. His gaze fixed on Perrin’s handsome face, he spiraled his fingers, delving deeper until they brushed the seat of his pleasure. An expression of bliss washed over Perrin’s features an instant before his cock jumped and pulsed in Léandre’s mouth, the hot, salty tang and Perrin’s deep groan around his shaft enough to trigger his own climax.

Perrin swallowed and swallowed again as burst after burst of hot seed filled his mouth. He kept sucking, trying to prolong the moment as long as he could for Léandre’s pleasure. When his lover’s cock finally stopped twitching, he let it slide from between his lips, nipping lightly at the curve of Léandre’s arse as he moved away.

Léandre swatted at Perrin, more from habit than any real annoyance, before turning to settle against him, chest to back, his head resting against the brunet’s shoulder. “Well, I’ve found one way to keep you quiet,” he murmured, wrapping an arm around Perrin’s waist to hold him closer.

Perrin chuckled. “Yeah, but I didn’t get to fuck you like you promised,” he replied. “I guess we’ll have to save that for in the morning.”

“At least maybe you won’t start the day in such a surly mood,” Léandre retorted. He pulled the blankets over them, missing the third body that normally warmed his back. He only hoped Aristide would return to them by morning.

Perrin humphed, but he could hardly deny his surliness from the day nor its cause, when he had pointed it out himself several times. He spared a thought for Aristide, somewhere out in the night, and glowered at the ceiling and the man beyond it who was responsible for disrupting their comfortable existence, but he could do nothing about either at the moment so he shifted closer to Léandre, pulling his arm tighter like a blanket.

Upstairs, standing at what had become his nightly post, Benoît watched the clouds dance across the face of the moon. He’d give Aristide a little credit anyway. The noises from below weren’t nearly as loud tonight as they’d been on previous evenings, but they were still there. The musketeer claimed to want him, but obviously not enough to eschew the pleasures to be found with his current lovers. With a sigh, Benoît turned away and climbed in bed, disgusted with himself for being so undecided. If he wanted Aristide for himself, he needed to accept everything that entailed and get on with it. And if he couldn’t, he needed to let go of this hopeless fascination that tormented him nightly.

His thoughts dark, Aristide stalked through the moonlit streets, his long strides belying that he had no destination in sight. Still clad in his musketeer tabard, the long sword at his side and the scowl on his face ensured the few pedestrians still afoot gave him wide berth. As his boots echoed on the uneven cobbles, his thoughts swirled like the tattered leaves beneath his feet. He had been a fool to press Benoît to stay with them, feeling what he did, but nowhere else could he be assured of the younger man’s safety. Once they exposed whoever was behind the malicious letters, he could let the blacksmith go, back to his country smithy or wherever he chose to settle, though willing or not he would carry a part of Aristide away with him.