As he approached the lighted archway, his brow furrowed at the sound of soft weeping. Keeping himself to the shadows, he peeked in and saw Ana reclining on a chaise longue, her head resting in de Tréville’s lap. Tears flowed down her cheeks, the tracks reflected in the light of the single candle on the table next to them. De Tréville’s posture was weary; his single eye closed, but his hand stroked through the young woman’s hair in a gentle, comforting rhythm.
D’Artagnan was struck in the chest by a depth of feeling he did not expect, and he swallowed the harsh breath that might have given him away to the pair inside. Feeling like a thief in the night, he crossed to the far side of the shadowed corridor and crept past the archway, moving farther down the hall toward a brighter light coming from his left, where the hallway split into a T-shaped junction. The new hallway led into a different wing, and terminated in an entryway. Unlike those in the guest wing, this entrance was hung with large double doors. One of the doors was ajar by several inches, allowing enough light to spill into the corridor to indicate that the suite within was well illuminated with lamps and candles.
As he approached, he heard the distinctive sound of a male gasp, followed by a grunt and the thump of a body shoved against the wall. Pulse racing, d’Artagnan hurried forward on silent feet, wishing suddenly that he had thought to bring a weapon. Flattening himself against the wall, he peered through the gap of the open door and scanned what he could see of the room to assess the threat.
Expecting to find thieves or worse assaulting his injured host, the sight that greeted him jolted through his chest like a pistol recoil, forcing the breath from his lungs. Athos stood pinned against the wall not by an intruder, but by Milady, naked with her hair hanging in loose curls to her waist. She was beautiful... flawless except for an indistinct mark or scar on her shoulder, half-covered by her hair. D’Artagnan had never in his life seen a sight to compare to the vision of her pale, milky skin and the perfect flare of her hips.
Athos’ clothing was in disarray, shirt unlaced and hanging off one shoulder. Milady’s lower body pressed close to his, his good arm holding her right leg hitched up to his hip. His head was thrown back, baring his neck to her lips and teeth, eyes closed in ecstasy.
In the hallway, d’Artagnan stood frozen except for the pounding of his thundering heart against his ribcage. Heat pooled in his belly even as mortification flooded his mind. As a young man, d’Artagnan had bedded his share of lovers, but it had always been a quiet, clandestine affair involving slightly embarrassed fumbling carried out in darkness and secrecy... not against a wall in a well lit room with the door left cracked.
The open door led d’Artagnan’s thoughts back around to the uncomfortable fact of his presence outside it. He had to leave. Now. Except... surely if he moved, he would only draw attention to himself? As long as they didn’t know he was here, no harm was done, but if they caught him trying to sneak away, it would be disastrous. Certainly Athos would demand satisfaction for the slight. He was injured, and though d’Artagnan had seen that he was still a fierce swordsman, it was possible that he would end up killing his host. That would be a terrible waste, not to mention breaking Milady’s heart.
D’Artagnan became suddenly, viscerally aware that he was hard in his breeches for the first time in many months. Such weakness of the flesh had not much afflicted him since the death of his family and of the girl he’d been promised to. And to feel it now... at the sight of another man’s wife...
Humiliation more complete than he had known in years flooded d’Artagnan’s body as he contemplated his sinful, pathetic desire to stay in hiding and watch the lovers. Had he become the same kind of animal as the men they’d encountered in Blois—the ones who had kidnapped the girls? His lust fled in an instant, replaced by nausea. Feeling decidedly ill now, he staggered away on shaky legs, fleeing toward his room with no thoughts of stealth; only escape.
Chapter 5
Dawn found d’Artagnan in the stables, sitting in the corner of his gelding’s stall and unraveling a length of stout rope with deft fingers. The animal watched, chewing its hay with heavy, lugubrious movements of its jaw, as he separated the thick rope into three tails, and each of those three tails into three more, knotting them tightly as he went.
His old cat o’ nine tails had been in his saddlebags when the bandits overtook him on the road and stole his belongings, but this would serve as well. Task completed, he flicked the long-tailed lash across his thighs with a smooth movement of his wrist, listening to the sound of the knots slapping against the leather of his breeches and allowing the contemplation of what was to come to wash over him, calming his stormy thoughts.
He was drawn abruptly back to the present by a cheerful voice.
“Ah, I thought I might find you out here,” said Aramis. “I noticed you weren’t in your room when I passed by.”
The man’s eyes flicked casually to the knotted rope in his hand and away, his affable demeanor never slipping, but d’Artagnan once again had the feeling of being weighed and assessed; understood more deeply than he was comfortable with.
Not a trace of it manifested in Aramis’ tone or words as he continued, however.
“If you are sufficiently recovered from yesterday, I thought we might pay a visit to Rosita.”
D’Artagnan’s brows knit in confusion. “Forgive me, but who is Rosita?”
“Well, originally, Rosita was a rather lovely young Spanish lady of my acquaintance,” Aramis said patiently. “However, in the present context, Rosita is my horse.”
“You named your horse after a woman,” d’Artagnan said in a flat voice, wondering how on earth a man as soft as Aramis had come to be a soldier.
Aramis placed a hand over his heart theatrically. “Nonsense, young d’Artagnan... she practically named herself! The two of them share many admirable traits: beauty, loyalty, bravery, and a sweet temperament, among other things. Now, though, I should like to get Rosita some new shoes before she decides she’s being put out to pasture as a barefoot broodmare. Assuming it is convenient for you, of course.”
“As you wish,” d’Artagnan said, trying to keep his impatience with being interrupted in his task hidden as he rose stiffly to his feet. “Do you always rise so early, though? It’s barely past dawn.”
Aramis shrugged. “I don’t tend to sleep well. Particularly without company.”
Immediately, d’Artagnan’s mind was recalled to the last two people he had seen sharing a bed, and he felt heat travel up his neck and into his cheeks.
“I see,” he said.
“If I may say so, you look a bit peaky this morning, as well,” Aramis continued in a light tone, a slight twinkle entering his eye. “I do hope that our hosts didn’t keep you up with their... shall we say... night-time exertions. They can both be dreadfully indiscreet when their blood is up.”
D’Artagnan’s blood, which had been staining his ears, fled his face completely.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he said weakly.
Aramis raised his eyebrows, and waved a hand dismissively. “Forgive me; it’s not important. Merely the early morning ramblings of a sleep deprived mind. Come, d’Artagnan—brush the straw off your arse and help me rustle up some breakfast. Then we’ll ride back to town and see to Rosita, so you can relieve me of that fifteen livres, eh?”