Chapter L...in which a flotilla of ships (Annamis, Charthos, Constagnan, and our newest ship, still to be christened-Denthos? Porthise?) sail in celebration of the 50th chapter.
CHAPTER L
As the six o' clock bell rang from the Church of St. Mary Magdalene, Porthos arrived at Denise and Madeleine's room. He lifted his hand to knock, then stopped suddenly as he heard a sweet alto voice raised in song. The melody was lilting and joyous, and Porthos found himself listening intently, entranced by the tune. When the notes finally died away, he tapped on the door, which was promptly opened by Denise. She drew him inside with a smile.
"Hello! Come in while I get my cloak. The wind seems to have picked up quite a bit."
"Yes, it definitely is gettin' cold," answered Porthos, feeling a bit self-conscious as she closed the door behind him. He suddenly became aware that he was twisting his hat in his hands. Relax, just be natural. "Was that you I heard singing?"
She flushed slightly as she wrapped her dark blue cloak around her shoulders. "Yes. I didn't realize I had an audience."
"Well, you did—and a very appreciative one. You have a beautiful voice."
"Thank you," she murmured, her fingers fumbling a bit with the clasp at her throat.
"Here, let me." Porthos' innate gallantry caused him to forget how nervous he was. His fingers, surprisingly deft for a large man, grasped the edges of the clasp, fastening it firmly in place. As his hands brushed against the skin of her neck, she felt a slight tremor run through her body. Alain had often done the same thing for her before she left the house, and always completed the gesture by drawing her into his arms for a lingering kiss. It had been a long time since a man had treated her with tenderness, and tears filled her eyes.
Porthos noticed the stricken expression on her face, and drew back instantly, afraid he had offended her. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be forward. I should have-"
"No!" she shook her head vigorously. "It is not you. It's just-" Her voice broke. "I was just thinking of my husband. He used to do the same thing for me, and it's been so long-" She wiped her tears away. "I am so sorry. You must think me silly for bringing up old ghosts."
"Not at all." Porthos' voice was warm and compassionate. He reached for her hands, his gentle touch soothing her. "I think that you were just rememberin' how lovely is it to have someone care about you. There's nothin' wrong with that. You know what? When I was a child, my mother used to sing to me every night to help me fall asleep. Believe me, even now, if I hear one of her favourite tunes, I tear up—but there's always a bit of a smile on my face, too. A love that pure is too good not to remember."
She looked up at him through her dark lashes, stunned by how he had handled a very awkward moment with such grace and care. Nodding, she smiled through her tears. "I agree."
As he returned her smile, he said softly, "I may not be able to ease the pain in your heart, but I have been told I give some amazin' hugs. Would it help to have me hold you, just for a moment? I know that when my mother died, I longed for someone to wrap their arms around me and hold me close, just the way she used to."
Denise's face crumpled at his words, and she began to cry in earnest. She had not realized until that moment how heavy was the burden of loneliness that she carried. Her days were long and tiring. When she was not sewing, cooking, or caring for the chickens, her focus was on making sure that her daughter was happy and content. She had very little time for herself, and no other companion except her mother. Denise was grateful for the help her mother gave her, but she was not always easy to live with, and could be overbearing and critical at times.
Porthos drew her into his arms, and held her silently while she sobbed. I doubt she's had a good cry since the day he died. He stroked her curly black hair, content to offer a reassuring presence until she had calmed. When she finally drew back and gazed up at him, gratitude was evident in her face. "Thank you," she whispered. "I had no idea how much I needed that. Just to have someone touch me in such a comforting way was so—healing."
He grinned down at her. "I'm available any time you need it. Well, not any time, I suppose—I doubt the Captain would look kindly on me breakin' formation to hug a woman, no matter how pretty she is."
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When d'Artagnan arrived at the Bonacieux residence, he immediately felt uneasy. The sound of a male voice, raised in anger, could be easily heard in the street. He swore under his breath, cursing the fact that he had been forced to wait at the palace to personally deliver the letter Treville had entrusted him to take to the King. It was the Louis' fault that d'Artagnan had been late, and now Constance was paying the price. He had planned to be waiting by her side when her husband got home, but obviously Jacques had arrived well before him.
Pounding on the door, he shouted, "Bonacieux! Open up! I would speak with you!" A cry of pain came from inside the house, and d'Artagnan tensed. Constance.
The door was wrenched open by Bonacieux, whose eyes burned with hatred when he saw the musketeer. He held his wife tightly by the elbow, and d'Artagnan felt fury flood through his body when he saw that Constance's cheek had the imprint of a hand on it.
"I should have known it would come to this!" His voice was slurred, and he was obviously quite drunk. "I curse the day we ever allowed you to lodge here! My wife was happy—she was content—until you came along and seduced her!"
"Let her go." D'Artagnan's voice was measured, but icy. His hand was already on the hilt of his sword, signalling that he was intent on backing up his words with action if so required. His dark brown eyes were fixed on Constance, and he saw that she was pale with fright.
"I tried to tell him, d'Artagnan—"
"Shut up!" Jacques screamed, slapping her again. At that moment, d'Artagnan launched himself bodily at the enraged man, knocking him to the ground. Before Bonacieux had registered what had happened, the musketeer had him by the throat. Gasping for air, Constance's husband froze as he felt the cold metal of a pistol pressed to his temple.
"You do NOT talk to her that way again. EVER. You do NOT touch her again. EVER. She is now under my protection, and you will have to come through me to get to her."
"She is MY wife," sneered Bonacieux. "The holy vows of matrimony are indissoluble."
"Not if you are dead," d'Artagnan hissed, giving the man threatening look as he cocked the pistol. "Do we understand each other?"
Bonacieux nodded slowly, his eyes hazy with a contempt that was now tempered by fear.
"Constance." The musketeer spoke her name softly, keeping his gaze fixed on the draper. "Wait for me outside. I will be but a moment."
She gingerly skirted her husband's prone figure, looking back nervously at d'Artagnan, then slipped out the door.
"Do not make the mistake of taking my words lightly. I WILL kill you, without reservation, if you come within five feet of her ever again."
"Don't worry-I shall be quite content with watching Constance self-destruct from a distance." Bonacieux's words were filled with venom. "She is foolish and impulsive, and will doubtless be begging me to take her back within a month. By your side, she will never be anything more than a whore in the eyes of society. If you are actually able to get her with child, which I doubt you will—God knows I've tried-your children will be bastards, and will be spit upon by honest folk. You reap what you sow, d'Artagnan. Beware the harvest."
D'Artagnan stood up and barked out a bitter laugh. "Is that my cue to be afraid? Well, I have a message of my own for you." He unsheathed a small dagger and drove it through the cuff of Bonacieux's jacket, effectively pinning his hand to the floor. "You have been warned," he growled, stepping over his body and exiting the house.
Constance, her face lined with worry, was overcome with relief when she saw d'Artagnan emerge into the darkness unscathed. Throwing her arms around him and pressing her head against his chest, she murmured, "Please, get me out of here. I want to go home—to my new home, with you."
"You're free now, Constance," he said with emotion, hugging her to him tightly.
He guided her to his horse, and was about to help her mount up when a drunken shout came from behind him. "I warned you! Beware the harvest!"
"D'Artagnan! He's got a pistol!" Constance screamed, and d'Artagnan whirled around. As Bonacieux pulled the trigger, d'Artagnan fired nearly simultaneously, and the sound was deafening. When the noise faded away, a piercing cry of pain split the silence.
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Aramis had left the garrison as dusk approached, and rode the streets of Paris aimlessly. Before he knew it, he had arrived at the east gate of the palace. He saluted the musketeers on duty, and was waved through. Dismounting, he leaned his head against his saddle for a moment, debating whether to go in or not. Gabriel had told him that the Queen was now in the habit of going to evening Mass in the chapel, which the new chaplain celebrated every day at 5 pm.
I could just be another believer looking for spiritual sustenance, he thought. There is nothing at all suspicious about attending Mass. Comforted, he strode into the east wing, and made his way to the chapel. Father Lucien was preparing to start, and Aramis slid into the last pew, trying not to stare at the Queen. Other than the two of them, there were only two elderly women present, sitting two rows in front of him. As the familiar rhythms of the Mass started, Aramis found his thoughts alternating between prayer and the Queen.
The image in his mind of the two of them stretched out in her bed, quietly talking while they gazed at their sleeping infant son, tugged at his heart. He buried his head in his hands, wondering if he was doomed to suffer the rest of his life. The worry he had for Athos and Charlotte also was troubling him, and weighed heavily on his mind. Although he had been sure to be positive in his conversation with Athos, Aramis had become increasingly uneasy since he had learned that the King would be the one to decide their fate.
Before he knew it, Mass was over, and the two old women walked past him, leaving the chapel empty except for Anne and himself. Father Lucien busied himself with tidying up the altar and sacristy, and the Queen bowed her head in prayer. When she finally stood up, her azure eyes met Aramis' at once, as if a magnet had drawn her to him.
A powerful longing filled the musketeer as he stared at her. He sensed that she felt it as strongly as he did. He stepped out of the pew and approached her slowly, taking her hand with care when she extended it to him.
"Your Majesty," he said softly, kissing her hand with perfect courtesy, his lips warm and gentle against her skin. "I am glad to see you are looking well after the harrowing events of the other evening."
"I am, thanks to God and you, Monsieur Aramis. I know the King would join me in thanking you once again, but he is spending the night at his hunting lodge with his courtiers."
Aramis straightened up as he released her hand, and felt his heart begin to pound. We can be alone. The expression on his face, a mixture of anticipation and joy, showed her that he had understood the implicit message in her words. "Until we meet again," she whispered, then rustled past him, her silk gown brushing against his hand. Father Lucien blew out the candles of the altar and left as well. The candles burning on the side altars were the only light left in the darkened chapel, and Aramis disappeared into the shadows that flanked the staircase to the Queen's sitting room, slipping out the key that he kept in his breast pocket.
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Athos had felt well enough that evening to get up and walk around the room, supported by Charlotte at her insistence. "You are doing very well," she exclaimed. "It's like you barely even need me to help you." The only light in the room was from the flames dancing in the fireplace, and Athos was struck by how lovely she appeared in the flickering light.
"I doubt I could do this by myself," he murmured, making a show of leaning on her heavily.
"I am not fooled by your acting," she responded archly, raising an eyebrow at him. "Now that you are fit enough, you need to take a proper bath."
The corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile. "And if I require assistance?"
"Leave your braes on, and I will think about it," she replied, giving him a sweet smile. "I do not think you are quite up to being roguish as of yet, so I may be persuaded to help if you behave."
"On my honour, I shall be the most model patient you have ever had."
Pulling him behind the screen that had been set up once again, Charlotte gently pushed him down onto the bench by the tub. "I will be the judge of how compliant you are. Now let me undress you." She looked up at him coyly through her long lashes, her brown eyes sparkling with mischief. "Do not even pretend you haven't longed to hear me say that."
He suppressed a chuckle, schooling his face to appear as innocent as a choirboy. "I have no idea what you are talking about."
"Hmm….once again, not very convincing, I'm afraid." Her hands slid under his linen shirt, coming to rest at his waist. "Can you raise your arms?"
Wincing slightly, he lifted up his elbows to shoulder height, and Charlotte managed to easily guide his linen shirt up and over his head. She folded it carefully, then placed it on a table next to the screen. Turning back to him, she flushed. Athos had stood up, and was gazing at her, his expression unreadable. It had been some time since she had seen him shirtless, and the magnetism of his presence, combined with the defined musculature of a master swordsman, was almost overwhelming.
Attempting to appear coolly efficient, she dropped her hands to his waist, her light fingers deftly unbuckling his belt. His eyes darkened, and he said huskily, "I admit that this particular part may have flitted through my daydreams once or twice."
As she slipped his belt off, he knocked it aside, and took her hands in his. "Bathe with me." His voice was hoarse with longing, and she suddenly felt very shy.
Reading her face, he murmured, "No strings attached. Leave your chemise on. I promise to be a gentleman."
"I'll need your help, then," she said softly. She was about to instruct him how to aid her, but he had already circled around her. His hands were gentle, but experienced, and within a minute or two, her dress was off, and he was unlacing the last of her stays, finally freeing her from the corset. Of course. How naïve of me to think I would have to tell him what to do. He probably did this dozens of times for Milady.
As if reading her thoughts, Athos took her hand and helped her into the large tub, then slipped his breeches off and slid in next to her, clad only in his braes. He drew her through the steaming water to float against his chest, then bent to kiss the nape of her neck. His lean, muscular chest glided against the thin material of her chemise, and she found the feeling incredibly sensual. The gossamer layer of cotton was now clinging to her body, revealing every curve that had hitherto been hidden by the boxy cut of the garment. "You are so different from her," he murmured, his hands wrapping around her slim waist. "So—entirely-different. I am a very lucky man."
She turned to face him, and was arrested by his seductive blue eyes. The smouldering look Athos gave her took her breath away. Before she knew it, his mouth had descended on hers, and they were locked in a passionate kiss. His hands wound through her hair as he explored her mouth thoroughly, encouraging her to follow his lead. Within several minutes, she had become as charged with desire as he was, and her hands began to roam over his broad back, revelling in the feel of his wet skin under her fingers.
She pulled away for a moment to catch her breath, and swallowed heavily. "You are giving a whole new meaning to the term model patient."
He gave a soft laugh, then fingered the chain around her neck. "Have I told you how much I love seeing this ring around your neck?"
"You may have, but tell me again."
"Perhaps I should show you instead," Athos murmured, and dropped his lips to the hollow of her throat. He traced the path of the chain down to the ring itself, which was nestled between her breasts. She arched her back as his mouth traversed the soft, sensitive skin, tangling her hands in his hair. A sigh of pleasure escaped from her, followed by a sharp inhale as he continued his casual survey. "Athos, you're driving me mad," she whispered, then dissolved into a moan of ecstasy as he intensified his efforts. "I cannot take any more-"
"I am quite busy on multiple fronts right now," he muttered with a smirk, "so you will have to be more specific about exactly what you wish me to stop doing."
"This is not what I had in mind when you said we would bathe together-" she gasped, trying to steady her breathing.
He paused, then straightened up and leaned back against the edge of the tub, regarding her speculatively. "You are right—it may be a bit unseemly, considering that we have no formal understanding. So, perhaps we should rectify that."
Taking a deep breath, he was silent for a moment, then reached for her, drawing her close and gazing into her eyes with a look full of emotion. "Charlotte Gaillard, you have singlehandedly brought me back to life. I was in a very dark place before I met you, and I have come to realize that I want you by my side for the rest of my life, no matter how short or long a period of time I have left on this earth. I love you with all my heart and soul. Will you marry me?"
I cannot believe we are at chapter 50...the support and encouragement you have given me make it all worthwhile! Much love to all who have reviewed, favorited and followed! There is still a bit of story left to tell...
Next time...joy and sorrow as the trial comes ever closer.
