Treville dismounted and listened as his regiment disassembled: men dismounted, unsaddled, chatted amongst themselves, and relaxed after four days of hunting and protecting the king. Exhausted and dirty, the men were ready for their normal daily routine of guarding the king, the queen, and the palace. Treville ran his hand over his face, rubbed this horse's neck, and then glanced toward the stables.
"Jacque," Treville said, and pointed toward the mares that stood tied near the end of the gallery. "The horses?"
Jacque shook his head, grabbed the reins from Treville, and shrugged. He was short for his age. He had dirty blonde hair, freckles beneath his hazeleyes and across his long nose. "Athos and Porthos brought 'em in last night," he said, "Didn't say where they got 'em from — nice horses though." He smiled and scratched his chin. "The bay looks like she can run."
Treville nodded. "Was anyone with them?"
"No, sir," Jacque said and frowned. "It was just the four of 'em." He shifted his feet and rubbed the big black's neck.
"Where are they now? Athos and the others?"
Jacque shook his head. "They were goin' to see Madame Bonacieux for some food — I haven't seen 'em return, capt'n."
Treville nodded and walked away, but turned and pointed toward his horse. "Extra feed for him," he said, "he's earned it."
Jacque nodded and led the captain's horse toward the stables.
Treville paused at the steps. With his hand fisted, he tapped the banister, and then turned to walk toward the exit.
Constance giggled and tilted her head to the right when d'Artagnan nuzzled her neck. He placed his hands on her hips while she kneaded the bread dough. The sun peered in through the window and cast light across the counter and along the floor. Dust particles danced. A fire blazed in the fireplace and food warmed in a skillet by the hearth.
"If we get caught," Constance said and glanced toward the entry, "I'll never forgive you."
"We won't get caught," he kissed her neck, "they're still sleeping." He inhaled deeply.
She smelled like a bouquet. Her hair cascaded down her neck, over her shoulders, and across her bosom. She shifted her hips as he pressed against her, and she heard him swear under his breath.
"Don't start something we won't be able to finish," d'Artagnan said and chucked. He pressed his face to her hair and inhaled again. Roses, he could smell roses.
The sound of a throat being cleared caused them both to jump and step away from each other. "Sorry to interrupt," Aramis said. He tried to suppress his smile, but failed.
Constance turned away from Aramis, straightened her hair, and dusted the front of her apron.
D'Artagnan rubbed his face and then scratched his jaw. "Thought you were still sleeping."
"Obviously," Aramis said. "Porthos is stirring." He shifted, pointed over his shoulder, and turned. "I'm goin' to check on Athos."
"I'll have some food ready soon," Constance said and glanced over her shoulder. She waited until she heard Aramis leave and then turned toward d'Artagnan, who shrugged and twisted his mouth. She slapped his shoulder and said, "I told you."
"Sorry," he said with a wince.
Constance shook her head and said, "No, you're not." She took a deep breath, turned back toward the table, and then pointed toward the shelf with the plates. "If you're going to be in the kitchen," she looked at him, "at least do some work."