The night was at its midpoint when Aramis became aware that the fire had dwindled to mere embers, aware also of cold seeping up from the ground.
He reached out and felt for Anne, curled with her back to him. He had waited until she'd fallen asleep to lie near her, not wanting to cause discomfort, but now, as his hand touched her arm, he felt her trembling. He had not thought the night would get this chill, it was early in the season for it, or he would have given her his own cloak in addition to hers.
"Anne." He murmured her name, not wanting to wake the others (they had tacitly agreed a watch wasn't essential tonight, this far north). "Come here." He rolled her over. She came without resisting, her breath in rapid shivers. He pulled her close and wrapped his cloak around both their bodies, tucking it around so their mutual warmth could be trapped. She continued to shudder against him a little longer, her arms up tight against his chest, until he could finally feel her body beginning to relax and absorb some heat. "Better?" he muttered against her head, which bobbed under his chin in assent. Then he felt her hands at his neck where his top two buckles were undone, seeking, and for a moment he wasn't entirely sure what she was doing and his heartbeat began to skitter, until she simply tucked her cold fingers against the skin of his breastbone, just above his heart, and made a sound of contentment. And then he was wide awake, but her breathing was slowing, growing even, and she let out a little sleep-sigh against his chest, and this night could be endless, if it wanted, and he wouldn't mind. He wouldn't mind at all.
Over bread and the remainder of the rabbit the next morning, the mood was quiet, with the air still chilly enough to elicit hue from Constance and Anne's cheeks. Anne was visibly self-conscious, having (as they all were aware) spent the latter part of the night wrapped up with Aramis, whose air of insouciance was also apparent to all.
D'Artagnan himself had tried in the night to check on Constance, who'd slept close to her side of the fire. He had still worried she was cold by the early hours of the morning, but when he had leaned over to ask how she was faring, she murmured that she was quite well. He couldn't help it, a twinge of envy had lodged in his chest the moment he'd seen the embraced forms that were the other musketeer and their queen, and even this morning, as they were piously separate, a feeling of discontent lingered.
So he did the only thing he knew to do—fought against it, busying himself with the care of the horses before breakfast commenced, refilling their water from the pond, scattering the remains of the fire and scuffing out evidence of their camping...anything rather than sit. Aramis looked up at one point; they were used to communicating with each other, dividing up such preparations easily and in amity without needing to specify who would do what, but d'Artagnan was taking on all the tasks.
"Sit, won't you?" Aramis suggested, in a tone of mild surprise. "We have plenty of time to reach Vouet by tonight."
D'Artagnan acknowledged the comment with a nod, but didn't stop moving.
Anne inquired, "There is no need for haste?"
"We have men both behind and ahead of us," Aramis said. "If we travel too quickly today, it will throw the others off pace." He took another bite of bread and watched as d'Artagnan shuffled charred logs into the underbrush with a sweep of his boots. Covering the overnight footprint of a party of four completely was hard to do, but his efforts would render their last stop less obvious to any casual passers-through (or unmotivated red guards).
It wasn't until d'Artagnan began carrying stones from the fire down to the pond to toss in that Constance followed him. He tossed them in one at a time, relishing the chance to use his shoulders, his arms. In fact it would have been a good day for a sword-skirmish, he thought, not that he was actually hoping that a need would arise for one—and yet. And yet.
"Are you angry?" Constance said, startling him. He had known she was there, but she was suddenly right by his shoulder.
He lowered the rock, weighed it in his hands, considering. "No."
"Are you certain of that?"
He set the rock down at his feet because to throw it now seemed too much an act of violence, and turned to look at her. "Were you cold last night?"
She shook her head with a look of expectancy.
"Then I'm not angry."
"So come back and have some breakfast with the rest of us."
"Honestly not that hungry, either. I'll eat later." He took a few steps to the edge of the pond, knelt and sluiced water over his head and face, the cold a pleasant shock. He stayed there until the swish of her skirts signaled her departing.
They reached Vouet well before dark. The town was large enough that newcomers would not cause a stir, yet not so big, Athos had explained before they left Paris, that making contact with their associates would be difficult.
They found an inn, sent the horses to be stabled and carried in their supplies. "Two rooms," Aramis told the overworked innkeeper's wife. "Hot water, for baths, and we will want food brought up later."
Her expression cleared once he had pressed payment into their hand. She eyed them all, though Anne and Constance had their hoods drawn up partially concealing their faces. "There's no towels for ye," she said. "Least none that weren't used a time or two."
D'Artagnan knew Constance was making a face even with it half-hidden, and then she replied for all of them, "That won't be necessary. I brought our own linens."
"As you please, madame. Last two rooms at the end," she called after them as the men ushered the women up the stairs to the hallway.
Outside the doors, they all paused, exchanging glances, as it had not been discussed how sleeping arrangements were going to be handled, and the regular rules of propriety did not seem entirely relevant in the current situation.
At last Aramis said, "I would assume the ladies would want to be together, but it is perhaps not the most advisable pairing in this instance...What are everyone's wishes?"
"Please do not look at me first," Anne demurred. "It is not as if I am..." she hesitated. "Otherwise compromised."
"Under normal circumstances, we would not put either of you in a dishonorable position," Aramis said, looking at d'Artagnan who did not know quite what to say by way of agreement but nodded. "However, these are unusual, indeed dangerous times, and I think I speak for both of us when I say we would feel safest if each man guards each woman."
"I would like to say," Constance stated, "that I am quite capable with my pistol. But if—" she lowered her voice, "if Anne—is comfortable with your guardianship, Aramis, then I will allow it. Us." She gestured between herself and d'Artagnan. "Sharing a room," she quickly specified, making the already awkward moment even more so. D'Artagnan widened his eyes at Aramis, hoping he was communicating how deeply uncomfortable he was finding all of this.
"I am fine with any arrangement," Anne reiterated. "We all share trust, do we not?"
Constance said, "Well then," a shade too brightly, and opened the door to what was now her and d'Artagnan's room.
He followed her in, setting their bags on the floor, taking a deep breath and thinking that he could really do with a drink or two.
"I suppose it's not so terrible," Constance said, evaluating the surroundings, as did he. There was a stand with a pitcher of water and a bench. And they both stared at the one (small) bed.
"I'll sleep on the floor."
"Indeed you shall."
He blew out the breath he had been holding since they walked in.
"And," Constance said, "I will ask you to remain downstairs while I am taking my bath."
"Naturally. When—when will that be?"
"I thought we might have dinner first?"
They were silent for a few moments, and into the silence Constance said, "They aren't saying anything."
"What?"
"Next door. I cannot hear any speech."
He laughed a little in surprise. "Are you actually trying to hear something? For shame, Constance."
"You have to admit," she began.
"What do I have to admit?"
"It's...it's unusual. Possibly inadvisable. To leave them alone together, unchaperoned."
"As we are?" he said, gesturing.
"It's not the same. We haven't—" She blushed, and twisted her hands together. "Done what they have."
"So you're saying it's better or worse that we're spending the night together?"
"It's just different. I don't know what I'm saying."
"That makes both of us...Take your cloak off."
"What? No!" She pulled it around herself with protective vigor.
"No, I mean..." He ran a hand through his hair. "Because we're staying in now. You're not going out again, are you?"
"I suppose not."
She conceded then, untying the ribbons that held the garment together at the neck, and, eyeing him, went to hang it up on the hooks by the door.
"Better," he said, giving her a smile, hoping to put her at ease. (At least then one of them would be at ease.)
Constance crossed her arms across her chest. "I shall put it back on if I get cold."
"I, I want you to do that."
"It's still strange," she said, after another pause.
"What is?"
"That they're not talking about anything. What do you suppose they are doing?'
"I would rather not speculate."
"Hm."
As Aramis closed the door, Anne sat down on the edge of the bed, holding her bag on her lap.
He slid the bolt across, then inspected it for soundness. There was a tiny window on the outermost wall, through which he went and looked out.
She wondered if he thought they were being watched. She wondered when he would leave to get in touch with the others, or if they would come here. Not that it really mattered to her at the moment; she was content to finally have four walls around her once more. She was used to being bounded by walls—not ones so limiting, granted, but the wild openness of the countryside had, she realized now, been more than a little intimidating.
Aramis came over to stand in front of her and reached for her bag. She put it with unassuming trust into his hands, and he took it to the bench and placed it there. He began to unbuckle sword belts and assorted weaponry, laying them methodically on the bench beside her things. She liked the way it looked, as if they lived here. How foolish that she could imagine them inhabiting a tiny room together, but she could. That she could imagine their brown-eyed children underfoot. Anne. You cannot think such things. You are the Queen.
But she wasn't, not truly. She was little more than a fugitive.
Divested of some of his weaponry, and tugging open the top two buckles of his jacket, Aramis came and sat down on the bed beside her, a body's space away, his eyes on her to see if she objected by word or movement.
She watched him. It felt like complete indulgence, a gift she never expected, simply to be able to stare into his eyes now, after all the time spent apart—and on those rare moments when they did cross each other's path, she had never been able to spare more than a quick glance, couldn't let her gaze linger unduly.
They were alone. Finally. An intoxication more potent than any spirits. And one she had no real inclination to resist.
Aramis took her hand in his, running his thumb along the lines of her palm. She looked down at their hands, at hers so unblemished and his nicked by countless scars. He brought it to his mouth and kissed it, so gently, but still like a brand, a promise.
Anne shivered.
"I must go out," he said. "Our associates need confirmation we've arrived, and will want to discuss our next destination. I'll have d'Artagnan watch outside the doors while I am gone. Be sure to bolt it regardless. I'll send up water?"
"Please."
He relinquished her hand and went out, tapping on the neighboring door and whistling their usual two-note signal. D'Artagnan opened it a space. "You're going now?"
He nodded. "I'll tell them downstairs to bring up water right away, then they can have some privacy while I'm gone and you guard."
"I don't think that woman does anything right away," d'Artagnan said, rolling his eyes. "And I'm sure it will cost extra."
"That's not an issue."
"That would be a first."
"Ah, well, Tréville realized the need for ample provisions when he didn't know how long we'd be away."
D'Artagnan glanced back over his shoulder, then stepped outside into the hallway.
"And we can dine later," Aramis added, walking towards the stairs.
"I'm going to need a drink," d'Artagnan called after him.
"Since when did you turn into our captain?"
"Since when did our captain say 'a' drink?"
Aramis pointed a finger at him. "True."
Constance luxuriated in the bath. The tub was tiny, to be sure, and the water not nearly as warm as she was accustomed to having in the palace, but, happy to be soaking after the two days of travel, she had no thoughts of complaint. She had tied up her curls on top of her head, and closed her eyes, imagining the crackling of a fire.
Her stomach was beginning to growl, however. She should get out soon and get ready for dinner. D'Artagnan had told her to tap on the inside of the door when she was finished, and for pity's sake not to take forever, which she'd found amusing because she was hardly going to fall asleep and drown in a foot of water, if that's what he had been worried about. Men were difficult to understand sometimes. But she was hungry.
She stepped, dripping, out of the tub and took a linen cloth to dry herself, then hastily got dressed in her other clean outfit and bundled up her old things in her pack. The tap came on the door just as she was about to knock on it herself. "Are you done yet?" d'Artagnan said through the wood.
She unbolted and pulled it open a crack. "Yes. Has Aramis returned?"
"Mm. He's brought up our food."
"Oh, lovely, I am ready." She opened the door eagerly and let him back in. There was only one chair, so he pulled the table over to the end of the bed and put the chair on the other side of it. The food turned out to be one bowl containing a generous portion of soup, and half a loaf of bread. No utensils, but they would manage.
He pulled out her chair, and Constance said, "Thank you," rearranging her skirts, mildly self-conscious for a moment.
They had to tear apart the bread and use it like spoons to scoop up the soup, and soon they were relaxed and laughing, and Constance remembered everything she liked about being around him. Not that she had forgotten, but it was all so complicated, and even now, watching him smile as he conveyed a sopping piece of bread to his mouth, she couldn't help thinking she didn't deserve to be enjoying their relationship, not when she ought to be yet mourning her husband.
"This is good," he commented, leaning back. "Not as good as yours, naturally."
She wrinkled her nose at him. "Did I ever make soup for you?"
He pointed a piece of bread at her. "I used to live with you, remember?"
"That was months ago! And I fed all of my boarders," Constance defended. "I'm certain I didn't make anything particularly special on your behalf."
"It always tasted special," he said, shrugging. "It tasted like...love."
"I did not put love in my soup."
"It must have slipped in without you noticing." He gave her a grin that managed to be both lazy and dazzling. She was, temporarily, stunned into returning the smile.
"Anyway," he said, "if we're finished with dinner, I could make use of that bathwater, if you want to go next door. That is unless you want to stay."
"I will go next door," she said with dignity. "Though I should like to be certain first we are not disturbing any...conversation they may be having."
D'Artagnan rose and went over to the adjoining wall and banged on it with his fist. There was a brief pause before an answering series of thumps could be heard.
"There."
"No need to escort me," Constance said. He watched her from the door anyway, until Aramis had let her in.
"Everything all right?" the older musketeer inquired, somewhat bemused.
"Yes, I was just—giving him the opportunity to wash, as I had mine earlier. Let me fix your hair, Anne." She tried, without being obvious, to decide what they had been up to before she entered but it seemed that they had just been finishing dinner as well, innocently enough.
"I can manage," Anne said, diffidently, but did not protest when Constance sat behind her on the bed and produced her wooden comb, then began to start untangling some of the snarls. Back at the palace, Anne had had one maid whose sole job it was to look after her hair, but Anne had often asked for Constance simply so that they could share stories as trusted friends.
Aramis gestured at a small jug and tankard on the table. "Care for a drink while you visit, madame?"
Constance didn't often indulge in alcohol, having seen too often what fools it made of others, but she was not opposed to the occasional taste and she smiled at him. It was hard to say no to anything Aramis suggested, truthfully. He took her smile for assent, which it was, and poured out a healthy measure of wine. "You might bring this back to your room when you return. D'Artagnan mentioned a wish for it."
"I shouldn't think wine and guard duty were good bedfellows," Constance said pertly, having a sip.
"I do not believe it's that strong," Aramis said, giving the jug an experimental sniff. "Although, to be frank, d'Artagnan is the least able of us all to stay on task when he's drinking."
"Well, that is hardly a recommendation for me to give it to him," Constance exclaimed.
Aramis gestured dismissively. "Dear Constance, I would bet my life on even a drunk d'Artagnan keeping you safer than another man sober. Is that recommendation enough?"
Anne caught her lip between her teeth and smiled over her shoulder, ducking her head. Constance murmured—"I suppose it will do..." as she focused on bringing the comb through a particularly tangled section of hair.
They made conversation for a while longer, Aramis giving them some details of his visit with their other protectors—contacts whose home was in the area and who would stay after the musketeers had to return to Paris. After most of an hour, with Anne's hair restored to lustrous waves, and d'Artagnan doubtless long having finished his bath, there was no reason to linger much longer, and Constance made her excuses and bade them both a good night.
When she re-entered the other room, the tub was gone along with the remnants of their dinner, and the room tidied, the chair restored to military order by the table, though there had been little enough else to put to rights. D'Artagnan had turned down the bed and was stretched out a blanket on the floor, a respectful distance given that they were under a roof, and not the stars, tonight.
She bolted the door, and set the wine and tankard on the table. "From Aramis."
"Ah." He rose with alacrity and came over, but she poured the tankard full and held it out to him.
"Thank you," he said, taking it, but not immediately drinking, meeting her eyes instead.
She gazed at him expectantly. He smelled good, standing close, just faintly of the lavender soap she'd used, his face fresh and young and she had the impulse to kiss his jaw where it was shadowed and bristly, but didn't want to allow herself the indulgence. He would be leaving soon, so soon, and the closer they became, the harder this was going to be on both of them. She gave a tiny sigh.
He took a long swallow of the wine then, and set it aside, and reached for her, close enough for an embrace.
Constance did not resist. It felt good to be held. They stood for some minutes thus.
He leaned in for a kiss, but she turned her head aside at the last moment.
"Why?" he asked softly.
"Because," she said, as earnestly as she knew how. He had to understand, he had to know they shouldn't try to deepen their bond in these last days. "Because we just...don't you see, if I give myself to you, I have nothing left."
He shook his head, his brow furrowing. "What—"
"It's different for you, you cannot understand. A woman belongs to her father or her husband." She let that sit, spoken, for a moment, and then finished quietly, "I have neither."
"I would—" She put her fingers against his lips, silencing his...offer? Protest? Whatever it was, she couldn't let him say it. Not yet. But he kissed her hand as it rested on his mouth, and her resolve wavered.
"I am nothing," she said again, harder, needing to strengthen herself from the inside out.
"Constance, you are everything." He took her hands away so she couldn't stop him speaking, held them up between them.
"I am the widow of Bonacieux," she said, "and that is all I can be. For now," she said, because she hated the hurt in his expression; it hurt her to see it.
She knew he didn't understand. But she hardly did herself, either. She only knew there was no benefit to establishing something between them, and then saying goodbye.
He let go of her hands, then. "I'm going to stand outside a while," he said, looking down, not meeting her eyes. "Try to get some rest if you can."
He took the jug of wine with him.
She figured he had a right to it if anyone did.
