Chapter 7: A Woman's Place
It's a joy to write this piece. You'll see a softer side to the playful Comtesse, which will set up the rest of the plot. Fitting Antoinette into the storyline wasn't as hard as I thought it would be. The script is easy and flexible to add another person without drifting from the main purpose, which is to exploit the Cardinal's plans to the audience and for the Musketeers to adventure here and there to stop him.
Thank you already to the views and readers who have enjoyed the segments and/or favorited the story. Support is welcomed and it certainly strives me to push through page after page. :)
Disclaimer: I do not have the privilige to own the rights to the actors, script, or any franchise of the Three Musketeers. All rights are to creators of movie but most importantly to the delightful Alexandre Dumas, who has the best name to say with a French accent. :)
Noon had high time past over Cooper's Yard. Chasing sunbeams narrowed down alleys and over cartmen's cargo. They shone over the river with murky shallows. Sunlight scattered over broken tiles on a roof and down the shutes of chimneys. Smoke raised the sun back up from it's despairing fumes. Gold touches on plain jewelry saddened old wives with nothing to look forward to. Wayward children ignored the shiny bits and pranced along the streets looking for game.
A lone afternoon beam slanted shadows by the Musketeer's apartment, awaiting for them and the stranger with a horse held in reins come from below the underbelly of a bridge. D'Artagnan held on his head a hat. A poor man's attempt to sustain rich status with a withering chicken's dyed feather.
Antoinette braced an arm by her side, rather than clutched to Aramis' elbow. Her side twitched in pain every so often, which concerned her. Her wounds should not have been that deep to cause her ribs to ache.
Antoinette's troubles packed in the back of her brain. Small sunlight grew a warm path on her belly, where some of the pain ended. It soothed her as the warmth contracted the muscles' spasms.
"So, now what?" D'Artagnan sounded confused. His hand held the horse, Buttercup, as a steering rod. Cooper's Yard was the first action he lived for and was unsure if he wanted to pick another fight from his leftover adrenaline, or dilute it down with some good wine. "Do we pick up where we left off?"
Athos tasted bitter sunlight on his lower lip. It would have been never too early for a drink at the tavern across the way. However two run ins with two enemies left his stomach too full but his mind running on empty. He'd probably grab another drink at home anyway, leaving the ale to muddle his mind.
"I think there's enough fighting for one day," he said hand on his belt.
Porthos waved his hand, finger rings glittering in the sun. "Besides, any man who's an enemy of Rochefort is a friend of mine," He clapped the youth on the back.
"Who's Rochefort?"
Out of the shadows and into the sunlight, Aramis readjusted the hat in the oncoming wind. He turned reluctantly to the whelp, whose curiosity would send him to the bounty office for too many questions. The people of Paris were simple; they never liked unwelcomed visitors asking around the hot spots to go for a drink or a brawl or a woman. Too much attention would leave dissatisfied customers.
Lucky for Aramis, he no longer craved such curiosity. But that did not mean he would teach others to stop their curiosity. Then there would be questions with too complicated explanations. "Captain of the Cardinal's guards. The right hand of the most powerful man in France,"
Antoinette added, "Not to mention the most feared swordsman in all of Europe,"
He scoffed lightly. One day, and the boy had made plenty people mad. "You certainly know how to pick your fights," Aramis said unbelieving.
D'Artagnan shrugged. He had no business in Paris anymore than a regular chap on the streets. "Like I said, he insulted my horse,"
Porthos set a list of reasons why the boy with no more agenda could become an easy target. "You're reckless, arrogant, impetuous, probably be dead by sundown, but I like you, lad. Where are you staying?"
"No idea,"
Antoinette and Aramis cocked an eyebrow at Porthos. Athos looked dead ahead speeding up his footsteps. It wasn't that the boy was not welcomed. It was the value of his integrity and the reality of his money. Antoinette learned the hard way that board was not cheap and she was more than willing to chip in a few places when the men were running low on booze or rent.
"Ah! Do you have any money?" Porthos asked three paces away from the beginning of the home. D'Artagnan stopped his horse to grab a small leatherskin pouch. It jangled hard against his hand when thrown in the air. Porthos grinned gesturing to the home in front.
"Well, good sir, you and your fine steed are welcome in our humble home," he said over dramatically at the non-unique home.
Athos cut in. "For the time being," He was followed by Porthos, ungloving his hands to slap them down on the furniture. Aramis held the hat by the brim and quirked a disgusted look on his face at Buttercup.
"That goes in there," he said pointing to the cruddy stable left of the house. Aramis rushed in with Antoinette inside the house as D'Artagnan sighed, stalling his horse.
Antoinette gave up her weapons on the table except for the ones in her hair as she hastened up the stairs from Aramis' grip. Each and every step she cringed noticeably.
Noticing a slam on their door, Aramis sped in the other direction. Antoinette liked her peace and alone time. Not even he could forebode his body past her comfortable space. The general rule around her was somewhere not too early, it could be overbearing. And as well not too late, feeling as though she wasn't cared for or loved to be forgotten quickly. Aramis narrowed it down to ten minutes at the minimum.
So, he polished the weapons used today. He scraped off any red and smoothed out would-be dents. The cloth dug into the crevices of the hilt. Each shine gleamed and sparkled with some sunlight drifting in. After storing them in the back for later inspection and distribution to the rightful owners, Aramis quickened his way to their room.
Hands on the doorway, he saw three things that caught his eye. One, his darling lover with the shawls and top layer of skirts off. His eyes galzed over as her side and part of her back faced him.
Two, there was a letter with a tear in it for rushing to open it. It's contents faced the reader. Antoinette gazed intently at it as if it were life or death. Aramis clutched the door handle to swing the door behind him closed for privacy.
The third and most disturbing thing he had noticed on arrival were the engravings on her back. Angry red lines underneath and heaved over on top of her whalebone corset Her hands fiddled with the lacings that wouldn't seem to undo. Her chest throbbed as she struggled to breath correctly.
She tried to readjust the corset further down but was met with a thing line of red and some dark bruises in nonuniform shapes.
"Ah, that's going to bruise," she muttered tugging the thing again in frustration.
Aramis, with sickening eyes, shook at an alarming rate. His head swum with manu conclusions. Someone manhandled her, some guard tripped her or bruised her body at the yard. Or perhaps it was a combination from the lack of space in between her flesh and corset and the trials in St. Germain.
"What on earth did you do, Antoinette?" He raised his tones.
Her eyes saddened while her lip trembled for a smile. Her braveness was worn thin, unlike her corset. "Forgot I was wearing my corset. They aren't meant for swordsmanship. Oww," She pressed lightly at her hip and side. She rubbed deeply and then let go over and over as if it would increase circulation. "Can you unlace the rest of it?"
Aramis walked silently over and guided his shaking hands not to rib the bloody nuisance off of her for further detailing left behind. "Not like I haven't done it before," he said expertily unbinding each ringlet looser until finally he managed to peel the dread thing away from her back skin. "My God, woman there are marks all over your ribs!" His hands curled around the fabric.
"Court rules," she muttered darkly.
Bruises around her spine stood out the most. Aramis had to let go of her several times, feeling anger surge through his veins. Antoinette had never been one with rules. She broke them. In the odd coincidence, the rules broke her. "Sit down and slip into something more comfortable. Planchet will send for hot water and a salve," he said his matching anger coursed around in circles to his throat.
He made fists with his hands, perturding veins popped out of his neck. "Those are blistering wounds!" he raised his voice, storming out of the room.
Antoinette brushed the tips of her fingers across the sore skin. She winced. The mere touch brought clenching memories of Millie forcing the thing situated into the foldings of her skin. Her stomach heaved with more air pumping through.
She felt light headed and tried to calm the hysterics waiting to open up. Never in her life had she thought something excruciating as bruised skin would put a damper on her strength. She was better than this. Yet, proved how vulnerable and human she was.
Antoinette had many split traits she showed on occasion. She was Comtesse de Chevreuse, the cold hearted noble with a stiff upper lip. She was Lady Antoinette to those she kept close as an advantage or spy on her enemies. She was Antoinette, the lovable kitten of the Musketeer group. She was Netta, the sensitive and sensual lover of Aramis.
But underneath the foldings of each personality, hid a very peculiar creature. It scared Antoinette there was a small part of her that cried. Or bled. Or showed emotional attachment. Without permission. The most terrifying part? That side of Antoinette came as quickly as it went. Unknowing.
"They've scabbed over in some places," Aramis said leaning on the doorframe with an arm supporting his waist. There, Antoinette was slightly hunched, half decently presentable with droplets of tears in her eyes. For once, she did felt ashamed to be half dressed in front of him. He wasn't meant to see this part of her- ever. His calculating eyes wandered over her figure, not of lust, but of concern. In his one hand he held a small basin filled with steaming water, with a towel drapped over the wrist.
The basin sat to the side of her. She glanced at her reflection. The horrid image of smudged black underneath her lids and the flush of cheeks startled her. Aramis did his dutiful purpose of gently prodding away some dry blood in certain spots, careful to work around the edges of the darker circles.
His sigh rolled off his bottom lip as he dunked the washcloth into the water. The gurgle of water and the flicker of candlelight were the only sounds Antoinette dared to hear as he washed her back. Her finger twirled the length of her brunette curls to the side. His breathings were shallow or rapid. She couldn't tell what he was thinking or his internal reactions. Antoinette knew them to be bad; but to what extent?
"Why do you torture yourself to please the Cardinal. Don't deny it," He hastened at the end sternly. Antoinette played her hands over her hair. With preoccupied thoughts she wished she did not have to have this conversation. It would have been better to won the battle and celebrate properly just the two of them.
However he would have seen the scars even through their lovemaking.
Her voice slowed to a mousy whisper. :I was hoping everyday over the past year if I remained out of sight, out of mind..." She paused as the washcloth became to hot for her lower back. He apologized quickly, ringing out the cloth over the basin.
"It wasn't easy being alone with only few trusts in people. They all expect the worst of me... of my mother," She thought over to her stays. Every day, when the Queen did not require her attendance, she would walk with Constance to the terrace, sip tea with the ladies, and walked out of the arena knowing the ladies didn't speak to her because of her mother's notorious reputation.
Was it her fault she was her mother's child? Did the ladies ever talk to her outside the Queen's schedule? As much as the women feed off of gossip, their two-faced hypocrisy did not stand up for courage. If it were between life and threat of death, each lady would spill their secrets from the grave.
Aramis scoffed at Antoinette's sudden display of indifference. "Your mother and you are two completely seperate people," he said wiping with a dry cloth the wet trails. "She never had the chance to live out her dreams. You did. And does that merit gossip or traitor marks?"
Aramis watched as Antoinette shakily stood from the bed to slip off the skirts hestiantly. He turned his eyes away from her figure wanting to give her the benefit of privacy. He attended to dumping the bowl out the window and lying the wet washcloth on the windowsill. Antoinette carefully allowed her back to bend over to slip on one of Aramis' shirts with loose trousers she had once tailored. It was better for her aching back to not lift a metal cage of skirts or the constricted feeling of a bodice for the night. The black material across her chest was flimsy but concealed enough to walk around the house. She tightened the drawstrings around her collar bone to keep the shoulders somewhat in place.
Her bare feet replaced the cold wood with leather woven boots. Aside from the flowing shirt that flattered no part of her figure, she felt comfortable in her skin. She sat besides Aramis across the backboard with a propped pillow. Aramis consciously pulled her around the waist to lay on his chest. A hand disappeared in between strands of her hair.
Silence was golden. Words were not always needed between them. She knew what she wanted and he provided what he could give. In reverse, she knew what Aramis desired to know and she provided the answers.
"I was so afraid for a moment that once you were sent off, I would be faced with the rest of the people's hardships against me for lack of blaming my mother in the past," Her voice crackled.
His eyes did not remove its' hold to the letter lying down on the bed in front of them. "How does that explain why you become like them?"
She sniffled her nose. "I wanted to be invisible to them,"
"Antoinette," he warned. He could not lecture her. Not in her pain. Certainly not the first night of their reunion. Aramis would allow her to sort out her boundaries another day. He was thankful to God she was delivered back to him. No matter how much the palace changed her; on the inside she was the same sword-loving Antoinette he adored.
However, that did not entitle to give her boundaries total coverage.
"What did the letter say?"
Her eyes glowed to him. "A warning,"
"From the Queen," he assumed much. "About?" he pried.
Antoinette allowed her hands to cuddle up next to her head, smoothing out stray hairs. She bit her lips involuntarily. A sign she did not like what she knew. "Cardinal noticed my disappearance. Which is why Jussac assaulted us in the first place," She answered slowly to lower the blow.
Her hands scratched at her scalp in vain. It was Jussac that was searching for her. Not to racket the Musketeers. She put those she loved in danger of the Cardinal's disdain. She dreaded the consequences. The Queen advised her to allow one more day in the palace. At least, until the storm calmed the waters.
No sense in rocking the boat more. Especially with the gratitude of the Queen. "I am so sorry," she whispered frightened.
Aramis did not sigh or hold any breath for a moment. Her panic in the chest tightened. She had took a big risk to escape the palace. An even bigger risk to join the fight. And the biggest risk was yet to come, depending on his reaction. The hand that was petting her hair still continued. The soothing affect took as a good sign. However she knew from experience to expect the unexpected with Aramis.
He closed his eyes. "You had good intentions," he started. "Cardinal couldn't see past the lines of a map," Antoinette thought the good must come with the bad. Aramis turned his body towards her. "However, we must be more cautious than ever before. We all defied him once. With a legitimate claim, the King could become involved to puppet the Cardinal. He could destroy us... you,"
"I've faced worst," Antoinette said. His glazed eyes motioned to the letter. She lifted the tip of her head just underneath Aramis' chin. She nuzzled into his neck, breathing at long last his scent. A bottle of Chardonnay and church candles. The two aromas enarmored her senses. "Remember the Biscay rescue?" she mumbled. One kiss softened an unsettling vein in his neck.
He nodded. "You were sea sick on rough waters. I do recall the enemy knocking you out for several minutes. The storm racked on and you fell down the top deck stairs. 5 cracked ribs, punctured solar pelxus, bruise on scalp and torn shoulder," he analyzed. In his analysis, Antoinette shrugged off shivers. She could still feel the haunting chill of the ocean spray at her arms. Rough waters they were.
"A night I wish to forget but must remember," she cringed.
He finished, "And when we remember, we must immediately forget,"
Antoinette cracked a smile, further digging her lips into the divet between his neck and shoulder bone. He sent a kiss to her forehead, watching over her softer side.
She inhaled once more before ripping herself from him to stand up. She stretched her legs; the only parts of her body that didn't seem to twitch in pain. Aramis rolled over to his side as he held a hand out to bring her back to the sheets.
She waved her curls to her back, swishing delightfully. "I think I'm well enough to share a drink and meal with all of you," she decided enough was enough. She was not going to settle her first night at the house walled up with Aramis as a cushion- much to her dismay.
"You sure?" he said lifting himself up. He wrapped an arm around her lower waist to draw her in. "The men would excuse your absence in the condition-"
She laughed to herself. Antoinette held a finger to silence his words. "I'm fine. Perhaps a block of cheese and bread will fill me up,"
A low fire emitted from the brash room. Sparks crackled to ashes like little burning stars, until they disappeared to a smoldering black dot. The fire kept the food on the table warm, but not warm enough to make the wine jug condense. Porthos giddily drank from his chalice without a care in the world. Besides him was the studious Aramis reading a pocket text with his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He latched a hand woven in Antoinette's under the table. Expertly she used her left hand to fork some tearing meat from her plate.
D'Artagnan welcomed himself to put his feet on the table, which he immediately retreated under the careful glare of Antoinette. All was silent around the table. From the corner where the post woods from the ceiling met the ground sat Athos, head held back with a cup to his mouth.
Athos did not like to meddle himself with his companion's idle chatter. He was a man of many things but few words. He rivaled Aramis with his silent, chaffed tongue nowadays. The cup he bore was filled to the half way mark. Bubbled thoughts surface above the drunken liquor much to his distaste. Averted eyes away, he studied a mumbling Porthos from the table.
"What shall we drink to?" He set his cup on the table with a thud. He looked to and fro for suggestions. To his surprise, D'Artagnan spoke with haste.
"How about the King?"
Athos cracked a knuckle across the rim of the cup. Antoinette scratched the palm of her hands nervously. Porthos grabbed the cup back to his mouth. Aramis diverged his scorned mind to the reading of the texts, reading them over and over again.
"He's child," Athos said disdainfully. "Cardinal rules in all but name, might as well drink to him,"
D'Artagnan held his cup a little higher. "To France,"
He interrupted, "We served it, fought for it, and bled for it. Look where it got us,"
D'Artagnan, slightly defeated looked in front to the other three busying theirselves for no apparent reason. "Friendship? Love?" He gazed at the couple. Antoinette blushed for embarrassment. Not because of relationship, but the lack of one that cost the group their livelihoods.
A big exasperation after a swig of the last amber liquid exhaled from Athos. "Word of advice, boy. Trust no one," Lifeless eyes narrowed at the boy's.
D'Artagnan leaned forth. "Must be something you still believe in," he said pointedly.
"This," He flicked a gold coin into the air. "This," He produced a dagger to flip up as well. With precision the dagger hit the coin and stuck itself to the ceiling above them. Athos lastly gestured to his cup, bearing little droplets of alcohol. "And this. Anyone who tells you otherwise is either a fool or trying to sell you something," He grimly stood up, slapped the cup to the table in front of D'Artagnan, and moodily shifted upstairs to his lair.
Shocked and a little underestimated, D'Artagnan stared at the cup and then to his partners who neither questioned nor intervened in his mood.
Aramis flipped through another page, keen on attending only to the words and Antoinette's soothing hand. "I know Athos may seem cold and unfriendly, but don't let it fool you. Deep down-"
Porthos intervened, "He really is cold and unfriendly,"
The remaining three shared a knowing look. Porthos laughed quietly to himself as he watched Antoinette rested her tired head on Aramis' broad shoulder. Over his shoulder she read some of the words. A priest's hymn and poem book.
"What happened to him?"
Her head returned to its normal socket as Aramis rubbed a calloused thumb over her gentle hand.
"What happens to any man," Aramis said softly. "A woman," She did not need to turn her head to know Aramis had eyes on her only. She squeezed his hand for comfort. Aramis closed the book seeing no point in reading with the young man's curiosity hopping like a jittery rabbit.
"You know," said D'Artagnan. "I don't want to offend anybody, but I thought you'd all be a little bit more... heroic,"
Jovially, Porthos roared with laughter shaking the threshold of the room. Antoinette grinned slyly.
"Is that what the youth calls us?" She giggled to Porthos whose eyes brimmed with laughing tears.
Aramis dropped his glasses to the table in amusement when the laughter quieted. "What my esteemed colleague was trying to say, in his own way, is that we are obsolete," he told. "We're warriors, but there's no war for us to fight. And so we drink and brawl and quarrel with the Cardinal's guards and then we drink some more," Antoinette sobered, briefly letting go of his hand. The atmosphere was no longer rowdy. Porthos returned his attention to a piece of broken off bread. The crumbs drifted off the table and to his feet. She had imagined those crumbs were separated from the bigger part of the bread- the purpose. A loaf of bread was to feed and warm the bellies of the people. In the same analogy, the Musketeers were meant to provide that warmth as a blanket of protection against the enemies of the people in France.
Those crumbs had nothing to do but dust the floor and eventually disintegrate into nothing.
"What we need is a great cause," Aramis nodded definitely.
Antoinette watched the hushed fire. "One that lies beyond the streets of Paris,"
Aramis took her hand in both of his. His protective streak wasn't overbearing as she had thought it had been. Antoinette didn't need protection; she needed to protect her loved ones from wasting away until they're unrecognizable as Athos. "But there are no great causes left,"
Porthos cleared his airway. "Which is why I keep telling you it's not too late to do that priest thing again. Beats working for the city," he grumbled. "Free booze at wakes and weddings. And then there's the nuns,"
She left fear in Porthos' eyes. He winced involuntarily at her wrath. "Oh, well maybe not so much," he mumbled into the cheese.
D'Artagnan looked incredulous to the silent man who patted her hand. Antoinette's eyes pouted at her own jealousy. "You were a priest," he asked.
Aramis tucked his legs out of his chair to walk to the fireplace. "Until I realized being a man of God and man of cloth aren't always the same thing," D'Artagnan saw a glint of praise between Aramis and Antoinette. He held nothing but adoration for her. Something men of D'Artagnan's age knew barely anything of.
"And yet, he still says prayers for those he kills. Old habit," he explained.
"On the contrary," Aramis said resting an elbow on the wall. "The men I kill deserve to die. But they also deserve peace. After all, they must have believed in something. We all do. Even the worst of us," His eyes lost theirselves into the dying fire.
Antoinette stood up to lean her figure delicately on the table. She crossed her arms, haunted by the memory pictures of the people they all had killed. The moment ruined when Porthos broke for the wine jug.
"I'll drink to that," But when he drained for more wine, there was not a drop left of it. In irritation he called, "Planchet! More wine! Planchet!"
Planchet scuttled from behind the door, crossed to Antoinette, bringing her a bottled salve. She grasped the neck of it as Planchet brought in more wood for the fire. "Sorry, sirs. I'm afraid there's none left. You've drunk the lot," He circled with his fingers gesturing to the table.
In disbelief, the men and woman looked at Planchet dreading the answer. "What sort of answer's that? Well, go get some more, man!" Porthos ordered.
Planchet laughed sketchedly to his masters. He stuttered, "Very good, s-sir. It's just, I can't, sir. We- We've run out of money," His eyes squinted when Porthos' jaw clenched. Aramis rested his forehead against his forearm, sighing.
Porthos asked, "Planchet, what are you?"
The serf rolled his eyes, counting off the insults he was accustomed to. "Complete and utter waste of space, sir?" Antoinette scoffed mentally at their behaviors.
"And?"
"As much use as a fart in a bottle, sir?"
"Right,"
"In short, sir, a total tit, sir. But I can't work bleeding miracles!" he begged. Porthos looked ready for murder. That was until D'Artagnan saw the good in the man. He readied a coin in his hand.
"Planchet?" The coin dropped in his hand.
"Oh!" A girlish surprise erupted. Antoinette muffled her laughs as he jokingly bit the coin for authenticity. "Thank you very much, sir! That's incredibly generous from such a handsome, young man. Thank you very, very much," He complimented in good will. "Will you be staying here tonight?" Desperation written over his face for a kinder master.
Aramis nodded. "He'll be taking your bed, Planchet," A quick delivery of a smile and an astonished face overwhelmed Planchet.
"Right, and so I'll be sleeping..." he drawled.
"You may take the balcony," Aramis decided.
Planchet sighed with big eyes. "Outside? The balcony outside in the cold? With birds shitting on my head all night?" He turned to Antoinette. "Kind lady, you would allow them to discharge my bed for service to a guest, which I'm more than happy to give; but, at the cost of my fortitude to sleeping outside?"
She shrugged unsure what to say. Planchet deadpanned at the lack of generousity. "Great, can I just say-"
Porthos stamped his cup to the table chanting with a gathering chorus from the others, "Wine! Wine! Wine! Wine! Wine! Wine!"
Planchet faked a smile as he cheerfully, more or less, ran off to the door. "Yes! Of course! Wine it is, sirs," Off the boisterous man went to collect more wine for his drunken masters with disheartened feelings. He cursed their names under his breath walking down the alleys thinking of all the ways he could up and tell them off... Of course that was only in his dreams.
Night surpassed Antoinette dreamily. She had brought herself to awaken just before the rays of dawn yawned. Her head snuggled close to Aramis' sleeping face. Never had she thought it was all real until she rolled to her back. The dull aches of pain returned to the night before.
She remembered Aramis helping to rub in the salve into her bruises. The drifting memories of him kissing each and every sore drew a lazy smile upon her face. Like an alleycat she stretched her arms and legs before rising out of bed. She draped a fur coat over her being to collect discarded clothes she threw here and there when unpacking.
By herself, she managed to up do her brushed out hair into a bun, wearing pearl earrings and a netting of pearls placed in between the curls of her hair. Yards of emerald green fabric with tanned brown straps outlined her figure. Hugging close to her curves but not enough to hurt her; she skipped the corset and settled from a buckle around her the edges of the bodice.
A shift of sheets and a low rumbling chest echoed. "Netta?" Aramis said sleepily. His muscles tightened before laxing as he positioned himself half sitting up. "Why are you up before the sun?" he whispered hoarsely.
She sat on her side leaning in. "I must go. If I can sneak in with the food parcels in the back, I could serve the Queen her breakfast and in sight of the Cardinal,"
He flipped the down comforter off revealing his bare chest and covered night trousers he wore. Sinewy skin prickled with the lack of warmth. He shivered it off as he scooted closer to Antoinette. Gently minding her wounds, he picked her up into his lap and caressed her covered thighs in deep aching circles.
"You're leaving," He peppered kisses across her shoulder and bare collarbone.
"Only for a short while," she whispered to him enjoying the affects her body rolled in. "Just until the Queen can reassure a stronger aversion,"
He growled. "That day will come when Richelieu falls dead,"
Antoinette grinned capturing his lips with vicious lust. "For a patient man, you seem to be out of touch with yourself,"
"One day over one year isn't enough," He said dipped her back to the bed, ruffling her dress. He wrapped around her waist impatiently only to hear a pain-stricken groan. "Your bruises?" he asked.
She kissed him longingly, not wanting him to ever stop. "Thanks to your gentle touch, nearly healed," She awaited more for his touch when he backed out to inspect her.
"You're not wearing one, are you?" His questione was answered to the discared corset across the table she did not bother with.
She denied. "Not until I'm safely in," Her hand rubbed against Aramis' face. He would need a shave soon and a trim. She kissed his cheeks. "Constance goes to the markets once in a while on leave. She can be our correspondent in the meantime,"
He hugged her body closer to him. A slow breath dispersed at the back of her neck. "You know our rally points," he lowered.
"I ache with guilt knowing I am leaving you once more. This wasn't how things were suppose to be," she said separating from him. The touch he held for her burned like a red hot anvil. Without him near, she felt the cold breeze in the court gardens, chilling her.
"I would trade my soul to have a day with you," He grasped her hands to his lips. "This time without the sword fights," Aramis motioned to the twin swords on a cloth.
She hummed to herself. "I love you," She sealed with a kiss.
"Not as much as I do,"
Antoinette gathered herself off the bed they shared. She pushed his chest down to the sheets. Antoinette tucked him in and closed the window seeping light through. "Get some rest," She said in her motherly tone. "I'm sure Jussac has told the Cardinal about the incident in the square," A pull from her shoulders and out popped a hood to conceal herself from the sunlight.
Aramis' eyes darkened as he stretched a hand behind his head. "I eagerly wait to have my revenge on the both of them," he vowed.
Her curls bounced as she bowed down to kiss him once more. "Shhh... One day," she whispered nudging his face.
He grabbed her hand suddenly. Grinning he replied, "Can't come any sooner,"
Antoinette nodded. She packed a small bag with her belongings, put on kidskin gloves before leaving. A short glance at Aramis made her heart jumpstart. She had waited one year to look forward to spend her time with him. Her inner soul cried as she left not wanting to let him see her weakness through tears.
As she walked out of the house, and further away from her Aramis, she made a pact to allow their second separation be as lengthy as the first. She would steel her emotions as much as possible and return as the old Antoinette. Not even the Cardinal would dare worry her mind.
The Cardinal has made his points clear enough. She thought bitterly. He made his bed, now he can lie in it for all his deception past, present, and hoped to be none in our futures.
The dawn rose vivaciously over the sleepy town of Paris. Dark clouds loomed over the palace but were quickly lighted by sunbeams from the east.
So nice of a woman to leave the man in the morning versus vice versa. Thumbs up to independent women! haha
Has anyone noticed when watching the film, Cardinal Richelieu changes his accent every time he speaks? It bothers me that he can't stick to one. :P And so does Jussac? I swear Jussac has a Western dialect in certain parts. My friend and I imitated him once and fell over laughing when replaying the scenes.
So, to pose a question to the audience, which is your favorite Musketeer? And why? I think it's clear who my favorite is ;)
As to why? Aramis is the most conscious in the movie. He had a clear line of vision and even though he would have made an excellent leader of the pack, it wouldn't be the shame. He is a leader in his own way with his mind determined to finish the task at hand. Not all shepherds lead the sheep through voice. :)
Review!