It was not until the following day we reached the limestone quarry, which made for a very tense, very awkward night where we rested in a village inn. Neither of us spoke to one another, merely ate a meal in silence then retired to our beds. In the morning we set off in equal attitude, much too angered with one another to speak of anything, or even sustain a cordial politeness. I could not tell whose anger was deeper, for Porthos seemed just as incensed as myself, though I believed I had the better grounds for indignation.
Regardless, it hardly mattered any longer. Once our tempers had cooled, perhaps we would be able to reconcile. Four years was a long time to rest with bitter feelings, and they had corrupted anything which had once been good. A little more time, and I would remember those nostalgic times, be reminded of why I loved Porthos as he was, and hopefully that resentment would fade away. I prayed for that day to come, for I did not wish to live the rest of my life a bitter spinster. We continued along the road, finding the quarry easily enough and a few simple enquiries had us continuing on to where several large wagons had been noticed passing by.
I was glad to leave the quarry behind us, nose wrinkling at the smell and I had been forced to hide my face in the fabric of my cloak to keep my stomach from roiling. Nauseated, I almost had to throw myself down from the horse to expel whatever I had eaten for breakfast, but thankfully I held it in. Porthos glanced to me, a momentary concern, then he moved on without a word still. I grew tired of the silence. Perhaps it would have been better if I had stayed in Paris. We followed the road until we came across a large storehouse, sizeable enough to potentially host a thousand sacks of grain. Together, Porthos and I dismounted and tethered our horses out of sight. Removing my cloak, I draped it over the saddle so that it would not become a nuisance, glad that I was wearing my riding clothes and not a court gown. It allowed for better movement, and was far more practical for situations such as this.
Lifting a cover from the saddlebag, I withdrew my brother's hunting bow, the arched wood curving smoothly in a recurve, a quiver of arrows promptly fixed to my back with the belt secured across my front. My fingers flexed instinctively, warming them so that they were flexible and nimble, stringing the bow expertly so that it was ready for use. Once we were ready, I nodded to Porthos, still angry with him, but resorting to working together for the sake of the city. If the grain was in there, then we needed to confirm and reclaim it. He led the way. I followed upon his heel.
We kept ourselves low, moving quickly but not enough to draw attention to ourselves, steady and calm as we moved for the nearest available cover. There were two wagons situated outside the open doors of the storehouse, so we used one to conceal our presence. When we halted, Porthos moved his hand naturally to reach behind him until his fingers brushed against me, they lingered for a moment, satisfying himself that I was there before drawing them away. My anger lessened a little.
From my position I could not see, but after a moment, Porthos drew himself back and looked to me with an assured nod. "The grain's there." Trusting him, I turned my head and listened, hearing several muffled voices but could not hear distinctly enough to determine their number. I made to ask, but Porthos anticipated my question. He held up four fingers, mouthing the word before pointing towards the archway behind us, offering another way inside without directly walking in the front door.
Drawing an arrow, I knocked it upon the bowstring and held it loose but ready to draw. Porthos went inside first and I followed, lingering out of sight as he moved towards a stack of barrels. Inside, the storehouse was practically bursting to the brim full of grain sacks, all bearing the king's mark. We had found our quarry, it seemed. Almost a little too easily. Porthos stepped into view, silencing the murmur of voices whilst I remained behind the barrels, out of sight with my arrow half drawn. No sense in letting them know straight away that Porthos was not alone. "I believe that belongs to the king," he noted plainly, and I smiled a little to myself, amused at his candidness. A blade was drawn.
"I've never killed a musketeer." My head turned, looking through the gap between the barrels to see the fourth man approaching, sword tip pointed at Porthos whilst the other three men stood around the table, abandoning their card game. Porthos did not take kindly to being threatened. Neither did I.
"You never will." He struck first, knocking the sword aside before grasping one of the heavy sacks of grain to batter the first man with it, knocking him down before striking at the second who approached him. I stepped into view, removing myself from the shelter of the barrels and pulled the arrow upon the string with a quick eye selecting my target. The soft, meaty flesh of the thigh. The arrow found its mark, striking the man grappling with Porthos which caused him to refocus in attention to the pain in his leg instead of holding Porthos back. With the arrow sprouting from his leg, Porthos slammed him down upon the table with effortless strength. I reached for another arrow.
Yet to draw his sword, Porthos deflected a chair which was thrown at him then used it to block the sword of the third guard. My arrow pulled taut, I let it fly without hesitation. The arrowhead scraped across the top of the man's hand drawing a fresh line of blood and a scream as he dropped the sword, letting Porthos alone to clutch at his injury, superficial as it was. Before I could reach for a third arrow, the very first man had recovered his senses and rushed at Porthos. I lunged forwards with a warning cry, bearing my bow and stepping behind Porthos to shield his back.
The bow blocked the sword, allowing me to push it aside before I thrust the tip into his face, jabbing at his eye so that he howled. Before his hand could jump to clutch at the effective pain, I slipped the bow over his head so that the string pressed against his neck as I planted my foot against the man's chest, pushing and pulling simultaneously. When I released the bow, it cracked back against his face and shattered his nose with a gushing of blood bolder than a river rushing over falls. He screamed, writhing in pain on the ground whilst clutching at his face.
Suddenly lashing out, the man flung my bow from around his neck and staggered to his feet, face still bleeding profusely. He stared at me between the gaps of his fingers before howling and taking flight. I let him go, seeing no reason to kill a man whilst he back was turned. My head snapped to Porthos, fighting against the two remaining guards who both had their swords drawn and were pressing him back, trapping him against a wall of grain sacks, striking against him with determined blows. "Porthos!" Releasing a cry, I rushed to grasp my bow.
Out of pure muscular instinct the arrow was in my hand and knocked in less than a heartbeat as Porthos was flung against the sacks, driving the sword of one of the guards into one of them, but his back was turned to the other. Drawing in a sharp breath, the arrow flew and with a snap of the string, slammed against the guard just as Porthos turned to face him. The next arrow was knocked before he could follow the movement, aimed seemingly towards him. Instinctively he raised his hands, making to protest even as the string slipped through my fingers with a distinctive twang.
Bright white feathers blurred through the air and Porthos flinched, eyes pressing tightly closed as he heard the arrow strike flesh, heard a low grunt, then looked to his left. The final guard stood, gaping with the arrow protruding from his chest, sword frozen in the air from where he had reclaimed it and made to attack Porthos from behind. He stared at us, completely in shock before crumbling to the ground. I released my breath in a choked sound of relief, the intense rush of fear steadily subsiding now that Porthos was safe. Thank God.
Drawing in deep breaths, I allowed the bow to rest at my side as Porthos looked between the two men I had shot for his sake. Then he looked at me. Really looked at me. His gaze did not waver, and as I gasped for air, recovering from the rush the fight had brought upon me, my chest rising and falling, he looked at me. I had not realised we were moving towards one another until suddenly his hands were upon me, grasping my face to turn it upwards and I lost the ability to breathe.
His mouth seared itself against my own, hot and fierce as Porthos kissed me with a fervent passion unlike anything I had ever experienced. I responded. Moaning desperately as I dropped my bow and grasped at him, fisting my fingers into his curling hair, grasping at his broad shoulders and following my instinctive desires without question. Porthos had continued walking, steering me backwards until my back collided with something solid. I heard a resonant crash, barrels pushed to the ground then suddenly I was seized by the waist and lifted onto the lid of the one left standing, bringing me closer to Porthos' face. I learned to breathe whilst my mouth was sealed, inhaling and exhaling in quick breaths and gasps each time our lips parted to move or change, Porthos pulling upon my legs to wrap around him. He let me go for a moment, reaching behind me but I did not know why until his hand found my exposed leg. He had pulled off one of his gloves.
Bare flesh pressed against mine, a thrill of sin surging within until I cried out and threw back my head, responding naturally to his touches. I was utterly engulfed in his presence, his body pressed so closely to mine, intimately close. His mouth moved to my neck and I thought I might die from the sensation of heat and tension coiling inside me, tightening until it was almost unbearable. If this was sin, then I would gladly dance in hell with the Devil if it meant I could have something like this.
Porthos flexed his hand over my leg, kneading into the flesh before sliding higher, higher than anyone had ever touched before until his fingers brushed against a knotted scar and suddenly, he became very still. The only sound was my ragged breathing, scarce and rasping, trembling as one arm gripped around his neck to keep myself grounded to this mortal plain, lest my spirit tear free of its bodily confines. Blearily I blinked, rising from the depths of lust and desire as one might rise from sleep.
His hand was locked upon the scar he had found, and when I opened my eyes fully and gazed upon him, he looked overcome with shame and anger. I could not understand why. I briefly thought I might have done something wrong, but I could not think what, therefore it did not seem logical that he was angry with me. I glanced down and felt a searing heat burn in a flush across my face, realising just how far his hand had risen. Almost timidly, I touched his arm and lightly pushed it away, allowing me to toss down my skirts as my body continued to flutter and pulse. With a sudden realisation, I connected the scar to Porthos' sudden change in attitude.
The warmth vanished in an instant, and its absence left me shivering with a cold dread. I reached for him, brushing my fingers against his face for a moment before I lost my courage and took them away. "Does it feel repulsive?" I asked, and Porthos blinked mutely. "The scar. Does it repulse you?" I had asked in innocence, but Porthos suddenly became a rush of anger and fury. It crashed upon him like a wave against a cliff, changing the nature of his features enough so that I instinctively leaned away.
His fist struck the side of the barrel. I flinched from the sound and motion as he whirled away with a furious bellow and kicked at a small cart, toppling it over. Terror gripped me and the wounds upon my back ached with a fresh zeal, throbbing as if the lash was flaying into my skin all over again. I remained frozen where I perched, knees drawing towards my chest as I held my breath and watched Porthos warily. I did not understand or know the cause of his rage, but after several long, ragged breaths, he seemed to calm. He turned his head, but did not fully look at me. Once again, he could not bear to see me. "Come on. We need to take some of this back to the king. We've got the evidence we need." Still startled and a little timid from his sudden outburst, I nodded silently and slipped down from the barrel.
Without a word I collected my bow and hooked it over my shoulder, going to the cart outside and finding the harness for it. I tethered Porthos' horse to the wagon as Porthos tossed sacks of grain bearing the king's mark into the back, working in silence and avoiding looking at one another. My lips still recalled the press of his mouth against mine, my body swinging between pleasant flutters and anxious tension. I retreated into myself, focusing upon the task. Secure the wagon. Harness the horse. Tether my mare to the back. Make ready to leave. When I made to climb up onto the seat, however, Porthos suddenly appeared behind him. So focused upon my task left no room for my other senses, and when his hand brushed against me, a startled cry escaped me before I clamped my hand over my mouth to stifle it. Porthos snatched his hand away as if I had burned it somehow.
Blinking, he saw me trembling, quivering like a leaf in a strong breeze. Perhaps he saw the terror in my eyes too, an instinctive fear of anger and the threat of pain instilled in me by Rochefort. For a moment he was awash with fury once again, but then the storm quelled and he forcibly softened himself. "I'll never hurt you, darling'," quietly he murmured, slowly raising his hand to draw the soft leather of his glove against my cheek. "I'm not him. I'll never do anything to hurt you, I'd sooner cut off my own hand." With his fervent vow and the tender touch of his hand, I released my tension with a breath.
Nodding, I let Porthos lift me into the seat, but when he climbed up next to me I placed myself on the far edge, wanting a little distance between us. I was confused, and no amount of thinking could solve this puzzle before me, not with all the road ahead of us between the storehouse and Paris. Gingerly I touched my mouth, which felt a little swollen from his ministrations. Why would he do that, but suddenly grow angry? In such matters as these, I had no experience to draw from. Perhaps Constance would be able to tell me, but even as I thought it, I knew I did not want to talk to anyone else about what had happened. I was too embarrassed. Ashamed even to admit anything had happened, but more so, that Porthos had drawn away after touching a part of me that was damaged, and that hurt more than anything else in the world.