All for One (30 page)

“Nothin’ that concerns you, Léandre,” the butcher drawled. “I didna see a closed sign on the door, which means I can ’ave a glass of wine if I want. And maybe a nice piece of meat. It’s been awhile, eh, Perrin?” His gaze roved the dark musketeer’s body as he spoke.

“I’d expect you have enough to do handling your own meat,” Léandre muttered, the thought of this hulk having once bedded Perrin making his blood boil. “Go do your drinking somewhere else—no one here is interested in joining you.”

“Just because you’re not interested doesn’t mean nobody’s interested,” Hugues insisted.

Perrin pushed to his feet, his chair scraping sharply across the floor. He looked the butcher up and down dismissively, then turned to Léandre. “Let’s go, Léandre,” he said loudly enough to be overheard. “Something smells.”

He’d taken only one step when a meaty hand grabbed his arm. Immediately, every sword in the room flew from its sheath and pointed in his direction. Perrin looked back at the butcher. “I think you might want to move your hand. And then remove yourself. There’s nothing here for you, Hugues. Not now, not ever.”

Léandre’s blade slid down the butcher’s chest, pausing at the juncture of his legs. “Not ever,” he repeated, letting the sword’s tip catch at the rough fabric before sliding it back into its scabbard with an ominous hiss. “Not unless you want to find yourself a new sausage.”

Hugues released Perrin’s arm and took a step back, then another. “I didn’t know it was like that,” he babbled. “I thought—”

“Don’t think,” Perrin interrupted. “Just leave.”

A chorus of jeers and laughter followed the butcher as he hurried toward the door with as much speed as he could through the hostile crowd. “Something tells me he won’t be enjoying the musketeers’ custom any longer,” Léandre said, turning to glare at Perrin. “Perhaps he’ll spread the word to the rest of your old lovers that you aren’t available anymore.”

“You and Aristide were gone, and I was lonely,” Perrin defended himself feebly. “We hadn’t made any promises, and I didn’t see any harm in willing company.”

“I don’t care who you fucked in the past,” Léandre growled, even if the statement was not entirely truthful. He hadn’t been a saint by any means himself, but he hadn’t expected to feel such a hot flare of possessiveness at having Perrin’s promiscuous past rubbed in his face. “As long as I’m the only one fucking you from now on.”

“I already promised you my future,” Perrin reminded him sharply, “but I can’t change my past. Am I going to have to defend myself every time we run into a former conquest?”

“Only when he thinks he can still have a piece of you.” Léandre knew he was being unreasonable, but the niggle of jealousy had flared to a gut-clenching knot at the sight of Hugues’s hands on
his
Perrin.

“So you hold me accountable for their actions?” Perrin demanded. “I didn’t encourage him. In fact, I actively discouraged him. Yet you seem to be blaming me for his interest! We hadn’t made any promises when I fucked him, Léandre.”

Across the room, Benoît frowned. “Are Perrin and Léandre all right?” he asked Aristide softly.

Aristide hadn’t been blind to the presence of the neighborhood butcher, and the tense posture of his two former lovers even after the departure of Perrin’s one-time bedmate was setting warning bells sounding in Aristide’s head. Still, it was no longer his place to intervene between them. “They’ll have to learn to work things out between themselves,” he answered just as softly, though when he caught Léandre’s gaze, he inclined his head toward the door in silent suggestion. Enough of the musketeers knew of their predilection—and their hot heads—to shrug it off as a lover’s quarrel, but they’d do much better without an audience to fan the flames.

Benoît nodded but kept an eye on the two men. He wasn’t sure, even in this venue, that a scene would be a good idea.

“Maybe you need a reminder of what real fucking is like.” Catching hold of Perrin’s shoulder in a bruising grip, Léandre spun the dark-haired musketeer toward the door. “I believe you said something about leaving.”

Perrin let himself be propelled out the door. He didn’t really want to fight with Léandre. He just didn’t want to have his past thrown in his face every time they went out. “Are you man enough to give me a real fucking?” he goaded.

The cool night air took the edge off Léandre’s anger but did nothing to slake the lust incited by Perrin’s taunting words. Dragging the younger musketeer into the darkness behind the tavern, he shoved Perrin roughly against the wall. His hands went to the waist of Perrin’s breeches, one powerful tug enough to pull them down around the younger man’s knees.

Feeling the wind against his bare skin, Perrin braced himself for a hard, rough ride. Outside like they were, they didn’t have any oil to ease the way, but he didn’t protest the dry fuck, not when he’d provoked Léandre into it. He’d just hold on tight and take what pleasure he could find from it.

Perrin’s wordless acquiescence was the match that set Léandre’s desire ablaze. By all that was holy, he was going drive thoughts of anyone but him from Perrin’s mind and his body once and for all! Dropping to his knees, he spread the firm globes of Perrin’s arse and buried his head between them, his tongue stabbing deep into the musky portal.

Perrin bit back a hoarse shout, shocked at the sudden wet pressure of Léandre’s tongue. Not that they’d never done this before, of course, but it hadn’t been like this, so hot and fast and decadent. Anyone who came into the alley would see them, and there’d be no mistaking what Léandre was doing. The thought fired Perrin’s desire, leaving his cock weeping copiously.

Léandre’s tongue drove in and out, a different kind of fucking than Perrin probably expected but one that Léandre was enjoying every bit as much. Perrin’s taste intoxicated him more than all the wine he’d drunk, the wanton way he pushed into Léandre’s face making the blond determined to bring his lover undone. A hand slid around Perrin’s hip, cupping the swollen bollocks before wrapping around the equally heavy cock, stroking in time with Léandre’s probing tongue.

“Please,” Perrin gasped brokenly, his heart pounding in his ears as Léandre drove him wild. He rocked frantically between the dual sensation of Léandre’s tongue and hand working in concert to bring him to climax. Reaching behind himself with one hand, he spread his arse wider, trying to get Léandre even closer, even deeper.

Ignoring his own throbbing cock, Léandre tugged at Perrin’s, the sudden twitch in his hand signaling how close his lover was to rapture. Stabbing deeply enough to brush over the seat of Perrin’s pleasure, he pulled his tongue out and worked a thick finger inside the saliva-slick channel, his teeth closing over the smooth skin of Perrin’s buttock in a bite firm enough to leave the mark of his teeth branded in Perrin’s flesh.

Nothing could muffle Perrin’s shout as he climaxed, body jerking in rhythmic spasms as creamy fluid spattered the rough stone wall. He sagged back against Léandre, his knees giving out as he came.

Holding Perrin against his chest with one arm, Léandre cleaned the cream off his fingers, savoring the further taste of his lover. When he’d gleaned the last glistening droplet, he helped Perrin to his feet, backing him against the wall to claim him in a long, possessive kiss.

Perrin leaned heavily against the tavern wall, his chest heaving as he fell headlong into the kiss, the only kiss he would know for the rest of his life. A month ago, that thought would have been totally alien, but now he found he didn’t mind. In fact, he found the prospect wonderfully appealing. And he intended to spend his life making sure his lover felt the same. Once again, Léandre had made him come first, a fact Perrin wasn’t going to try to remedy in the alley, but when they got back to their lodgings….

“Let’s go home,” he growled. “Your arse is mine tonight.”

Epilogue

T
HE
sword’s tip danced a hand’s-breadth from his heart. Aristide twisted with a grace that belied the danger, his blade catching his assailant’s just below the hilt and sliding up with a long hiss of steel against steel, the parry changing to a thrust that sent the other man back a step to avoid the point of Aristide’s sword. The musketeer had scarce disengaged when a glint of late afternoon sunlight flashed on the wicked-looking dagger in his adversary’s left hand. He caught it on his quillon, sending the shorter blade spinning away, then dropped to his knees in a sudden move that left his opponent’s sword whistling through the empty air above his head. In one smooth movement, his shoulders slammed into the other man’s shins, sending him stumbling to the ground. Before he could swing his blade around to take advantage, his rival rolled to his knees, their swords meeting in a deadly stalemate.

“
Excelente
!” Teodoro rose to his feet, the tip of his rapier resting in the dirt of the practice yard as he wiped his brow with the end of the scarf he wore tied around his waist. “You are learning to think like a street fighter.”

His black tunic heavy for the warmer-than-usual autumn day, Aristide envied the Spaniard who had been able to shed his leather jerkin, though he had given Teodoro enough of a workout that sweat dampened his linen shirt. “You would have skewered me half a dozen times over by now if I hadn’t.” He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his brow. “
Merde
, it’s warm! Let’s see if Benoît is ready to join us for a mug of something refreshing before we head home.”

“I would not dare harm a hair on your head, for fear your smith would have at me with his hammer.” The Spaniard sheathed his blade and stooped to recover the
daga izquierda
, tucking it into the back of his belt and slinging his jerkin over one shoulder.

Aristide privately doubted there was much of anything Teodoro feared, save perhaps his Christian’s displeasure. Sliding his own blade into its scabbard, he clapped the Spaniard on the shoulder. “Benoît would be more like to say it was my own fault for seeking a fight.” Though Aristide had made sure the smith learned enough swordplay to defend himself should the need arise, Benoît was the first to admit he preferred making swords to wielding one.

Crossing the practice field and the stable yard behind it, they could hear the dull clang of metal on metal before the forge came into view. When it did, the sight was still enough to take Aristide’s breath away. In deference to the heat, both of the westering sun and of the forge, Benoît had stripped to the waist. His powerful shoulder muscles flexed as he raised the hammer, working the glowing bar of steel on the anvil before him with fluid grace. Aristide knew well the feel of that smooth skin beneath his palms, the tang of the sweat that beaded the broad chest, the strength that was in every sense his match. His cock tightened beneath his breeches as they paused, hesitant to disrupt Benoît’s exertions.

Benoît did not look up from his work, not wanting to ruin his efforts to finish the sword he was making, but he called out, feeling Aristide’s eyes on him like a caress. “I’ll be another few minutes, but you can come in if you want. I’ll warn you, though. It’s hot in here.”

“’Twas hot sparring too,” Aristide answered. “We’d hoped to lure you away with the promise of refreshment before we head home.” Since they had taken the lodgings Christian had recommended near the English ambassador’s residence, their path and Teodoro’s fell together most of the way.

“What are you working on?” Teodoro asked, the shape the smith was forging too long to be the piece they had spoken about some weeks before.

“
M.
de Tréville asked me to make a sword for him,” Benoît replied, setting aside the hammer and plunging the red-hot metal into a bucket, the even hiss reassuring him that the first forging had been successful. Setting it aside, he banked the fire, making sure everything was settled for the night. He wiped his face with a piece of soft rag, then shrugged into his shirt in preparation for heading home. Picking up a leather wrapped bundle, he handed it to his lover, checking quickly to make sure Teodoro’s body blocked the view from the practice yard so he could kiss Aristide as he gave him his gift. “And this is for you.”

The touch of Benoît’s lips, brief though it was, was enough to make the heat of the forge, the bundle in his hands, and the amused smile of the bodyguard shielding them vanish from Aristide’s awareness. Nothing existed in that instant but the heat that flared between them at even the simplest of kisses. When Benoît stepped back, Aristide blinked at the sudden loss, the weight of whatever it was Benoît had handed him recalling him to the here and now. “What
is—?” He halted when he folded the leather wrapping back to reveal a dagger, its blade gleaming beneath an intricately detailed hilt. The grip fit his hand as if it had been molded for it, the balance ideal as he slashed it through the heavy air of the forge.

“I’ve watched you and Teodoro spar,” Benoît said by way of explanation. “He let me borrow his
main gauche
so I could copy it and make one for you. If you’re going to fight like a mercenary, you need a mercenary’s weapons.”

Aristide couldn’t resist leaning in to claim his lover’s lips in another kiss. “It is a perfect gift,” he murmured, marveling that each day Benoît somehow found a way to make Aristide love him even more. Unable to show his appreciation in the manner he would choose were they alone, he lightened the emotion of the moment with a jest, vowing to demonstrate his gratitude in a way Benoît could not fail to understand as soon as they arrived home. “No matter what Perrin says, you are as valuable a musketeer behind your forge as he is behind his blade.”

“Though you have just sentenced Aristide to many more weeks of practice, until he can wield the
daga izquierda
as well as he can his sword—with either hand,” Teodoro added, his rare smile stretching beneath his heavy moustache.

Benoît shrugged. “If it ensures he comes home to me safely, I’ll deem it a small price to pay. Speaking of home, you mentioned refreshment. Will you be joining us, Teodoro?”

As Christian had received a packet of letters from England that morning which would keep him immersed in court correspondence for another few hours, Teodoro had intended to join the musketeers for a cooling mug or two at the nearby tavern. The expression on Aristide’s face, though, as he all but devoured his lover with his gaze, convinced the Spaniard that the pair would scarce miss his company. “I thank you, but I believe the ambassador will have need of my services soon,” he demurred. In fact, Teodoro realized, he was of a mood to return home himself and find a way to distract Christian from any more paperwork for the rest of the evening.

“Are you sure?” Benoît felt compelled to ask, though the heat of Aristide’s gaze made him eager to forego the tavern for the comfort of their own home. Still, hospitality had its demands.

“
Gracias
, but I am quite sure. A good evening to you both,
amigos mio
.” Teodoro shrugged into his jerkin and bowed gracefully before taking his leave, his sword swinging with the length of his strides.

“I have a better idea than the tavern,” Benoît murmured, now that they were truly alone. Desire curled in his stomach as he thought of what he was about to offer. “Let’s go home and find our refreshment there. I have another surprise for you, something best shared just between the two of us.”

“Is there some occasion for all these gifts?” Aristide smiled, though the prospect of having Benoît to himself was certainly more appealing than having to disguise his desire in a crowded taproom.

Benoît nodded. “One year ago today, you saved my life. It seemed like reason enough to show you how grateful I am for that gift. And to take the final step into our lives together.”

“Your love is the only gift I have ever desired,” Aristide assured him, moved that Benoît had marked the anniversary of the day they met, the day that had sent his life in a new direction. He tucked a strand of dark hair that had escaped the queue Benoît confined it in at the forge behind his lover’s ear, the backs of his fingers lingering a moment against Benoît’s cheek. “The final step?” he asked, wondering how Benoît could possible entwine himself any more fully into his life and into his heart.

“You have been more than patient with me as I’ve learned what it meant to be your lover,” Benoît explained. “It’s time I learned one last thing. Take me home and make love to me, Emile.”

B
ENOÎT
washed away the sweat of the day, the cool water in the barrel refreshing after the heat of the forge. As eager as he was to have Emile—the name alone brought a smile to his face, for no one else had the right to call his lover by his given name—make love to him finally, the musketeer had insisted they both clean up from their exertions, wanting to make this final step between them as perfect as possible. Benoît dunked his head, shaking it as he straightened to get out the excess water, stomach jumping as he thought of what would transpire when he went back inside.

Aristide hadn’t pressured him in any way to change the dynamics of their lovemaking, but Benoît knew he was not naturally a bottom, had known it even before he saw Perrin’s and Léandre’s reactions the morning after they first made love. The fact, then, that his lover had happily welcomed him inside for the past ten months made the gift of even greater magnitude.

Finished with his ablutions, he took a deep breath and went inside to find his lover.

Aristide looked up from the kitchen table where, most evenings, he would be preparing dinner, the domestic routine calming after a full day’s duty. Tonight, waiting for Benoît after his own washing up, he felt anything but calm. His pulse quickened as his lover entered, his half-open shirt framing his strong, smooth chest, the muscles well defined by hammer and bellows. Benoît’s dark hair, damp from washing up, framed his face in a riot of curls. But most of all, the look in his chestnut eyes, a deep, smoldering look that betrayed his desire, fanned an answering heat in Aristide’s gaze.

“No dinner this evening?” Benoît teased, straddling Aristide’s lap. He rocked against Aristide’s cock suggestively, stomach tightening at the thought of what he had asked Aristide to do tonight.

They could forget about dinner completely, as far as Aristide was concerned, especially when Benoît was taking the initiative in their lovemaking. The musketeer still marveled at times that his love had been able to overcome the teaching and conditioning of his past to accept a male lover. Once he had admitted the emotion between them, Benoît was as passionate and responsive a lover as Aristide could wish; but as bedding another man was wholly new to him, Aristide had naturally taken the lead in their loving. He had been careful to make things as easy as he could, introducing new ways of lovemaking gradually and never demanding anything he thought Benoît might not be ready for. That Benoît had asked to be loved in the one way they had never joined had his blood simmering with desire.

Turning in his chair to allow Benoît to settle even closer, Aristide wrapped his arms around his lover’s waist, his head resting on the bare skin exposed by Benoît’s open shirt. The scent of his skin sent a wash of arousal through Aristide, his cock growing even harder where it pressed against Benoît’s inner thigh. “This rouses an altogether different hunger,” Aristide admitted.

“One I can satisfy for you?” Benoît teased, stroking the long hair gently, his hips moving with greater urgency as his need to take this final step increased.

“One only you can satisfy.” Looking up, Aristide pulled Benoît’s head down to his, claiming his mouth in a kiss into which he poured all his emotion and devotion. Benoît’s tongue met his boldly, surging into Aristide’s mouth in a rare bid for dominance. Delighted by the surprising turn of events, Aristide let his lover control the kiss, his fingers sliding deep into the blacksmith’s wavy locks to encourage his plundering.

Benoît smiled into the kiss, his fingers going to work on Aristide’s light shirt. His lover had shed his uniform as soon as he came home, but the undertunic remained. Pulling the laces free, he slid his hands over the lightly furred chest, kneading and caressing the way he’d learned Aristide liked. “Let’s go upstairs,” he suggested. “We’ll be more comfortable in bed.”

“I am willing, but weighty matters hold me back.” Aristide smiled, sliding his hands down Benoît’s back. He cupped and squeezed the globes of his buttocks, humming in pleasure when Benoît’s cock surged against his.

Benoît laughed and pushed to his feet. “Come. Those weighty matters can occupy you in bed as easily as here.” He held out his hand, encouraging Aristide to accompany him.

Rising to follow his lover, Aristide wondered what had prompted this newfound assurance. He was not about to complain, however, admiring the play of muscles as Benoît climbed the stairs ahead of him, still clasping his hand. He paused at the threshold of their bedchamber, curious to see whether Benoît would continue to take the lead even here.