All for One (9 page)

“More fool he, then,” Léandre protested, his hand closing over Aristide’s to guide it to the flagon of oil. “We appreciate you, if he does not.”

“Indeed we do,” Perrin agreed. “You won’t have the problem of an unwilling partner in this bed.”

“Unruly,” Aristide observed, leaning over Léandre’s chest to nip at Perrin’s mouth, his tongue flicking out to lick at the taste of Léandre on the younger man’s lips. “Uninhibited,” he added, dipping his fingers into the oil and trailing them teasingly down Léandre’s crease. The blond bucked his hips up to deepen the caress, leading Aristide to smack his backside smartly. “Unrestrained,” he scolded, his lips twitching at his partner’s unrepentant grin, which transformed into an “O” of delight when Perrin once again swallowed his cock. “Unbridled, even,” Aristide chuckled, sliding a finger inside Léandre’s beckoning portal to the accompaniment of a heartfelt groan. “But definitely not unwilling.”

“Who were you saying talked too much?” Léandre complained, clutching Aristide by the shoulders and pulling him back down for a passionate kiss. He broke away only long enough to suck in a deep breath and demand another finger before melding their lips again, his tongue probing Aristide’s mouth in much the same way the older musketeer’s fingers delved into his eager channel. There was only one thing better than both his lovers’ mouths on him, and after a week’s absence he was too impatient to wait. “Fuck me already,” he demanded of Aristide, pulling Perrin’s head reluctantly off his cock. “And you, prepare yourself for me.”

“Unrelenting,” Perrin added to Aristide’s list. “Who put you in charge tonight? I thought we were making love to Aristide.” Even as he spoke, though, he reached for the oil and coated two fingers, working them inside himself so he’d be ready whenever Léandre was.

“Unabashed,” Léandre commented to Aristide, his eyes never leaving the delicious sight before him even as he shifted his hips, raising one knee to open himself to the bronze-haired musketeer. “How do you want to do this?” he asked, winking at Perrin. “See, I’m leaving the choice up to him.”

Perrin snorted, working his fingers deeper inside even as he consciously avoided his prostate. He wanted to save that pleasure for Léandre’s cock. Otherwise, he was likely to go off like a green youth.

“I want to feel both of you,” Aristide decided, withdrawing his fingers after a final brush over Léandre’s sweet spot and rolling onto his back. Coating his cock with a slick sheen of oil, he reached for the blond, pulling him up between his knees and kissing him deeply before turning him around. “Ride me,” he urged huskily. “That way I’ll be able to watch Perrin riding you.”

Groaning at the image conjured by Aristide’s words, Léandre grasped his cheeks with both hands and spread them apart, silently inviting Aristide to impale him. Aristide caught Léandre’s hip with one hand to draw him back, the other guiding his shaft to the oil-slicked cleft. Two deep moans sounded as Léandre slid down onto the rigid length, Aristide’s cock stretching him demandingly, Léandre’s passage squeezing around Aristide ardently. Flexing his thighs as one of Aristide’s hands slid up to pinch at his nipples, Léandre pushed up on the invasive rod, then slid down to force it even deeper inside. “
Merde
, that’s good,” he gasped, his head dropping back until his hair brushed his shoulders.

Perrin waited mostly patiently for Léandre to settle onto Aristide’s cock. When they were positioned, he rose up onto his knees, arranging himself across their thighs until he could sink down onto Léandre’s upstanding rod, his weight pressing Léandre deeper onto Aristide’s cock. Licking his lips at the thought of fucking them both this way, he started to rock, knowing Aristide would have almost no range of movement. He’d just have to make sure Léandre moved enough for both of them.

An inarticulate moan rasped from Aristide’s throat as Perrin’s weight added to Léandre’s, driving him deep into the mattress. Shifting his hips to stir his shaft in the clinging constraint of Léandre’s channel, his hands roved over his lovers’ chests, palming at the straining muscles. He closed his eyes, letting the weight and the movement and the connection to both his partners ground him, trying not to let his thoughts wander to the fourth man in the bedroom above them. He already had a plenitude of riches to be thankful for—it would be churlish to yearn for more.
Not to mention incredibly greedy
, he thought, turning his mind to providing as much pleasure as he could to the two men sharing his bed.

Watching Perrin prepare himself had already stolen much of Léandre’s patience—feeling his slick channel squeeze around him, while Aristide’s long cock continued to rub him in all the right places, was going to set him off like a Roman candle. Thrusting his hands into Perrin’s dark hair, he pulled him down into a rapacious kiss, moans of pleasure swallowed in Perrin’s equally ravenous response. Giving in to the powerful buffeting, he shook between the two hard bodies surrounding him, giving over control as he would only ever do with these two, trusting his satisfaction to their more than able hands.

Perrin returned Léandre’s kiss eagerly, determined to give as much pleasure as he was receiving. His mind told him it had only been a week since the three of them were together and less than a day since he and Léandre had last indulged, but his heart ignored it. Any time, however short, was too long apart, and he needed this moment of union, of communion, to reforge the bonds that tied them together as one. Regardless of how they came together, they were stronger together than they could ever be apart, a strength borne out in the primality of their joining. Needing to feel connected to Aristide as well, he supported his weight with one hand, the other reaching behind him to fondle the older man’s sac, determined to do his part to welcome Aristide home.

Perrin’s touch sent a jolt of heat through Aristide’s veins, his balls swelling at the rough caress. Craving the taste of a lover’s skin as his climax neared, he pushed up on his elbows until he could lap at the sweat glistening on Léandre’s back. The change in angle pushed him deeper inside Léandre, the head of his cock rubbing the velvet skin, setting sparks flaring in both of them. He felt Léandre tense above him, the sudden clench of muscle that presaged orgasm. “That’s it, Léandre,” he crooned, his voice hoarse with passion. “Let it take you—let me feel you coming around me.”

“
Putain
!” Léandre gasped, Aristide’s sinful voice and Perrin’s hot channel tightening around his cock the final trigger to set off an explosive climax. With an inarticulate wail, as though he were trying to call both their names at once, Léandre froze, his muscles locked in a rictus of agonized pleasure.

The hot wash of Léandre’s seed combined with the unexpected clasp of Aristide’s hand around his neglected cock sent Perrin over the edge as well, his body convulsing with ecstasy as he climaxed hard, his seed shooting out to coat Léandre’s chest. He slumped backward, catching himself with one hand, the other doing its best to ring an orgasm from Aristide’s tense balls.

The sight and scent and feel of both his lovers coming around him should have been enough to throw Aristide into the abyss of pleasure as well, but he teetered on the brink, the release he craved still tantalizingly out of reach. Sinking back onto the mattress, he pulled Léandre down with him, slipping free of the slackened channel. The loss of his fullness coupled with the splash of Perrin’s come on his chest released Léandre from his erotic paralysis, and he turned to spoon against Aristide’s chest. When Aristide’s still-hard shaft nudged his belly, he slid down the toned body to lap at the glistening head, moaning at the musky flavor.

Realizing Aristide had not yet found his release, Perrin positioned himself next to Léandre, his tongue wetting the furry sac between Aristide’s legs. He lapped at the sweaty skin, tasting the exertions of the day as he did his best to urge his lover to climax.

Two wet, hot tongues licking his overaroused flesh were all the impetus Aristide needed. With a raw shout, he came with shuddering ferocity, the hot cream of his release pulsing out to be lapped up hungrily by his avid lovers. Before his muscles relaxed into total repletion, he pulled the two men up to nestle on each side of him, blond and dark heads meeting in a long, slow kiss over his heaving chest.

In the
chambre de bonne
above the main bedroom, Benoît tossed alone on his narrow cot. The intervening layers of wood and plaster could not completely muffle the sounds of passion from the room below, leaving him in no doubt as to how the musketeers were celebrating Aristide’s return. Despite his two conversations with the musketeer on the subject, facing the reality of the three men as lovers left him feeling incredibly unsettled. He did his best to push the images evoked by the passionate exclamations from his mind, but they would not let him rest, not while the sounds continued.

He told himself repeatedly that such congress was evil, against the natural order, but the grunts and groans that reached his ears sounded anything but evil. They were so clearly cries of pleasure, not pain, that Benoît found himself questioning what he’d always believed to be true. How else could an otherwise admirable man engage in such activities?

He caught himself trying to identify Aristide’s voice amidst the rumble of noise, that realization shocking him to his core. Why should he care what Aristide did or with whom? He had no claim on the musketeer. He
wanted
no claim on the musketeer. Who the man slept with was none of his business. And yet….

Pulling the pillow over his head, he tried to ignore the flash of jealousy when the sudden silence from below informed him that all three men had found their release. The bed they shared was large, but not so large that they could sleep without touching. Benoît yearned suddenly for that simple human contact. He’d pushed Aristide away when they'd been forced to share a bed at the inn, but given the chance to do it again, he thought perhaps he would allow himself to be held.

He shifted again, trying to find a comfortable position in the cold, hard, lonely bed.

Chapter 7

T
HE
sound of laughter penetrated the fog of exhaustion that surrounded him first. Slowly, Benoît opened his eyes, trying to remember where he was. It took a moment for the haze in his mind to clear as he stared blankly at the plain white-washed walls and low ceiling. Then it all came back in a rush: the attack, the rescue, Aristide and his refusal to simply let Benoît die or leave, the sight of the other two musketeers in bed together, the knowledge that Aristide intended to join them. His face flamed as he remembered the sounds that had drifted up to him on the night air, so clearly sounds of passion. The sounds he heard now were much less fraught, simple camaraderie rather than lusty grunts and groans. Sitting up, he scrubbed at his face with shaking hands, wondering if he dared go downstairs yet, wondering how he was supposed to face the three men, complete strangers in the case of the two he had found in bed last night, with the knowledge he now possessed of the relationship between them.

The smell of fresh bread joined the tempting sounds, his stomach rumbling eagerly at the thought of food, while his soul cried out for simple human companionship. He reminded himself not to get his hopes up. Aristide and the other two had each other already. They hardly needed someone else to clutter up their lives, particularly someone who didn’t share their tastes and so would have to be excluded from a hefty portion of their experiences. No, he was better off leaving before he got used to being around people again. As long as he stayed numb, he could slink off somewhere to die, but if he started feeling again, all the old hurts would come rushing back too.

Aristide’s eyes strayed to the narrow stairs leading to the upper level for the third time since Léandre had arrived with a fresh loaf from the bakery for their morning meal. He didn’t believe Benoît could still be asleep given their loud conversation, but it appeared the blacksmith was going to skulk upstairs until he fetched him down. Remembering their parting comments from the previous night, Aristide felt a twinge of guilt, but pushed it away ruthlessly. Be damned if he would rearrange his life for a stranger who had made it amply clear he wanted nothing more than to leave as soon as Aristide would let him. Still, he needed to get Benoît down to eat before there was no food left. Rising to his feet, he walked to the foot of the staircase and called up loudly enough to be heard over Léandre’s and Perrin’s laughter. “Are you awake up there, slugabed? You’d best come down before there’s nothing left of breakfast but the crumbs!”

“Just leave him up there, Aristide,” Perrin called from across the room. “He obviously thinks he’s too good for us. Let him rot up there until we need him.”

“Don’t be so hard on the lad, Perrin,” Léandre retorted good-naturedly. “He’s obviously a country bumpkin, not used to the sights and sounds of city life.” His broad grin left no doubt of the sights and sounds he meant, since he was sure their guest was too embarrassed to show his face after interrupting them the night before.

“Doesn’t give him an excuse for bad manners,” Perrin groused. “We saved his life, after all. The least he could do is be properly thankful.” Something in Aristide’s voice the night before had struck a chord in Perrin, and it bothered him to think that the older musketeer had been in any way rebuffed by some ignorant, self-righteous lout without enough sense to see the goodness and generosity that lay beneath Aristide’s admittedly handsome surface. Perrin would be polite, but he’d definitely reserve judgment until he saw whether the newcomer deserved his respect.

“Having to face the two of you, it’s small wonder he’s hesitant to come down.” Aristide frowned at his two friends and called up the staircase again. “I promise they’re properly dressed this morning. Now come down before you faint from weakness—we have an appointment to keep at musketeer headquarters, remember.”

Benoît almost refused simply to prove that he could, but that was churlish and despite his country upbringing, that was not his nature. Reminding himself that if the musketeers truly intended to take advantage of him, they’d already had plenty of opportunity, he straightened his travel-worn clothes as best he could and descended to the common room outside the bedroom.

The sight that greeted him had no bearing on the sight from the last time he had entered this room. Gone were the hedonists of the night before, replaced by three well-groomed, well-trimmed soldiers, their uniform tunics neatly brushed, the black fabric highlighted with silver piping at the shoulders and wrists, the gold King’s cross and
fleur-de-lys
on the left panel. They had not yet donned their weapons, the swords leaning against the wall by the door, but they had strapped the sheaths already to the leather belts crossing their chests. He caught himself in a half-bow of admiration and respect.

“Sit down,” Aristide invited, privately thinking the blacksmith looked as if he might fall down if he did not. Surely one delayed meal could not have left him in such a state? Tearing a sizable hunk of bread from the remaining loaf, he set it on a plate and pushed it toward Benoît. “There’s butter and jam, and water if you’re thirsty,” he indicated with a nod.

“Or we could open a bottle of wine,” Léandre suggested with a wink. “Just to be hospitable, of course.”

“We have a guest,” Perrin countered snidely, not sure he cared for the odd look on the stranger’s face or for his continued silence. “Surely his worthiness deserves a cup of your precious hot chocolate.”

“There’s no need to mock me,” Benoît snapped with a hot flush, taking the seat Aristide indicated. “I know I’m a simple blacksmith, but you needn’t rub it in my face.” Turning to the one man he knew at least a little, he added, “Thank you for breakfast.”

“Thank us after you’ve eaten; you look as if you need to,” Aristide replied, frowning at Perrin. “Don’t mind Perrin, he’s always surly in the morning.”

Especially when he doesn’t get the fucking he wants,
Léandre thought , though he limited himself to extending his hand with a smile. “Yes, please don’t judge all musketeers by his standard. I’m Léandre.”

“The loud one?” Benoît asked before he could censor his words. As soon as they were out, he regretted them. He didn’t belong here, didn’t want to fall prey to the seductive offer of easy masculine teasing. In a few days they’d be done with him, and he’d be alone again, while they’d still be here with each other, having forgotten all about him.

Perrin and Léandre exchanged glances and broke into laughter, the blond thumping the stranger on the shoulder—luckily, his uninjured one—to acknowledge the jest. Aristide shook his head, giving up on trying to instill order to the rapidly deteriorating meal. “Our
guest
is Benoît, from near Carcassonne. Now finish eating so we can bring him to meet with
M.
de Tréville.”

Benoît took a bite of the bread and butter, simple fare but delicious after weeks of starvation. “I still don’t know what purpose you think this is going to serve,” he repeated. “I don’t know anything useful. I didn’t even know what was in that letter. Only that I was supposed to take it to Cardinal Richelieu.”

“
M.
de Tréville will want to question you, in any case,” Léandre replied. “There is no one more aware of the intrigues surrounding the court and the King. He will know how to unravel this mystery, if any can.”

“Just make sure you answer his questions with everything you know, or you’ll find out just how loyal the musketeers are to their captain as well as to their King,” Perrin warned, sheathing his sword with an elegant hiss and adjusting the angle of his hat rakishly. If not for the glare on his face, he would have been the picture of noble perfection. The harsh expression, though, served as a potent reminder of his vocation.

“You have nothing to fear from
M.
de Tréville,” Aristide assured Benoît as he adjusted his own cloak over the long sweep of his sword. “We could not hope for a nobler and wiser man to lead us, or a more dedicated protector of the King.” Gesturing for the younger man to precede him, they followed his two companions out the door.

The distance from their rooms to
M.
de Tréville’s
hôtel particulier
took them through narrow streets past Saint Germain des Prés toward the Seine. Benoît tried not to gawk openly at the bustling streets and busy byways, full of carts and commerce, some of it of the more risqué variety. It seemed that here in Paris, everything truly did have a price. He wondered what the price was of the men beside him.

The levity of their morning meal was left behind on the short walk, and it was three somber and silent musketeers who climbed the stairs to
M.
de Tréville’s chamber of business. Aristide bowed in greeting to his captain before performing the necessary introduction. “
Mon capitaine
, this is Benoît, a blacksmith from a village near Carcassonne. He is the messenger from whom we recovered the letter you have seen. Benoît, the captain of His Majesty the King’s Royal Musketeers,
M.
de Tréville.”

“
Monsieur
,” Benoît acknowledged with a low bow, recognizing the innate nobility of the man behind the desk. Aristide and the others looked imposing in their uniforms, but this man… this man seemed to embody it. “Your soldiers tell me the contents of the letter were most displeasing for you, a fact I deeply regret. I did not know what I carried, only that the man offered me much needed gold to ride to Paris with it in my possession.”

Perrin frowned at the pretty manners and earnest words. He reminded himself that
M.
de Tréville had not gotten to be captain of the Royal Musketeers by being a dupe and that he would see through any deception, but even so, he shifted onto the balls of his feet, ready for whatever might come.

“If it had reached the Cardinal as planned, it might well have discommoded me,”
M.
de Tréville agreed from his place behind his desk. “As it is, though, that eventuality was avoided. So tell me, Benoît from near Carcassonne, who asked you to carry the letter?”

“A foreigner,” Benoît replied immediately. “He didn’t tell me his name, and I didn’t think to ask. You look at me askance, but you don’t understand, here in your pretty palace with food at your elbow and the King’s ear. I was starving, and he offered me enough money to feed myself for weeks, hopefully long enough to find a place to work so I could earn my living again with my hands as I did at home. It didn’t occur to me to question the commission.”

“I am not condemning you,” the captain responded, “for if as you say you did not know what you carried, you had no reason to decline such a generous offer. Though I assure you that we are not as ignorant as you may believe of the hardships that exist both within Paris and throughout France.” He leaned forward, his gaze as he regarded the blacksmith both shrewd and kind. “Aristide tells me you were attacked shortly after receiving the letter. Do you believe it was related?”

“I have no reason to think so,” Benoît answered honestly.

“We suspect he was simply set upon by ruffians—perhaps ones who saw him receive the payment,” Aristide added. “The money was gone from his knapsack when we found it, and though the letter had been torn open, it was not taken.”

M.
de Tréville nodded in consideration. “You say the man who employed you was a foreigner—what made you think so?”

“His accent,” Benoît replied, the kind acceptance he felt from the older man seeping deep into the wounds on his heart and soul. “He spoke well, but… stiffly, slowly, as if he weren’t completely sure I would understand. I know I look a mess, and I doubt I looked better then, but I don’t think I came across as a simpleton.”

“Would you recognize the accent if you heard it again?” Aristide asked, glancing at his superior. “Perhaps here in Paris there may be others from the same country, if not the ones behind the letter themselves.”

“I might,” Benoît allowed, “though our meeting was quite short. I don’t know how you’d arrange it, but I’d be willing to tell you if I heard a similar accent.”

“Can you describe the gentleman who engaged you?”
M.
de Tréville asked.

Benoît closed his eyes and tried to bring up the picture of the man he had seen only once, in a shadowy inn in Lyon. “He was of medium height and build,” he began slowly, “perhaps as tall as myself, but not as broad through the shoulder. He had dark hair, what little I could see beneath his hat, and a heavy moustache and goatee, but his cheeks were shaven clean. He was dressed finely, gentleman’s gear, not a merchant or the like, nor yet a servant, but beyond that, I could not say.”

“He sounds like a Spaniard,” Léandre suggested.

“France is no longer at war with Spain,” Aristide rejoined. “Her Majesty the Queen is King Philip’s sister, remember. What reason would a Spaniard have to stir up trouble with the musketeers?”

“What reason would any foreigner have to stir up trouble among us,” Perrin retorted, “unless this plot is not about us at all, but about the King, as
M.
de Tréville suggested? A distracted guardian is worse than no guardian at all.”