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THE MORNING OF their departure dawned warm and humid, promising another sweltering day as summer showed no signs of abating. When he arrived at the stables with his bedroll and saddlebags slung over his shoulder, d’Artagnan was surprised to find that Porthos had already departed.
“Yes,” Aramis said. “He told me to tell you that he’d see you and Constance in a few days.”
This was unusual enough behavior for the normally gregarious Porthos that d’Artagnan asked, “Is everything all right with him? I expected to be able to wish him a safe journey in person.”
Aramis shrugged and smiled, though it did not quite reach his eyes. “I don’t believe this mission agrees with him, that’s all. It’s nothing that you need to concern yourself with, you have my word.” His attention was drawn over d’Artagnan’s shoulder, to Constance’s approach. “Ah! Mme d’Artagnan. A fine morning to you, my dear,” he teased.
D’Artagnan could not prevent the faint flutter of excitement at hearing Constance addressed so, and reminded himself firmly that it was merely a ruse, and nothing over which to get excited.
“A good morning to you, as well, M. Aramis,” Constance responded in kind. Her twinkling eyes moved to d’Artagnan’s. “And to you, of course, dear husband.”
Blood rushed to d’Artagnan’s cheeks, staining his face with a flush despite his every effort. “Good morning, Constance,” he managed.
He was saved from further embarrassment by the arrival of Athos, Milady, and de Tréville. Athos continued on to the stable to stow Milady’s belongings on her horse, and after nodding a greeting to the other two, d’Artagnan hoisted his own bags and followed him. Servants had already sent Constance’s belongings ahead, and her little mare stood saddled and ready next to Milady’s and d’Artagnan’s horses. It was the work of a few moments for d’Artagnan to secure everything across the bay gelding’s back, and when he turned around, Athos was standing behind him, waiting.
“I realize that you will not necessarily be in a position to fulfill my request of you,” the older man said, the words unusually indirect for such a normally curt and taciturn individual, “but if it is possible, I would like for you to... to attempt to...”
In a flash, d’Artagnan understood. “Athos,” he interrupted, “I think Milady is perhaps the most capable of all of us of looking out for herself. That said, to the extent that it is within my power to do so, I will try to keep her safe.”
Athos released the breath he’d been holding, almost imperceptibly. “Of course you will, d’Artagnan. I know that. I merely—”
“I understand,” d’Artagnan said solemnly. “Keep everyone here safe as well, if you can.”
“You have my word on it.”
D’Artagnan extended a hand to grip his mentor’s upper arm, and received a firm, unwavering grip on his own arm in return.
“Come,” said Athos, taking both women’s horses by the reins and leading them out into the yard. “You had best get an early start. It will be hot today for traveling.”
D’Artagnan followed with his own horse. Outside, Aramis was saying his farewells to Constance and Milady, bestowing a courtly kiss on the right hand of each. He turned to d’Artagnan and pulled him into a warm embrace, which d’Artagnan returned.
“Safe journey, little brother,” Aramis said. He flicked his eyes briefly to Constance and back again. “Remember that you carry your treasure with you.”
“Some of it, yes,” d’Artagnan agreed, patting the other man on the back before withdrawing. “And I expect to see the rest of it again before too long.”
Aramis smiled broadly and clasped his shoulder. “So you will.”
De Tréville cleared his throat. “Her Majesty sends her well wishes for all of you, and you have mine as well. I have every confidence in your ability to succeed in this important mission.”
“Thank you, Captain,” d’Artagnan said, and shook de Tréville’s hand firmly.
Milady did not acknowledge de Tréville’s presence at all, but her eyes flickered across d’Artagnan and Constance. “I’ll see you soon,” she said. “Constance, give me a few days and I will speak to the Cardinal about making you my personal maid.”
“That’s fine,” Constance replied. “I’ll need at least that long to settle in, I suspect.”
D’Artagnan stepped forward to boost Constance into the saddle. When he turned around, it was to find that de Tréville had retired and Athos was kissing Milady goodbye. He jerked his attention away to give them some privacy, his gaze falling instinctively on Constance instead—only to find that she was watching the pair avidly, like someone trying to work out a puzzle. D’Artagnan mentally shook himself free of his thoughts and mounted his own horse, even as Athos and Milady parted. Athos helped his wife into the saddle.
With a final wave, d’Artagnan and Constance headed for the north gate out of the city, while Milady made for the east gate. Chartres was quiet this early in the morning except for the occasional merchant setting up wares for the day. Ahead of them, the Porte Châtelet still showed slight signs of damage from Isabella’s final attack, though the bulk of the repairs were finished.
“Did you get a chance to say your farewells to your brothers yesterday?” d’Artagnan asked.
“I did,” Constance replied. “Between this and following the troops to La Croix-du-Perche, I believe they despair of my future. I’m certain I heard them discussing tying me up in the cellar for my own safety when my back was turned.”
“You have my solemn word that I would ride to your rescue were they ever to attempt such a thing,” d’Artagnan said, hiding a smile.
Constance laughed. “That’s good to know. Mind you, I only told them that my godfather secured me a place at court, and they still believe I was working as a wet nurse for a wealthy merchant’s wife, so they don’t even know the half of things.”
The pair of them passed through the arched gates leading out of Chartres. They nodded at the guards, who offered respectful salutes in return.
“I would like to meet them at some point,” d’Artagnan said.
“I’m sure you will... at some point,” Constance hedged. “I’m afraid you may find them a bit overbearing. I certainly do. It’s why I took the first chance I could to get away from them, frankly. I may have been a child when I was married off and left home the first time, but I’m a grown woman now—a respectable widow—and I’m tired of other people trying to run my life for me.”
“You’ve become wet nurse to a King and a spy for the Queen in the course of a single summer,” d’Artagnan said, unable to keep the grin off his face. “You seem to be quite capable of controlling your own destiny, from where I’m sitting.”
Constance blushed, and he caught his breath as she sent him a look from underneath her dark eyelashes that set his blood to smoldering.
“It took me awhile, but I’m doing my best,” she said, and her low, honeyed tone did nothing to calm his heart.
He cleared his throat awkwardly, and changed the subject. “When we get to Paris, we’ll have to ask around for some affordable rooms nearby, I suppose. Do you know what the rents are like there?”
She did not protest the conversational shift, though her cheeks remained pink and flushed even as they discussed a basic budget for their needs and debated how much they were likely to be paid, as servants. Their plan, in deference to the stifling heat and Constance’s relative lack of riding experience, was to reach Paris in four days, traveling between six and eight leagues per day and staying at inns every night. Today they would make for Éparnon, and with their early start, they could find some shade and rest during the midday hours if need be.
Indeed, it was not long until the hazy humidity of the early morning gave way to a scorching yellow sun. D’Artagnan felt the sweat trickling down his back and chest before they’d ridden three hours, and beside him, Constance’s curls began to stick to her forehead and cheeks, a growing damp patch of perspiration soaking through her bodice and darkening the material. While d’Artagnan could and did remove his leather jerkin, riding in his linen shirtsleeves, modesty prevented Constance from doing anything more than twisting her hair up into a messy bun to get it off her neck and fanning herself one-handed with a lace fan that had been a last-minute gift from the Queen.
When a copse of trees appeared in the distance with the sun beating down from overhead, they urged the sweat-lathered horses toward the shade eagerly. The little glade contained a muddy runnel—nothing more—but the horses drank thirstily from the cloudy water, and it was at least out of the glare of the unforgiving sunlight.
“Ugh,” Constance said as she slid down to sit at the base of one of the larger trees, waterskin in hand. “There’s not even a hint of a breeze. I thought it was bad in Chartres, but at least the kitchens in the palace stayed cool most of the time.”
D’Artagnan pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and dipped it in the little trickle of water until it was soaked. “Here,” he said, handing it to Constance. “Tie this around your neck. It’s not much, but it should help a bit.”
Constance did as she was bade, and sighed in pleasure. “No, that’s really good, actually. Thank you.”
They drank from the skins and d’Artagnan splashed a little water on his own neck and chest. It was too hot to nap, and d’Artagnan did not want to leave them unguarded in any case, so they merely sat quietly against their respective tree trunks, passing the time in a near stupor as the horses dozed and stamped at flies. Occasionally a cart or someone on foot would pass on the road beyond the trees, but no one disturbed them. The dappled light filtering through the trees and the buzz of insects lent an almost dreamlike quality to their surroundings, and d’Artagnan found himself watching Constance as she leaned back, eyes closed—comparing her to some fanciful forest nymph of legend.
Eventually, she blinked her eyes open and caught him staring, but she only smiled and stared back for a while. After a short time, she took a deep breath and released it in a sigh, breaking the moment as she stretched her arms and back.
“I don’t know about you,” she said, “but I’m almost as hot and sticky here as I was out on the road. Honestly, I think I’d rather press on so we can get to Éparnon and be done with it. Are the horses doing all right?”
D’Artagnan looked at the animals, standing with their heads down as they swished at insects with their tails. “They seem to be. Are you sure you’re ready to go on?”
“Oh, yes,” Constance said. “I don’t feel sick at all like I did on the ride to Chartres. Just sweaty and uncomfortable.”
“In that case, I’m all for getting someplace with ale and decent food as soon as possible,” d’Artagnan agreed. They both rose, and Constance made as if to give him back the kerchief that had been looped around her neck. He waved her off. “Keep it. You need it more than I do with those heavy skirts and layers.”
“Fair enough—I won’t argue,” she said, and went to soak the square of linen again before tying it loosely in place once more.
The two of them mounted and rejoined the road to Éparnon, speaking little as they let the horses choose the pace, keeping to the shade whenever there were trees near the verge. If the morning had been hot, the afternoon was positively brutal. They drank frequently from their ever-lighter waterskins, occasionally sacrificing a splash of water for their faces and necks.
As mid-afternoon progressed, a larger line of trees appeared before them in the distance. The horses had been plodding along listlessly, but they suddenly perked up in interest and began to pick up the pace.
“Isn’t there a small river between Chartres and Éparnon?” Constance asked, posting in the saddle to avoid being jolted by her mare’s hurried trot.
“You’re right,” d’Artagnan said. “That must be it up ahead.”
Both animals sped up to a steady canter as the smell of water grew stronger, and the trees grew closer until they could hear the sound of rushing water over the pounding of hooves.
The River Voise was narrow and fast-moving where it met the road. A bridge made of half-rotted timbers spanned it, and d’Artagnan frowned, not liking the idea of trying to cross the untrustworthy-looking thing, especially on horseback. For now, though, it was a relief to let the horses stop on the muddy bank and plunge their muzzles deep into the cool water. Even looking at the rushing expanse seemed to make the humid air less stifling, and he heard Constance sigh in relief next to him as she looked around.
She pointed downstream, standing in the stirrups to get a better view. “Look, it widens out downstream, and I think I can see a sandbar. Maybe we can cross there and avoid this terrifying excuse for a bridge. Let’s go see!”
When the horses had drunk their fill, they picked their way along the tree-lined riverbank. Indeed, the mud gradually gave way to sand and pebbles, and the steep edge, to a gentle slope. Next to them, the water smoothed out, spreading over a wide swathe of the land, comparatively still and placid.
“You’re right,” d’Artagnan said. “We should be able to ford this with no problem.”
He urged his gelding to the edge to cross. The horse took one step into the shallow water, then another, before halting as if stuck in amber and snorting at the expanse before him. D’Artagnan, impatient, gave him a sharp nudge in the ribs with his heels, but rather than continue forward the gelding wrenched his neck to the side and lunged back for dry land.
“Oh, you have got to be joking,” d’Artagnan said, righting himself in the saddle as Constance gave an unladylike snort beside him.
“I believe you’ve just uncovered a slight issue with your new horse,” she said, ever so helpfully. “I could try leading the way with Lionne?”
D’Artagnan gritted his teeth, feeling his pride rise to the foreground. “No, I’d best deal with this directly. A horse that won’t cross water is no fit mount.”
Constance pressed her lips together and urged her mare back, out of the way. “Whatever you think best—you’re the horseman,” she said.
Nodding his thanks, he turned the animal back toward the water. The big bay raised his head nervously, champing at the bit. D’Artagnan urged him forward. He balked at the edge and skittered backward. D’Artagnan thumped him in the sides with all his strength until he righted himself and re-approached, only to freeze, staring at the water as if it contained all the ocean’s sea monsters within. At his rider’s insistence, he stepped into the shallows once more, but this time he danced sideways as an evasion. D’Artagnan jerked his head around, keeping his nose pointed at the same small spot on the bank, allowing him to focus nowhere else.
For fifteen minutes they parried back and forth in that manner, d’Artagnan’s jaw clenching ever tighter as his temper rose. Finally, he extracted a length of leather strapping from his saddlebag and wielded it as a lash over the animal’s haunches when he tried to back away from the river’s edge. The gelding reared under the sting of the strap, eyes rolling. D’Artagnan did not let up, and after a frozen moment, he felt the muscles underneath him gather. He gripped with his knees as the horse plunged forward in a mighty jump, as if attempting to cross the whole expanse of water in a single leap. Horse and rider landed on the shallow, pebbled bottom with a jolt that dislodged one of d’Artagnan’s feet from its stirrup. Before he could regain it, the gelding gathered himself to plunge forward again... and disappeared from beneath d’Artagnan completely as they were swallowed by a deep, watery hole made invisible by the shadows of the trees playing over the shimmering surface of the water.
D’Artagnan let out an utterly undignified yelp and got a mouthful of river water for his troubles. There was a powerful commotion in the water next to him, and he reached out with one arm, grabbing the saddle as his horse plunged past him toward the surface. The pair broke through, snorting and gasping, and d’Artagnan let the animal tow him across the river with powerful strokes until they regained their footing on the other side. When the sound of splashing subsided, he became aware of a different gasping noise coming from a bit further downstream.
He dashed the water from his eyes and looked toward the noise, which turned out to be coming from Constance—desperately attempting to stifle laughter as she and Lionne picked their way carefully around the hole further downstream, where the river was shallow all the way across.
“Are you all right?” she called, trying unsuccessfully to disguise the telltale quaver of amusement in her voice.
Now on the shore next to his soaking wet horse and belongings, d’Artagnan took a quick mental inventory and answered, “Yes. Fine.”
The gelding took this as the cue to shake himself like a large dog, spraying d’Artagnan with even more water. This was evidently too much for Constance, who collapsed forward over the saddle with hysterical laughter. Her mare climbed out of the shallows and came to a stop next to the dripping pair, snorting once and eyeballing him with the sort of look generally reserved for very young children or simpletons.
Constance was still laughing.
D’Artagnan took a deep breath. Let it out.
“I completely deserved that, didn’t I?” he asked.
Constance wiped her eyes and tried to draw breath. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I just can’t help it. If you could only see yourself!” She collapsed into giggles again, before managing, “At least you’re not too hot anymore, are you?”
“I should throw you into the river as well, for laughing at me,” he threatened, beginning to see the humor of the situation.
She threw up her hands to ward him off, a grin still splitting her face. “Stop, stop! Let me get some of these clothes off, and I’ll come in on my own. We need to give your things a chance to dry out for a bit anyway, and this is too nice a swimming hole to pass up on a day like today—despite what your horse seemed to think!”
The blood that had been staining d’Artagnan’s cheeks pink with embarrassment suddenly rushed someplace considerably lower, and he coughed. “Yes,” he croaked, “of course. You’re absolutely right.”
Constance looked at him closely. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
D’Artagnan nodded, and kept nodding. “Oh, yes. It’s just, er, a bit of water that went down the wrong way.”
“Well,” Constance said, effortlessly taking charge, “in that case, unsaddle that poor horse and strip down to your braies. There are some rocks over there where you can lay your things out to dry.”
D’Artagnan finally stopped nodding his head up and down like an idiot, and hurried to do as she bid. Meanwhile, Constance pulled the saddle off her own horse and stood back as the little mare lowered herself to roll in the cool sand of the bank, grunting with pleasure as she scratched her sweaty, itchy back—all four legs waving in the air.
They tied the horses to a sturdy tree branch, and d’Artagnan unpacked his saddlebags, placing everything to dry in the patchy sunlight shining through gaps in the trees. His own clothes joined the damp collection, and when he turned back to Constance, clad only in his smallclothes, she was looking at him with a steady gaze despite her red-stained cheeks.
“Go on in and turn your back,” she said. “I’ll let you know when you can look.”
D’Artagnan waded in without complaint, feeling his way forward to the edge of the hole. When he felt the pebbles under his feet start to drop away precipitously, he launched himself forward into the depths and began to tread water, keeping his back to Constance on the shore. The river was cool but not cold, and went some way toward reducing the physical manifestation of his sudden ardor. He had no idea just what Constance intended, but to be with her like this—to feel her eyes on his naked chest after he disrobed—was already far more than he had expected.
After a few moments, the sound of splashing footsteps approached him from behind. A larger splash nearby pushed a small wave against his back, and Constance said, “You can look now.”
D’Artagnan sculled his hands through the water, pivoting in place. Constance swam a few feet in front of him, submerged to the collarbone. She was wearing her gray linen underdress, which billowed around her arms and chest; the rest of her figure disappearing into invisibility in the murkier water below. She grinned at him impishly and shoved her hands forward, splashing him full in the face with a wave of water. D’Artagnan spluttered in surprise and dashed his eyes clear with one hand, his own smile growing.
“You do realize,” he said, “that I cannot possibly get any wetter than I already am, whereas you most assuredly... can!” The last word coincided with the powerful splash of his own counterattack.
Constance squealed as water soaked her face and hair, shrieking and laughing in equal measure as he continued to press his assault. To escape, she dove under the surface. A moment later, d’Artagnan felt a slim hand close around his ankle, ducking him underwater on a surprised half-gasp. She climbed up his back, arms and legs tangled around his body as she tried to keep him down. He threw her off after a moment of struggling and stroked upward to catch his breath.
Constance surfaced a moment later, sleek as an otter. The two of them stared at each other across the short distance separating them for a beat, eyes sparkling, before she lunged at him again. The pair wrestled in the water, laughing like children. Plumes of bubbles burst to the surface when one or the other of them momentarily gained the upper hand. Constance was attempting to hold d’Artagnan under by means of a bear hug when her thigh slipped between his, sliding against his achingly stiff prick.
He choked on water at the powerful, unexpected surge of pleasure and flailed away from her, surfacing clumsily and coughing to clear his lungs. When he managed to blink his streaming eyes open, Constance was watching him from several feet away, her face a mask of pale, horrified embarrassment.
“D’Artagnan, I am so sorry,” she said, one hand coming up to cover her mouth. “I didn’t mean to... well, I did mean to... but certainly not like that!”
“No, I’m the one who’s sorry,” d’Artagnan rasped when he could breathe properly again. “I know you meant your touches innocently. I apologize for not controlling my reactions.”
Constance shivered briefly, though d’Artagnan didn’t think it was from the cool water. “What if... I didn’t mean it all to be completely innocent?”
He blinked. “Then I’d... think that was... good?” he ventured. He cleared his throat, his voice finally approaching normality. “Maybe it would be best if we talked about it first.”
To his relief, Constance laughed, though it was a dismayed little sound. “Of course. You’re absolutely right. Oh, my goodness—I am appallingly incompetent at this.”
“If that was incompetence, I hope you never become skilled,” d’Artagnan said, leading the way back to the shallows where they could sit comfortably without having to tread water. “I think it would kill me on the spot.”
“As opposed to merely half-drowning you?” Constance said, a shame-faced little smile tugging at one side of her mouth.
“Just so,” he agreed, smiling at her in return. “Now, tell me about your evil plan, since this was evidently not it.”
Constance gnawed at the inside of her cheek for a moment, before blurting, “I’ve been taking Milady’s advice about... some things... and I thought it would be better to try it outside because the surroundings are so different than when it was with my husband, at night in the dark in our bedroom.”
D’Artagnan’s heart sped up to a staccato beat of excitement and nervousness. “All right,” he said after a moment’s thought. “I think I can understand that. But, surely you don’t want to, well, have relations with me? Now, I mean. Here... just like that?”
Constance’s face was bright red and she couldn’t look at him directly. “I don’t know. Probably not. But I though that maybe, with what Milady taught me...”
She trailed off, and d’Artagnan let the silence hang until it became apparent that she didn’t know how to continue. Finally, he said, “You said that you’d been taking her advice about something?”
Constance nodded. “I know it sounds wicked, but she said I should try to learn about my own body before trying to be with a man again. So... I’ve been doing that.”
D’Artagnan frowned, unsure if he was understanding her correctly. “Do you mean...”
“By touching myself,” she blurted in a rush, and his arousal, which had faded after accidentally choking on water earlier, surged back with a vengeance.
“That sounds amazing,” d’Artagnan said without a single moment’s thought.
She looked up at him in surprise, brows furrowed. “You don’t think it makes me... dirty? Sinful?”
“I think it makes you the bravest person I know,” d’Artagnan said with utter sincerity, and Constance’s eyes grew wet.
“I don’t feel brave,” she said, and bit her lower lip, worrying it with her teeth.
“I don’t think anyone feels brave when they’re in the middle of doing brave things.”
He took her hand in his own as had become his custom, and kissed it before relinquishing it once more. “Tell me about it. Did you enjoy it?”
“At first it was just... odd,” Constance said. “Awkward, I suppose. But Milady said to keep trying, and try different things. When I started to relax, it felt different. Good. I could start to see how, if someone else could make you feel like that, and you could make them feel like that, you’d want to do it.”
“I want to make you feel like that, Constance, and more,” d’Artagnan said, tenderness warring with desire in his breast. “But maybe not today.”
Constance’s frown deepened. “You don’t want to—?”
“I do want to,” he said immediately. “But I want to make sure it’s good for you. Today, will you show me how you’ve been touching yourself, instead? I want to see.”
Constance gasped and swallowed. “I never thought about anybody watching,” she said. “It really doesn’t bother you?”
D’Artagnan’s huff of laughter had a faintly desperate edge to it. “Quite the opposite, Constance, I assure you,” he said, lifting his hips out of the water just far enough for her to be able to see the wet linen of his braies tenting over his erection.
Constance flushed, and let out her own breath of laughter. “I suppose a man’s body doesn’t lie,” she said.
“Not about something like that,” d’Artagnan agreed. “I promise I won’t touch you. I just want to see.”
“No,” Constance said, looking thoughtful. “I think I want you to hold me. Come here.”
She took his hand and led him forward to sit at the very edge of the deeper water, where the river lapped over his chest. He carefully wrapped an arm around Constance, and she leaned into him, letting her legs hang out over the swimming hole.
“Like this?” he asked, and she nodded. He adjusted their bodies slightly so that her head rested in the crook of his shoulder, her damp tresses tickling his chest where they floated around her in a halo. “Lean back,” he urged. “Let yourself float.”
Constance allowed the water to take her weight, tethered at the edge of the dark depths by d’Artagnan’s gentle hold around her shoulders. She took a deep breath, her breasts rising out of the water, pointed nipples visible through the light linen of her underdress. D’Artagnan felt the moment when she exhaled and relaxed into him, trusting him to hold her safe and steady; felt the catch in his own throat in response.
She moaned as the tension flowed out of her body. “Oh... that feels nice.”
“You feel amazing,” d’Artagnan whispered, his eyes following the curves of her body through the nearly transparent linen dress. “I could hold you like this forever.”
Constance released a little huff of air at his words, and her right hand slid up the length of her body. Rather than reaching directly for her breasts as d’Artagnan might have, she traced her fingers up and down the column of her own neck, letting her head fall back to expose her throat until the water lapped at the shells of her ears. D’Artagnan’s need throbbed between his legs at the sight, slowly settling deeper into his bones as Constance traced one collarbone and along the outer edge of her engorged breast through the wet material of her shift, circling in gradually toward the nipple.
He wondered if she was particularly sensitive there since she had stopped nursing the Queen’s son the previous day. Deciding there was no particular reason to shut up unless she told him to, he asked, “How does it feel?”
She gasped and tweaked the erect point. “It almost hurts,” she said breathlessly, “but in a good way. It’s different than when a baby suckles... it makes me want more.”
D’Artagnan moaned and swallowed convulsively. “Then give yourself more,” he said. “Give yourself everything.”
Constance writhed restlessly in the water, her free hand hitching the skirt of her underdress slowly up toward her waist. “I can feel the fabric brushing against my skin,” she panted, “wrapping around my legs. I’m pretending it’s your fingers.”
“Someday I will worship your legs with my lips and hands for hours,” d’Artagnan vowed, and Constance arched in his hold, her right hand leaving her breast to delve beneath the ruched material and disappear between her legs.
She settled a bit deeper in his arms, seemingly wanting to feel the river lapping up around her face as she teased her own flesh in a steady rhythm. He supported her, carefully keeping her nose and mouth out of the water as she started to twitch and jerk against her own fingers, huffing a little sound like, “Oh... oh... oh...” against his collarbone on every damp exhale.
D’Artagnan’s prick jerked in time with the soft noises, fluid leaking out into the water in tiny spurts whenever she bucked or cried out unexpectedly, breaking the rhythm. He could imagine no sweeter torture, and would happily have gone to Hell if it meant an eternity spent exactly like this.
“Oh, God,” she moaned eventually, and his cock twitched hard at the blasphemy. “Kiss me... d’Artagnan, please! Kiss me...”
D’Artagnan’s breath escaped in a rough groan as if someone had punched him in the stomach. He curled over her, sealing their lips together just above the water’s surface. She returned the kiss, straining up to meet him, her body undulating in the primal rhythm of approaching ecstasy. He swallowed her startled exhale as her release washed over her, and his strong arms kept it from dragging her under. They both gasped when he broke the kiss, lifting her to rest against his chest as she shuddered through the aftershocks.
“Oh, my goodness,” she breathed as she fell back against him, utterly limp. “That was... that was—“
“That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispered.
She turned in his arms and kissed him again. He moaned his desperation into the kiss; the ache in his cock and balls felt as though it had become as much a part of him as bone and sinew. Constance pulled away, seeming to come back to herself to some degree.
“D’Artagnan,” she said, looking at him with pupils blown wide, “do men... do that, as well? Touch themselves? Do you?”
“Since I met you... oh, God, Constance—yes. So many times,” he said.
“I want to watch. I want to see you. I’ve never gotten to see anything properly, before. It was always nighttime.”
D’Artagnan could have sobbed with the stab of want that pierced him. “Everything,” he panted. “You can have everything you want of me.”
She took his hand and they stumbled back to the shore, where a sun-warmed rock jutted out of the bank and into the water. Constance urged d’Artagnan up to sprawl on the flat stone, and curled herself comfortably in the water next to it with her arms folded on the edge of the outcrop, chin resting on top to watch. D’Artagnan fumbled with the laces of his braies, cursing the way the water had swelled the knots. Fortunately, they gave way to his clumsy fingers before desperation moved him to tear them out by force.
He shoved the clinging fabric over his hips, moaning in relief as his cock slipped free. The head was an angry purple, and the feeling of his hand closing around the shaft was the most delicious agony. Constance watched with wide eyes, hitching herself closer. It was too much; he let his head fall back against the unforgiving stone with a thud and thrust into his closed fist without thought for finesse or how it must look. Blood roared in his ears, and within seconds he was spilling, the convulsions seemingly coming from somewhere in the vicinity of his toes and shuddering their way up his body as ropes of sticky white slapped across his chest and stomach.
“Merde,” he cursed hoarsely when the tremors had stopped and the gray blotches had mostly cleared from his vision. “I think you’ve just killed me.”
Constance collapsed into helpless giggles, burying her face in her arms.
“No, seriously,” he said, “I may have burst something important.”
Constance laughed harder for a moment before getting control of herself and looking up. “Well, at least you seemed to enjoy it—not a bad way to go, apparently. Come on, now, up with you. You’ll roast like a fish in a pan if you stay on that rock in the sun.” She grabbed him by the arm and tugged him up into a sitting position as he let out a theatrical groan. “Clean yourself up and we’ll rest in the shade until everything’s dry. We’ll be late to Éparnon this evening as it is.”
“We can camp if need be,” d’Artagnan said, pausing to yawn, “and make up the distance tomorrow.”
He laced up his braies and re-entered the river long enough to scrub away the evidence of his release. When he climbed back onto the bank, Constance was resting against the base of a large tree trunk in her wet camisole, her earlier modesty apparently forgotten.
“May I hold you?” he asked.
She smiled up at him. “Please,” she said, reaching a hand up to guide him down next to her. They settled hip to hip, his arm around her shoulders and her head resting on his chest. She craned up to look at him. “I’ve thought of a name for your horse, by the way.”
“I’m half afraid to ask,” he said around a drowsy yawn.
“Rivière,” said Constance. “It’s a good name for a horse.”
D’Artagnan mulled it over for a moment. “Well, it’s definitely better than Buttercup,” he said eventually. “And it will remind me of this day, which can only be a good thing.”
Constance nuzzled into his neck as he yawned again. “You should rest for a bit. I’ll wake you if I hear anything unusual.”
“Are you certain?” he asked, eyes already drooping.
“Mm-hmm,” she replied. “I’m not tired. In fact, I’m rather the opposite of tired right now. It feels like my blood is buzzing underneath my skin.”
“Hmm, if you’re sure,” he said, his eyes already closing. Within moments, he was asleep, Constance a soft, warm weight against his side.
* * *
He awoke an hour or so later with Constance still pressed against the length of his body, feeling as though he could achieve anything. The two of them did, in fact, reach Éparnon that evening just as the sun was disappearing behind the horizon. Unfortunately, the inn at the center of the run-down little town was in a bad enough state to make them wonder if they’d have been better off camping after all. However, there was wine and ale, along with food—of a sort.
D’Artagnan looked askance at the unidentified lumps of... something... floating in a sickly, gray broth, and then looked askance at Constance when she tucked into her own bowl without hesitation.
“What?” she asked, pausing with the spoon halfway to her mouth when she noticed him staring. “I’m hungry. Aren’t you?”
He was so he took a deep breath and started eating. It didn’t taste quite as bad as it looked, which was something, he supposed.
Their room was small and smelled of sweat and mildew. Constance looked at the narrow bed and dubiously offered, “We could try to share...”
D’Artagnan shook his head immediately. “I’ll take the floor,” he said. “Not only is this a dark bedroom at night; I’m afraid one of us would fall off the edge in the first five minutes... or the thing would collapse under our combined weight.”
Constance’s smile was tremulous in the flickering light of the single, smoky candle they’d been given.
“Besides, this way you get the bedbugs,” he added, relieved when her smile grew a bit wider and stronger.
“Is it still considered chivalry when it’s secretly self-serving?” she wondered aloud.
“I’ve no idea,” he replied with an answering smile.
They navigated the tiny room with only a slight degree of awkwardness as they readied themselves for sleep—Constance under the threadbare blanket on the bed, and d’Artagnan in his bedroll on the rough wooden floor.
“Goodnight, Constance,” he said when she snuffed out the stub of a candle, plunging the room into darkness.
“Goodnight, d’Artagnan,” she replied.
Despite his earlier nap, d’Artagnan was tired and a little bit sore from his unexpected foray into the new sport of mounted river-diving that afternoon. Nonetheless, he lay awake for some time listening as Constance’s breathing evened out into sleep, smiling to himself when she began to emit soft snoring noises. Eventually, the sound lulled him into his own slumber.
In the recent weeks since his humiliating surrender to grief in his friends’ arms, d’Artagnan’s nightmares of death and loss had subsided for the most part, giving way instead to strange, half-remembered dreams. He awoke from one such odd vision that involved his old pony and his new gelding drinking wine together from a trough and laughing at him with wheezing snorts. He blinked his eyes open in the darkness, wondering what had awakened him, disoriented for a moment until he remembered Éparnon, the inn, and Constance. The question was answered a moment later when a low noise of distress came from the darkness above him.
The noise came again, louder this time. “Constance, are you awake?” d’Artagnan said into the blackness, and carefully felt his way toward the table with the candle and flint striker.
It took several tries to get the benighted candle wick to catch, during which time the moans from the bed gave way to soft sobbing and mumbled words.
“Mm... no, please...” The faint light from the candle stub flared up and illuminated the tear tracks on Constance’s cheeks. “Please, God.... not her, too...”
A low, drawn-out, primal sound of pain drew d’Artagnan to the bed, and he reached a hand out to wrap around her shoulder.
“Wake up, it’s only a dream,” he said, and gave her a gentle shake.
The result was dramatic, and entirely unexpected as far as d’Artagnan was concerned. Constance shrieked and flailed at him, her small fist rolling off his shoulder to impact stingingly across his jaw.
