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fredbassettTitle : A Dangerous Contract, Part 1 of 8
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : The Musketeers
Rating : 18
Characters : Athos/Treville, Gallagher, Aramis, Porthos and others
Disclaimer : Not mine (apart from some OCs), no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Word Count : 25,500, split into approximately equal parts.
Summary : Athos learns an assassination contract has been taken out on Treville’s life.
A/N : Written for luthorchickv2 on AO3 who kindly commented on all my Dangerous Liaison stories.
Athos stretched his legs out in front of the fire, watching the steam rise from his wet boots as he took a mouthful of warm mulled wine, heavily laced with cheap brandy.
The foul weather had kept most of The Wren’s customers at home. The ones that had ventured out were rowdy, and a couple of the Cardinal’s red-caped bully boys were engaged in a loud altercation with a three of Black Jacques’ more disreputable drinkers. If the idiots didn’t back off soon, Richelieu would find himself short of another couple of men on active duty.
Athos briefly toyed with the idea of breaking up the rapidly brewing fight, but decided it wasn’t his problem. Besides, he had wet feet. Getting involved in a fight when he had wet feet was never a good idea. Wet feet put him in a bad mood and tangling with the Red Guard when he was in a bad mood was unwise, especially when Treville had ordered him to stay out of trouble for at least a month after his last minor altercation with the Cardinal’s men had left four of them unfit for duty for quite some while.
He heard the scrape of wood on wood as a chair was dragged over to the fire. Without looking up, Athos drawled, “I’m not looking for company.”
“And here was I thinking you’d be glad to see an old friend, musketeer.”
Athos looked up, not bothering to keep the surprise off his face.
Charles Gallagher stared down at him, a half-smile quirking his lips as he held out a hot stoneware flagon of mulled wine and refilled the pewter goblet in Athos’ hand. The Irish mercenary set the flagon down by the hearth, shrugged off a damp, travel-stained green cloak and draped it over the back of the chair.
“Last I heard, you’d taken a contract in Spain,” Athos remarked.
“They couldn’t afford me any longer.”
“Long enough, so I heard.” Aramis’ contacts in the Spanish Lowlands had reported that several of King Philips’s opponents had met with a series of unexpected and unfortunate accidents. Athos drained the goblet and held it out for a refill. “What brings you to Paris?”
“An old friend needs a favour.”
Athos raised an eyebrow.
“There’s a contract out on your captain’s life,” Gallagher said quietly.
Athos forced himself to remain motionless, even though his hand itched to reach for his dagger.
“Easy, musketeer. I was offered it and refused. If I’d accepted, you’d be organising a funeral, not warming your feet.”
“Treville is not an easy man to kill.”
“He walks the streets of Paris. Any man who does that is an easy man to kill. If you want him alive, get him away from here and do it soon.”
“Why are you telling me?”
“I pay my debts.” Gallagher leaned forward and threw another log on the fire. “Get him out of Paris,” he said, keeping his voice low, but there was no mistaking the urgency. “And stay away until I tell you it’s safe to return.”
Athos drained the wine and accepted another refill.
Getting Treville away from Paris would be like extracting a winkle from its shell.
****
“I will not leave Paris!”
“The King has given his leave,” Athos said, making sure he was out of range of Treville’s fist when he delivered that piece of information. “You need have no worry on that score.”
Treville swung around, fury in his face. “You dare to have troubled the King with this? You have overstepped your authority.”
“I did what I knew you would not countenance. As your second in command, it is my duty to keep you safe when you will not do so of your own accord.”
“You went behind my back!”
“You are the King’s man, and your king prefers you to remain alive. You are more use to him that way. Aramis and Porthos will investigate the threat to your life. D’Artagnan will keep the King safe.”
“And you?”
“I will put myself between you and any assassin.”
He watched as Treville’s anger drained from him as swiftly as it had arisen. His captain leaned back against the sturdy wooden desk and ran a hand through his short hair. “Do you trust the Irishman?”
Athos nodded. “With my life, strange as that may seem.”
“And he believes the threat is credible?”
“We would not be having this conversation were that not to be the case. He has good sources of information, and the contract is large enough to have caused a stir. Porthos is making enquiries in the Court of Miracles. Gallagher will help. I don’t imagine the identity of the principal will elude them for long.”
“But you still believe I should run and hide?”
Athos sighed heavily. “Yes, I do. You are too easy a target in Paris.” It was time to play his trump card. “And by remaining here you are putting the King’s life at risk. A stray musket ball could easily endanger His Majesty. He intends to hunt at Fontainebleau in two days’ time and that would present any would-be killer with too good an opportunity to miss. Would you disobey a direct order from your King?”
“I have not received any such order.”
Athos pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket, held together with a familiar red seal. “You have now.”
With a face as dark as a thunder cloud, Treville broke the seal, read the brief missive within, then threw the note on the fire.
Knowing he had won the exchange, Athos poured a goblet of brandy and held it out to his captain. “Allow me the luxury of worrying about you for once,” he said softly. “I have no wish to stand to attention while the Cardinal officiates at your funeral.”
“He’s been hoping to do that for years,” Treville snapped. He took the goblet and drank half the spirit. “Did Richelieu seem surprised by the news?”
“Yes. Why? Do you think he might be behind this?”
“Strangely, no. He and I have come to an understanding over the years and I think it is unlikely that he would take this kind of action. He has no reason to want me dead now.”
“Porthos, Aramis and Gallagher will find out who is responsible.” Athos drank what was left in the goblet and started to unlace his jerkin. “Get some sleep. We leave at midnight.”
*****
The sacking on the horses’ hooves muffled the noise of their passing as they left the training yard. Porthos and Aramis had spent the past few hours being sure that the garrison was not under surveillance and they had finally pronounced it safe to move.
Athos tipped his hat to his comrades as they passed, receiving a broad grin from Porthos and a nod from Aramis. Gallagher had promised to contact them if he was able to obtain any information on who wanted Treville dead and no one other than those three men knew whence they were bound.
Heavy rain meant the streets of Paris were quiet. The whores and the drunkards had stayed inside and even the vagabonds thought better of venturing out when pickings would be too slim to make a drenching worthwhile. Both Athos and Treville were wrapped in heavy cloaks, with hats shading their faces, but even so, it was a cold, wet ride. Once clear of the noisome streets of the capital city, they freed the horses’ hooves and once back in the saddle urged the animals to pick up the pace. When Athos was finally satisfied that they were not being followed, he reined his horse back to a walk.
“Do you have a destination in mind?” Treville asked.
“I do.”
Treville sighed. “And if you tell me, you’d presumably have to kill me.”
“I like to surprise you.”
“Don’t I get a say in the matter?”
“The guessing game will while away the hours,” Athos said, and steadfastly refused to be drawn further on the matter as they made their way on rutted cart roads to the north-north-east of Paris.
They halted briefly to water the horses at a small river and eat some of the bread, meat and cheese that Serge had packed for them. They were carrying food for three days, not that Athos was intending to spend three days in the saddle, but he liked to be prepared. When they neared villages, he deliberately led them away from the road and took to the fields or the woods. The rain eased off not long after dawn and by midday, their clothes were finally dry. They rode in companionable silence for the most part, with Treville steadfastly not speculating on their destination.
They saw few travellers. Those they did pass eyed two well-armed men on strong horses warily and maintained their distance and a respectful manner. Athos made it his business to avoid any inns on their route. Information was readily bought and sold in such places and he had no wish to make it simple for any pursuers. They would not be easy to track, but he had no mind to take chances with his captain’s life.
Mid-afternoon, they stopped for another break in the shade of a spreading oak tree and ate a little more of their provisions while their horses cropped the grass.
Treville sprawled out with his back against the tree and drank from a flagon of watered wine. After once again satisfying himself that they were not being pursued, Athos stretched out on the ground and willed himself to relax.
“Take off your jacket and let me work on your shoulders,” Treville told him. “You’re too tense.”
Athos sat up and unbuttoned his jacket, slipping it off his shoulders as he mentally acknowledged the truth of Treville’s words. He cushioned his head on his arms as Treville proceeded to work the knots out of his muscles with strong, callused swordsman’s fingers. Athos could have happily lain on the warm ground for the rest of the afternoon, but he wanted to reach their destination that day rather than spend another night on the road.
Treville’s hands tugged Athos’ shirt out of his trousers and slipped his warm fingers under the loose material to run them lightly up Athos’ back, gently caressing the scars left by the whipping he had once administered under the mistaken belief that Athos had been in dereliction of his duty to the king.
“You know perfectly well I do not blame you for those scars,” Athos mumbled into the crook of his arm.
In a rare moment of tenderness, Treville lifted the shirt and laid a gentle kiss to the small of Athos’ sun-warmed back. “Allow me the occasional luxury of showing that I care about you.”
Athos turned over and twined his arms around Treville’s neck, pulling his lover down on top of him. “And I intend to allow you that luxury while we are in hiding, but a hard cock makes for an uncomfortable riding companion…”
Treville laughed and extricated himself from Athos’ arms. “Then the sooner this journey is over, the better. Do you still refuse to let me know our destination?”
“That’s for me to know and you to guess.”
The knowing look that greeted his words made Athos think that Treville already had his suspicions about whence they were bound but was content to humour his reticence on the subject.
They rode on with only two short stops to rest their horses. The shadows of evening were drawing in but Athos knew this countryside as well as he now knew the rat-infested streets of Paris and even at night he would not lead them astray. By the time it was full dark, the clouds had rolled back, leaving a clear sky set with a bright moon only two days off full. The grey light was enough for the horses to pick their way along a narrow, overgrown track in single file.
Athos heard Treville draw breath but forestalled him with a raised hand. “Yes, we are nearly there. You will not have to spend the night on a bed of leaves, I promise you.”
Treville’s answering snort made it clear what he thought of Athos’ promises. A journey to La Rochelle in the dead of winter when Athos’ navigational skills had temporarily – and inconveniently – deserted him clearly still rankled.
Just as the undergrowth was in danger of pressing too close around them, they broke out onto a wide swathe of grass.
Treville drew alongside him and took in the sight of a once proud house, now ravaged by fire. “Pinon, I presume?” he said quietly.
“When did you guess?”
“Late afternoon but I didn’t want to spoil your game.”
“There are habitable parts in the servants’ quarters,” Athos said. “And a stable for the horses.”
He led Treville around the back of the house, clamping down hard on his emotions. He had spent so many years of his life on this estate. These smoke-blackened stones each held memories of the life he had ridden away from. A life that would be forever tainted by the lies and ‘death’ of the woman he’d loved.
The stable block had been untouched by the flames. The roof would no doubt need attention, but it would serve for the night. He drew water from the well in the courtyard, glad that the thick rope remained sound. The water was cold and untainted. He filled a trough for the horses and left them in the yard. A musketeer’s horse was trained not to stray far from its master.
Once they were settled, Athos led the way to a sturdy door leading to what had once been the servants’ quarters. He drew a jangling keyring from his pack, selected a large brass key and turned the lock. The door swung open smoothly. He stepped inside, still able to walk the corridors and rooms of his family home in the dark, as he had done as a boy, raiding the larders at night in search of food. Memories of braving the cook’s wrath the following morning still brought a rueful smile to his face. She would threaten to tan his hide mercilessly, despite his noble birth, but then would slip him a dainty morsel to stave off hunger until the next meal. He had often felt he loved her more than his austere father and a mother so seemed more interested in her needlepoint than in her young son.
The smell of charred timbers had diminished and for a brief moment in the concealing darkness Athos could allow himself to believe that the house still stood intact.
The room he led Treville into contained a large wooden chest, a chair and a bed. It was as austere as a monk’s cell, but it was better than a night on damp ground. The mattress felt dry, which was better than he’d expected. The chest and its contents had not been tampered with. He lit two candles and quickly threw linen sheets and blankets onto the bed. Last, and most importantly, he produced two wine goblets and a bottle. Not all of the house’s treasures had been destroyed. The cellars remained intact. He’d simply stashed enough here for his occasional visits.
“So this explains your mysterious absences,” Treville remarked, after savouring the rich wine.
“I hate to disabuse you of the notion that I was blind drunk in a gutter somewhere, but yes, I have made three brief visits here. Strange as it may seem, the villagers still hold me in some affection, and they have taken on the stewardship for me.”
Treville stepped up close and ran gentle fingers through his hair. Athos leaned into the touch, not taking his eyes from his lover’s lined face as Treville murmured, “You are nowhere near as easy to dislike as you might think.”
Athos’ scarred lip twisted into a rueful smile. “That’s not what you tell me when you haul me in for brawling.”
“I haul you in for duelling. Brawling is legal. Duelling is not.” Treville drew him into a light kiss. “But you do talk too much.”
One of Athos’ rare laughs broke free. “That is not an accusation that is normally thrown at me. Would like you to eat then fuck? Or fuck then eat?”
The second kiss was harder and Athos willingly ceded dominance in the embrace. The return to his former home had set his nerves on edge and he wanted to lose the memories in the heat of a very different passion, one that had grown out of mutual respect and a wealth of shared experience, tempered by the harsh reality of combat and military life rather than born of youthful idealism and the rose-gold flush of first love.
They drew apart long enough to finish the bottle of wine and strip, sprawling out on the bed and drawing the coverings around them to keep out the night’s chill, out of long habit ensuring that their weapons remained in easy reach of the bed.
Athos lay on his back and let Treville set the pace. He had succeeded in his aim of prising his stubborn lover away from the dangers of Paris. He was certain they had not been followed so for once, he was able to let his guard down, knowing that they could not be overheard or seen by others. A rare luxury.
Treville lay on his side, propped up on one elbow while one hard hand roamed freely over Athos’ body, first caressing his nipples to pebbled hardness, then gliding lower to stroke his already hardening cock. Their liaisons were all too often rushed and lacking in finesse. This was different. It was leisurely, almost playful, but with an intensity that drove out conscious thought, replacing it with a world of sensation and bone-deep longing.
The lips that pressed to his held no softness. In no world could they be mistaken for those of a woman. Treville’s tongue slipped between Athos’ lips, tasting pleasantly of the rich red wine they had drunk so unceremoniously. Treville drew back to run his tongue around Athos’ open mouth, lightly caressing the duelling scar that had led to his inattentive fencing master being horsewhipped from the estate by Athos’ enraged father. At first, Athos had shied away from such contact; now he had put such vanity aside. They both had bodies as scarred as street fighting mongrels, the legacy of knife, sword, bullet, whip and torture, and had nothing to hide from each other.
As Treville’s fingers encircled his cock and set up a slow rhythm, Athos exhaled a sigh of pure pleasure, one that he did not have to stifle for fear of discovery.
Treville gently kissed the tip of his nose. “I like it when you sigh like that.”
“Do you? Then I shall be sure to do it more often.”
Treville bent his head to Athos’ chest and a warm tongue lightly grazed each sensitive nub.
Athos arched his chest into the touch.
The tongue swirled around, the touch staying tantalisingly feather light then Treville sucked first one then the other, setting Athos’ nerves alight with pleasure. Without warning, a sharp jolt of white fire shot down through Athos’ hard cock as Treville nipped one lightly, while equally lightly pinching the other. Athos groaned and thrust up into his lover’s now tight hand. Treville knew that there were times he liked treading the fine line between pleasure and pain and his lover was well practised in exploiting that knowledge.
They had not had an opportunity to lie together for several weeks, and Athos’ tension had been high since his meeting with Gallagher.
“Don’t hold back,” Treville murmured. “It seems we will have time to ourselves for once.” He captured Athos’ lips again and kissed him with a growing intensity that stole his breath and fogged his mind as he surrendered to the tender onslaught of hands and mouth on his body. He gasped and wrapped his arms around Treville’s well-muscled back and gave himself up to a hot rush of pleasure that left him sweat damp in spite of the cold air with small aftershocks of climax chasing through his body as Treville held him close and nuzzled the sensitive hollow of his shoulder.
Treville rolled on his back, tugging Athos over to lie on top of him in a loose-limbed sprawl.
“More wine, then I return the favour,” Athos promised.
He opened another bottle but filled only one goblet, enjoying the casual intimacy that came from drinking from the same vessel.
“This came from an admirable cellar,” Treville commented.
Athos swiped a stray drop from the corner of his captain’s mouth with the tip of his tongue. “It was one of my father’s few indulgences. He ran his hands over Treville’s chest, caressing the surprisingly soft, greying hair, then moving down over the flat plane of a stomach toned by long years on the practice ground. Treville was a formidable swordsman with an impressive array of dirty tricks that had never graced the more fashionable salons of Paris.
Pressing a hand on one hipbone, Athos bent his head to Treville’s cock, working it with his hand while his tongue lapped the beads of moisture forming at the tip. Treville’s sigh of pleasure was all the encouragement he needed. Alternating the movement of his hand and mouth, he quickly led his lover down the path of pleasure, not drawing away as the warm salty fluid spilled into his mouth. When he finally sat up and relieved Treville of the wine, he was pleased to see that his lover’s often stern face had softened, leaving him looking younger and less burdened in the flickering light of the tallow candle.
He offered up a silent vow to a god he didn't even believe in that he would willingly give his own life to keep his captain safe.
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : The Musketeers
Rating : 18
Characters : Athos/Treville, Gallagher, Aramis, Porthos and others
Disclaimer : Not mine (apart from some OCs), no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Word Count : 25,500, split into approximately equal parts.
Summary : Athos learns an assassination contract has been taken out on Treville’s life.
A/N : Written for luthorchickv2 on AO3 who kindly commented on all my Dangerous Liaison stories.
Athos stretched his legs out in front of the fire, watching the steam rise from his wet boots as he took a mouthful of warm mulled wine, heavily laced with cheap brandy.
The foul weather had kept most of The Wren’s customers at home. The ones that had ventured out were rowdy, and a couple of the Cardinal’s red-caped bully boys were engaged in a loud altercation with a three of Black Jacques’ more disreputable drinkers. If the idiots didn’t back off soon, Richelieu would find himself short of another couple of men on active duty.
Athos briefly toyed with the idea of breaking up the rapidly brewing fight, but decided it wasn’t his problem. Besides, he had wet feet. Getting involved in a fight when he had wet feet was never a good idea. Wet feet put him in a bad mood and tangling with the Red Guard when he was in a bad mood was unwise, especially when Treville had ordered him to stay out of trouble for at least a month after his last minor altercation with the Cardinal’s men had left four of them unfit for duty for quite some while.
He heard the scrape of wood on wood as a chair was dragged over to the fire. Without looking up, Athos drawled, “I’m not looking for company.”
“And here was I thinking you’d be glad to see an old friend, musketeer.”
Athos looked up, not bothering to keep the surprise off his face.
Charles Gallagher stared down at him, a half-smile quirking his lips as he held out a hot stoneware flagon of mulled wine and refilled the pewter goblet in Athos’ hand. The Irish mercenary set the flagon down by the hearth, shrugged off a damp, travel-stained green cloak and draped it over the back of the chair.
“Last I heard, you’d taken a contract in Spain,” Athos remarked.
“They couldn’t afford me any longer.”
“Long enough, so I heard.” Aramis’ contacts in the Spanish Lowlands had reported that several of King Philips’s opponents had met with a series of unexpected and unfortunate accidents. Athos drained the goblet and held it out for a refill. “What brings you to Paris?”
“An old friend needs a favour.”
Athos raised an eyebrow.
“There’s a contract out on your captain’s life,” Gallagher said quietly.
Athos forced himself to remain motionless, even though his hand itched to reach for his dagger.
“Easy, musketeer. I was offered it and refused. If I’d accepted, you’d be organising a funeral, not warming your feet.”
“Treville is not an easy man to kill.”
“He walks the streets of Paris. Any man who does that is an easy man to kill. If you want him alive, get him away from here and do it soon.”
“Why are you telling me?”
“I pay my debts.” Gallagher leaned forward and threw another log on the fire. “Get him out of Paris,” he said, keeping his voice low, but there was no mistaking the urgency. “And stay away until I tell you it’s safe to return.”
Athos drained the wine and accepted another refill.
Getting Treville away from Paris would be like extracting a winkle from its shell.
****
“I will not leave Paris!”
“The King has given his leave,” Athos said, making sure he was out of range of Treville’s fist when he delivered that piece of information. “You need have no worry on that score.”
Treville swung around, fury in his face. “You dare to have troubled the King with this? You have overstepped your authority.”
“I did what I knew you would not countenance. As your second in command, it is my duty to keep you safe when you will not do so of your own accord.”
“You went behind my back!”
“You are the King’s man, and your king prefers you to remain alive. You are more use to him that way. Aramis and Porthos will investigate the threat to your life. D’Artagnan will keep the King safe.”
“And you?”
“I will put myself between you and any assassin.”
He watched as Treville’s anger drained from him as swiftly as it had arisen. His captain leaned back against the sturdy wooden desk and ran a hand through his short hair. “Do you trust the Irishman?”
Athos nodded. “With my life, strange as that may seem.”
“And he believes the threat is credible?”
“We would not be having this conversation were that not to be the case. He has good sources of information, and the contract is large enough to have caused a stir. Porthos is making enquiries in the Court of Miracles. Gallagher will help. I don’t imagine the identity of the principal will elude them for long.”
“But you still believe I should run and hide?”
Athos sighed heavily. “Yes, I do. You are too easy a target in Paris.” It was time to play his trump card. “And by remaining here you are putting the King’s life at risk. A stray musket ball could easily endanger His Majesty. He intends to hunt at Fontainebleau in two days’ time and that would present any would-be killer with too good an opportunity to miss. Would you disobey a direct order from your King?”
“I have not received any such order.”
Athos pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket, held together with a familiar red seal. “You have now.”
With a face as dark as a thunder cloud, Treville broke the seal, read the brief missive within, then threw the note on the fire.
Knowing he had won the exchange, Athos poured a goblet of brandy and held it out to his captain. “Allow me the luxury of worrying about you for once,” he said softly. “I have no wish to stand to attention while the Cardinal officiates at your funeral.”
“He’s been hoping to do that for years,” Treville snapped. He took the goblet and drank half the spirit. “Did Richelieu seem surprised by the news?”
“Yes. Why? Do you think he might be behind this?”
“Strangely, no. He and I have come to an understanding over the years and I think it is unlikely that he would take this kind of action. He has no reason to want me dead now.”
“Porthos, Aramis and Gallagher will find out who is responsible.” Athos drank what was left in the goblet and started to unlace his jerkin. “Get some sleep. We leave at midnight.”
*****
The sacking on the horses’ hooves muffled the noise of their passing as they left the training yard. Porthos and Aramis had spent the past few hours being sure that the garrison was not under surveillance and they had finally pronounced it safe to move.
Athos tipped his hat to his comrades as they passed, receiving a broad grin from Porthos and a nod from Aramis. Gallagher had promised to contact them if he was able to obtain any information on who wanted Treville dead and no one other than those three men knew whence they were bound.
Heavy rain meant the streets of Paris were quiet. The whores and the drunkards had stayed inside and even the vagabonds thought better of venturing out when pickings would be too slim to make a drenching worthwhile. Both Athos and Treville were wrapped in heavy cloaks, with hats shading their faces, but even so, it was a cold, wet ride. Once clear of the noisome streets of the capital city, they freed the horses’ hooves and once back in the saddle urged the animals to pick up the pace. When Athos was finally satisfied that they were not being followed, he reined his horse back to a walk.
“Do you have a destination in mind?” Treville asked.
“I do.”
Treville sighed. “And if you tell me, you’d presumably have to kill me.”
“I like to surprise you.”
“Don’t I get a say in the matter?”
“The guessing game will while away the hours,” Athos said, and steadfastly refused to be drawn further on the matter as they made their way on rutted cart roads to the north-north-east of Paris.
They halted briefly to water the horses at a small river and eat some of the bread, meat and cheese that Serge had packed for them. They were carrying food for three days, not that Athos was intending to spend three days in the saddle, but he liked to be prepared. When they neared villages, he deliberately led them away from the road and took to the fields or the woods. The rain eased off not long after dawn and by midday, their clothes were finally dry. They rode in companionable silence for the most part, with Treville steadfastly not speculating on their destination.
They saw few travellers. Those they did pass eyed two well-armed men on strong horses warily and maintained their distance and a respectful manner. Athos made it his business to avoid any inns on their route. Information was readily bought and sold in such places and he had no wish to make it simple for any pursuers. They would not be easy to track, but he had no mind to take chances with his captain’s life.
Mid-afternoon, they stopped for another break in the shade of a spreading oak tree and ate a little more of their provisions while their horses cropped the grass.
Treville sprawled out with his back against the tree and drank from a flagon of watered wine. After once again satisfying himself that they were not being pursued, Athos stretched out on the ground and willed himself to relax.
“Take off your jacket and let me work on your shoulders,” Treville told him. “You’re too tense.”
Athos sat up and unbuttoned his jacket, slipping it off his shoulders as he mentally acknowledged the truth of Treville’s words. He cushioned his head on his arms as Treville proceeded to work the knots out of his muscles with strong, callused swordsman’s fingers. Athos could have happily lain on the warm ground for the rest of the afternoon, but he wanted to reach their destination that day rather than spend another night on the road.
Treville’s hands tugged Athos’ shirt out of his trousers and slipped his warm fingers under the loose material to run them lightly up Athos’ back, gently caressing the scars left by the whipping he had once administered under the mistaken belief that Athos had been in dereliction of his duty to the king.
“You know perfectly well I do not blame you for those scars,” Athos mumbled into the crook of his arm.
In a rare moment of tenderness, Treville lifted the shirt and laid a gentle kiss to the small of Athos’ sun-warmed back. “Allow me the occasional luxury of showing that I care about you.”
Athos turned over and twined his arms around Treville’s neck, pulling his lover down on top of him. “And I intend to allow you that luxury while we are in hiding, but a hard cock makes for an uncomfortable riding companion…”
Treville laughed and extricated himself from Athos’ arms. “Then the sooner this journey is over, the better. Do you still refuse to let me know our destination?”
“That’s for me to know and you to guess.”
The knowing look that greeted his words made Athos think that Treville already had his suspicions about whence they were bound but was content to humour his reticence on the subject.
They rode on with only two short stops to rest their horses. The shadows of evening were drawing in but Athos knew this countryside as well as he now knew the rat-infested streets of Paris and even at night he would not lead them astray. By the time it was full dark, the clouds had rolled back, leaving a clear sky set with a bright moon only two days off full. The grey light was enough for the horses to pick their way along a narrow, overgrown track in single file.
Athos heard Treville draw breath but forestalled him with a raised hand. “Yes, we are nearly there. You will not have to spend the night on a bed of leaves, I promise you.”
Treville’s answering snort made it clear what he thought of Athos’ promises. A journey to La Rochelle in the dead of winter when Athos’ navigational skills had temporarily – and inconveniently – deserted him clearly still rankled.
Just as the undergrowth was in danger of pressing too close around them, they broke out onto a wide swathe of grass.
Treville drew alongside him and took in the sight of a once proud house, now ravaged by fire. “Pinon, I presume?” he said quietly.
“When did you guess?”
“Late afternoon but I didn’t want to spoil your game.”
“There are habitable parts in the servants’ quarters,” Athos said. “And a stable for the horses.”
He led Treville around the back of the house, clamping down hard on his emotions. He had spent so many years of his life on this estate. These smoke-blackened stones each held memories of the life he had ridden away from. A life that would be forever tainted by the lies and ‘death’ of the woman he’d loved.
The stable block had been untouched by the flames. The roof would no doubt need attention, but it would serve for the night. He drew water from the well in the courtyard, glad that the thick rope remained sound. The water was cold and untainted. He filled a trough for the horses and left them in the yard. A musketeer’s horse was trained not to stray far from its master.
Once they were settled, Athos led the way to a sturdy door leading to what had once been the servants’ quarters. He drew a jangling keyring from his pack, selected a large brass key and turned the lock. The door swung open smoothly. He stepped inside, still able to walk the corridors and rooms of his family home in the dark, as he had done as a boy, raiding the larders at night in search of food. Memories of braving the cook’s wrath the following morning still brought a rueful smile to his face. She would threaten to tan his hide mercilessly, despite his noble birth, but then would slip him a dainty morsel to stave off hunger until the next meal. He had often felt he loved her more than his austere father and a mother so seemed more interested in her needlepoint than in her young son.
The smell of charred timbers had diminished and for a brief moment in the concealing darkness Athos could allow himself to believe that the house still stood intact.
The room he led Treville into contained a large wooden chest, a chair and a bed. It was as austere as a monk’s cell, but it was better than a night on damp ground. The mattress felt dry, which was better than he’d expected. The chest and its contents had not been tampered with. He lit two candles and quickly threw linen sheets and blankets onto the bed. Last, and most importantly, he produced two wine goblets and a bottle. Not all of the house’s treasures had been destroyed. The cellars remained intact. He’d simply stashed enough here for his occasional visits.
“So this explains your mysterious absences,” Treville remarked, after savouring the rich wine.
“I hate to disabuse you of the notion that I was blind drunk in a gutter somewhere, but yes, I have made three brief visits here. Strange as it may seem, the villagers still hold me in some affection, and they have taken on the stewardship for me.”
Treville stepped up close and ran gentle fingers through his hair. Athos leaned into the touch, not taking his eyes from his lover’s lined face as Treville murmured, “You are nowhere near as easy to dislike as you might think.”
Athos’ scarred lip twisted into a rueful smile. “That’s not what you tell me when you haul me in for brawling.”
“I haul you in for duelling. Brawling is legal. Duelling is not.” Treville drew him into a light kiss. “But you do talk too much.”
One of Athos’ rare laughs broke free. “That is not an accusation that is normally thrown at me. Would like you to eat then fuck? Or fuck then eat?”
The second kiss was harder and Athos willingly ceded dominance in the embrace. The return to his former home had set his nerves on edge and he wanted to lose the memories in the heat of a very different passion, one that had grown out of mutual respect and a wealth of shared experience, tempered by the harsh reality of combat and military life rather than born of youthful idealism and the rose-gold flush of first love.
They drew apart long enough to finish the bottle of wine and strip, sprawling out on the bed and drawing the coverings around them to keep out the night’s chill, out of long habit ensuring that their weapons remained in easy reach of the bed.
Athos lay on his back and let Treville set the pace. He had succeeded in his aim of prising his stubborn lover away from the dangers of Paris. He was certain they had not been followed so for once, he was able to let his guard down, knowing that they could not be overheard or seen by others. A rare luxury.
Treville lay on his side, propped up on one elbow while one hard hand roamed freely over Athos’ body, first caressing his nipples to pebbled hardness, then gliding lower to stroke his already hardening cock. Their liaisons were all too often rushed and lacking in finesse. This was different. It was leisurely, almost playful, but with an intensity that drove out conscious thought, replacing it with a world of sensation and bone-deep longing.
The lips that pressed to his held no softness. In no world could they be mistaken for those of a woman. Treville’s tongue slipped between Athos’ lips, tasting pleasantly of the rich red wine they had drunk so unceremoniously. Treville drew back to run his tongue around Athos’ open mouth, lightly caressing the duelling scar that had led to his inattentive fencing master being horsewhipped from the estate by Athos’ enraged father. At first, Athos had shied away from such contact; now he had put such vanity aside. They both had bodies as scarred as street fighting mongrels, the legacy of knife, sword, bullet, whip and torture, and had nothing to hide from each other.
As Treville’s fingers encircled his cock and set up a slow rhythm, Athos exhaled a sigh of pure pleasure, one that he did not have to stifle for fear of discovery.
Treville gently kissed the tip of his nose. “I like it when you sigh like that.”
“Do you? Then I shall be sure to do it more often.”
Treville bent his head to Athos’ chest and a warm tongue lightly grazed each sensitive nub.
Athos arched his chest into the touch.
The tongue swirled around, the touch staying tantalisingly feather light then Treville sucked first one then the other, setting Athos’ nerves alight with pleasure. Without warning, a sharp jolt of white fire shot down through Athos’ hard cock as Treville nipped one lightly, while equally lightly pinching the other. Athos groaned and thrust up into his lover’s now tight hand. Treville knew that there were times he liked treading the fine line between pleasure and pain and his lover was well practised in exploiting that knowledge.
They had not had an opportunity to lie together for several weeks, and Athos’ tension had been high since his meeting with Gallagher.
“Don’t hold back,” Treville murmured. “It seems we will have time to ourselves for once.” He captured Athos’ lips again and kissed him with a growing intensity that stole his breath and fogged his mind as he surrendered to the tender onslaught of hands and mouth on his body. He gasped and wrapped his arms around Treville’s well-muscled back and gave himself up to a hot rush of pleasure that left him sweat damp in spite of the cold air with small aftershocks of climax chasing through his body as Treville held him close and nuzzled the sensitive hollow of his shoulder.
Treville rolled on his back, tugging Athos over to lie on top of him in a loose-limbed sprawl.
“More wine, then I return the favour,” Athos promised.
He opened another bottle but filled only one goblet, enjoying the casual intimacy that came from drinking from the same vessel.
“This came from an admirable cellar,” Treville commented.
Athos swiped a stray drop from the corner of his captain’s mouth with the tip of his tongue. “It was one of my father’s few indulgences. He ran his hands over Treville’s chest, caressing the surprisingly soft, greying hair, then moving down over the flat plane of a stomach toned by long years on the practice ground. Treville was a formidable swordsman with an impressive array of dirty tricks that had never graced the more fashionable salons of Paris.
Pressing a hand on one hipbone, Athos bent his head to Treville’s cock, working it with his hand while his tongue lapped the beads of moisture forming at the tip. Treville’s sigh of pleasure was all the encouragement he needed. Alternating the movement of his hand and mouth, he quickly led his lover down the path of pleasure, not drawing away as the warm salty fluid spilled into his mouth. When he finally sat up and relieved Treville of the wine, he was pleased to see that his lover’s often stern face had softened, leaving him looking younger and less burdened in the flickering light of the tallow candle.
He offered up a silent vow to a god he didn't even believe in that he would willingly give his own life to keep his captain safe.