All for One (23 page)

“I met your friend while he was caring for you,” Raúl answered the unspoken question, adjusting the reins in his free hand so the horse’s gait would jostle the unresponsive musketeer as little as possible. “You were unconscious at the time. He cares for you very much,” he added, watching the younger man closely.

Benoît flushed, looking at Aristide rather than the gypsy as he replied softly, “The feeling is mutual. I just didn’t know it until now.”

“Perhaps you should tell him that when he is awake to hear you,” the gypsy suggested quietly. “I can help heal his body, but only you can restore his heart.”

“I’m not sure I know how,” Benoît admitted.

“Offer him yours,” Raúl suggested.

Benoît almost repeated himself, but then he realized he did know how. Oh, he had no idea how to go about making love with a man, but he could say the words. Now Aristide just had to wake up to hear them.

“He’s a strong man,” Raúl reassured his companion. “And he’ll know you’re there with him, even if he isn’t able to answer you right away.”

“But he was so weak in the château,” Benoît worried aloud. “Are you sure he’ll recover?”

“I have some skill as a healer,” the gypsy answered, his gaze darting back to Christian and Teodoro riding behind them. “And more than a little experience dealing with stubborn men.”

Catching Raúl’s glance, though he was unable to overhear their conversation, Christian smiled at the young blacksmith. “Whatever Raúl’s telling you, believe him. I’ve never known him to be wrong yet.”

Somehow, those words reassured Benoît far more than they should have, but he’d seen enough of the ambassador to respect him, and the utter confidence with which he spoke resonated with Benoît. “Then I’ll just have to do whatever I can to speed that recovery,” he declared, pushing aside doubt. “How far to the inn you spoke of?”

Before Raúl could answer, Perrin spurred his mount forward, coming abreast of the others. “There are horses approaching—it could be Marie’s men.”

“Off the road, quickly,” Teodoro instructed, slapping the rump of Christian’s horse before guiding his own into the forest that lined both sides of the thoroughfare. No sooner had the last horse entered the dense stand of trees than a troop of riders galloped past, raising a cloud of dust with the speed of their passage.

“We’re fortunate Marie has fools for guards,” Léandre observed once they ventured onto the road again. “They were riding too fast to even note any signs of our presence.”

“She expects you to head directly to Paris, to bring word of her perfidy as well as seek treatment for Aristide,” Christian reasoned.

“The inn is not much farther,” Raúl added. “It should be safe enough; as you say, they are unlikely to expect you to take shelter so near.”

Benoît bit back the comment that they were betting all their lives on that supposition. He had seen the men around him fight. If it was possible to keep Aristide safe, they would.

In Raúl’s arms, Aristide stirred restlessly. “We should hurry,” Perrin said. “It will be easier to get him off that horse and into the inn while he’s still unconscious. Once he wakes up, the pain will be excruciating.”

Raúl agreed and led them back onto the road to the inn in the nearby village. The innkeeper looked more than a little alarmed to see the armed company dismounting in his courtyard, but he bit back any protest when the large Englishman who had taken two of his best rooms called out a greeting to them. The rooms were already paid for. He could hardly back out now.

“Hot water and clean rags, please,” Raúl requested as Léandre and Benoît eased Aristide off his horse. “We’ve an injured man to tend.”

At Raúl’s words, the large dark-haired man appeared in the door of the inn. “What strays have you brought back this time, Raúl?” he asked, though his voice was kind.

“Take him up to one of the rooms, please, Gerrard,” the gypsy requested, a smile warming his light eyes. “He needs to be in bed so I can clean his wound and staunch the bleeding.”

Gerrard lifted the wounded man from the arms of the ones supporting him, carrying him as if he weighed almost nothing. Raúl followed immediately, Benoît close on his heels, jostling Perrin and Léandre in his attempt to stay near Aristide.

Incensed, Perrin grabbed his arm. “Look, blacksmith, I don’t know what happened between you and Aristide, despite what you said, but this is all your fault, so get yourself back on your horse and get ready to ride for Paris to report to
M.
de Tréville. Léandre and I will return when Aristide is well enough to ride.”

“Like hell!” Benoît retorted angrily, pulling away roughly and starting back up the stairs. “I’m not leaving him here with you!”

“What do you think we’d do?” Perrin demanded, grabbing Benoît again and pinning him against the wall of the stairs. “Either of us would give our lives for him in a heartbeat. Can you say the same?”

“Yes,” Benoît declared without a second’s hesitation.

“I don’t believe you,” Perrin growled. “You’ve been nothing but a thorn in our side since the moment we met you. Why should that change now?”

Benoît almost shouted at the arrogant musketeer that he loved Aristide, that was why, but he wanted the first time he said those words to be to Aristide himself. “That’s between Aristide and me,” he said instead, beginning to struggle again.

Determined to knock some sense into the blacksmith, Perrin slammed his forehead against Benoît’s, stunning them both slightly, though he shook it off faster, being prepared for the blow.

“Enough!” Léandre roared, pulling Perrin away from Benoît. “We’re all worried about Aristide, but this isn’t helping him. I don’t want to leave him either, Perrin, but it’s our duty to report back to
M.
de Tréville. He needs to know about Marie’s plot against the King as soon as possible.”

“So we’re just supposed to leave him here in the hands of….” He gestured inarticulately up the stairs where Raúl and Gerrard had carried Aristide.

“The best healer you are likely to find in this little village or anywhere else in France,” Teodoro interrupted, his voice thick with warning.

“You have nothing to fear from leaving him in Raúl’s care,” Christian added, trying to diffuse the new tension. “Teodoro and I will ride with you. We shouldn’t be absent from court for long, and our word will go some way to bolstering your captain if he chooses to inform the King.”

“I can stay with Benoît,” Esteban offered, “at least until your friend begins to recover, and then I can bring you word of it. If that is acceptable to you?” he asked Christian, belatedly remembering his duty to the ambassador in the concern for his new friend.

Christian’s nod relieved the concern still weighing on Léandre’s heart. “What say you, Perrin? I’ll bring the news to
M.
de Tréville myself if I have to, but I’d prefer to have you at my side.”

“Oh, very well,” Perrin consented gracelessly. He turned back to Benoît with one final glare. “But if you upset Aristide again in any way, I’ll take it out of your hide. He’s suffered enough because of you.”

Benoît silenced the retort that flew to his lips, knowing Perrin was right, however much he wanted to deny it. “Ride safely,” he said instead, knowing the road ahead was still fraught with much danger and that these two men were the best guarantors of Aristide’s safety, no matter how much he might want that title for himself.

Léandre waited until Perrin had left the inn before fixing Benoît with his own stare. “If you prove me mistaken in my trust, you won’t have to worry about Perrin—you’ll deal with me first.” His expression softening as he searched Benoît’s eyes, the blond clapped the younger man on the shoulder. “And don’t worry overmuch. It will take more than a ball in the shoulder to stop Aristide.”

“He couldn’t be in better hands than Raúl’s,” Christian repeated, pulling Benoît into a sympathetic embrace. “He nursed Teodoro through after we rescued him from the Inquisition, and his injuries were far worse. And Gerrard is no mean fighter, should it come to that, though I believe you have little to fear in that regard.” He hugged Esteban as well before turning to follow Teodoro after the musketeers, calling over his shoulder, “Stay safe, and send word as soon as Aristide begins to recover.”

Benoît watched the four men stride out of the inn, glancing at Esteban, but he saw no concern on the young Spaniard’s face. Whatever lay ahead of them, Esteban clearly believed they could handle it. Taking heart from the confidence of those around him, he turned to his friend. “We should see if Raúl needs any help.”

Esteban smiled. “And what do you think you can do that Raúl cannot?” he teased. “Raúl can do anything.”

Benoît’s eyebrows jumped, and Esteban laughed softly. “I know that isn’t completely true, just a boy’s belief, but I was a grown man before I found something he couldn’t do. I know you’re anxious to see Aristide, though, so let’s go up. I remember how Cristian was when Teo was wounded. You’ll feel better when you see Raúl’s taken good care of him.”

Benoît climbed the stairs with Esteban, pausing outside the door where the other Englishman, the one he had not met, stood guard. “May we go in?” he asked politely.

Gerrard frowned, but before he could refuse, Raúl’s voice called from within, “Let them come in, Gerrard. It will do Benoît good to see Aristide.”

Gerrard opened the door and preceded them inside. He needn’t have worried Benoît might see anything untoward. The blacksmith had eyes only for the musketeer on the bed. He flew to Aristide’s side, clutching at his good hand as if he had no intention of ever letting go.

Raúl stepped aside, resting against Gerrard’s solid strength as Benoît knelt beside the bed, brushing through the musketeer’s sweat-dampened hair with the hand that wasn’t clasping Aristide’s. The skin felt hot under his fingers, and he fought back the prick of threatening tears, leaning forward to press a kiss to Aristide’s brow.

The musketeer’s eyelids fluttered against his sallow skin before opening, the blue irises large and clouded. He blinked several times, but when the image swimming before his eyes did not change, he rasped out hoarsely, “Benoît?”

Chapter 21

“
I
’M HERE,”
Benoît replied immediately, stroking the blood-stained cheek again. “I’m here and I won’t leave you again.”

Aristide let himself savor the touch for a moment, before his pulse quickened. “The King!” he rasped. “Marie means to kill him and place Gaston on the throne in his place….” He trailed off into ragged breathing, trying to push himself up with the arm still held tight in Benoît’s clasp. “We must… send word….”

“Perrin and Léandre are already on their way to Paris, with Christian and Teodoro to watch their backs,” Benoît assured him, urging him to lie back on the bed. “We didn’t know about Gaston, but I don’t think they’ll need that much to denounce her to the King. All you need to do is rest and get well.”

“Where… are we?” Aristide asked, sinking back against the bedding. He did not recognize his surroundings, but he couldn’t seem to focus on anything but Benoît’s face bending over his, concern warming his dark eyes.

“In an inn near….” Benoît looked toward Raúl, realizing he did not even know where they were.

“Near Rambouillet,” Raúl supplied.

“Too close,” Aristide protested, trying again to push himself upright. “Can’t let her… find us…
merde
!” he cursed as a stab of pain shot through him. How could he protect his King, or Benoît, when he could not even sit upright?

“They think we’ve gone on to Paris,” Benoît assured him. “They passed us while we were bringing you here.”

“And you’re going to set your recovery back by days if you don’t lie back and let my herbs do their work,” Raúl scolded. “Your friends are warning your captain, and Gerrard, Esteban and I are here to protect you until you’re well enough to do that again on your own. All you have to worry about is getting well.” He turned to look at Gerrard. “I find I’m famished. Does the inn have a decent taproom?”

“It does,” Gerrard replied.

“Good. Benoît, don’t let him get out of bed. Aristide, do as he tells you. I won’t have all my hard work undone. We’ll be back later to check on you.”

His head spinning, Aristide couldn’t make sense of what was happening. “Isn’t that the gypsy who… how did he…?” He stared at Benoît, the one constant he understood, as though still half afraid to find him a hallucination. “I’m not dreaming you, am I?” he asked uncertainly. “You’re really here?”

“Yes, I’m really here,” Benoît promised, bending to kiss Aristide’s forehead. “As for Raúl, he’s a friend of Christian and Teodoro, and I’ve decided to simply take them at their word and accept that he knows… things. He found your tunic on the side of the road. We wouldn’t have found you without his help.”

“I don’t understand,” Aristide muttered, but it didn’t appear he could do much about it at the moment. “Thirsty,” he added, the effort to speak irritating his throat.

Releasing Aristide’s hand only long enough to pour a cup of water, Benoît helped the wounded man lift his head to drink. “Don’t worry about it right now,” he soothed. “Rest and I’ll explain everything after you’ve slept some.”

The cool water was soothing, but even more was the feel of Benoît’s hand behind his head, supporting him as he drank. Aristide sipped slowly to prolong the moment, missing the contact as soon as Benoît eased him back onto the pillows. “Don’t leave,” he murmured, finding it increasingly hard to keep his eyes open and afraid Benoît would vanish once they closed.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Benoît promised. “I’ll still be here when you wake up.” And tomorrow and the day after and the one after that, too, if Aristide would only agree. “Sleep. You’ll feel better.” He worried when the blue eyes closed without another protest. Aristide was not usually so biddable. He only hoped Raúl was right and he would recover. He resolved to watch each breath until the musketeer woke again, to make sure he still lived.

T
HE
sun was sinking below the horizon and dark shadows lined the streets by the time Léandre, Perrin, Christian, and Teodoro arrived back in Paris. Not pausing even to brush the dust from their garments, they rode directly to
l’hôtel de
M.
de Tréville, striding into the musketeer captain’s meeting chamber just before the dinner hour. Not surprisingly,
M.
de Tréville was still there, looking as if he were prepared to stay all night waiting for their news.

“You found him?” he asked, knowing that Léandre and Perrin, at least, would not have returned to Paris if Aristide were still missing.

Perrin scowled. “Wounded and held prisoner, but yes, we found him. He’s in an inn near Rambouillet recovering. He couldn’t have ridden all the way back to Paris.”

“It would seem there’s a tale to be told,”
M.
de Tréville observed drolly. “Perhaps you would care to start at the beginning?”

“We don’t have all the details—Aristide was too weak to provide them, but insisted we bring word to you at once,” Léandre explained. “Marie de Medici is definitely behind the plot to discredit you, as a means of weakening our protection for the King. Her men set upon Aristide and brought him to her estate in the Bois de Saint-Benoît to question him—or something worse.”

“She mentioned seeing her ‘true son’ on the throne,” Christian added.

M.
de Tréville frowned. “Her ‘true son’?” he mused. “As if there were any doubt any of her children are her own. Their births were witnessed by the entire court! Ah, well, that’s not important. How badly is Aristide hurt? And why didn’t one of you stay with him to tend him?”

“I wanted to,” Perrin said with a glare at his companions, “but I was overruled. The blacksmith is with him, and a friend of Christian’s and Teodoro’s.”

“A healer of no small skill,” Christian interrupted, wanting to make sure
M.
de Tréville understood they had not abandoned Aristide lightly. “If anyone can see him well, it will be Raúl.”

“I suspect it is best not to ask how you rescued Aristide from his captivity?”
M.
de Tréville continued, well aware the other two musketeers would have gone to any lengths necessary to free their comrade.

“We set fire to the stables,” Léandre admitted. “The blacksmith scouted it for us first, and in the confusion we were able to find Aristide inside Marie’s manor house.”

M.
de Tréville shook his head. “At least the Queen Mother can hardly complain of your actions without bringing her own activities to light.”

“What will happen to the bitch?” Perrin demanded. “Having Aristide shot? Threatening you? Plotting against the King?”

“That will be up to the King,”
M.
de Tréville replied blandly, “but I suspect he will banish her back to Blois where she can’t hatch any more trouble. He’s hardly likely to order his own mother executed, however gratifying that might be for us. He won’t take the risk of angering the de Medicis.”

“Will that be enough to keep her from further plotting?” Teodoro asked. “And what of this other son she spoke of? Could he be a danger as well?”

“Gaston d’Orleans is a strategist of some note, but he has no talent for diplomacy, a fact he knows well,”
M.
de Tréville replied. “He would not make a good King, and he knows it. If he were to take the throne, he would be ruled by his mother, as she was no doubt counting upon, but that is not something he wants as far as I can tell. As for whether it will keep her from further plotting, I cannot say, but all we can do is what we ever do: remain vigilant in our protection. Any move on our part against the Queen Mother, however justified, would result in our disbandment and the execution of anyone directly involved. Unless it’s an immediate choice of her life or the King’s, my hands are tied.”

“That hardly seems like enough,” Perrin grumbled bitterly.

“No, but it’s the best we’re likely to get,” Léandre countered.

“It is, and I hope I do not need to add that this matter needs to be kept in the strictest secrecy.” The musketeer captain was looking at Perrin, but Christian met Teodoro’s gaze and then answered.

“You have my word that none shall hear of it from us,” he assured
M.
de Tréville. “Unless she turns her plots to her daughter in England. I can affirm that King Charles wants as little to do with his mother-in-law as possible.”

“Doubtless Philip feels the same,” Teodoro added beneath his breath, sure there was as little love lost between the Spanish King and his Queen’s ambitious mother.

“Perrin, Léandre, if you will, take word to the Cardinal that I’m for the Louvre to deliver your news to the King and ask him to join me there,”
M.
de Tréville requested. “This concerns him as well since the Queen Mother attempted to use him in her plotting.”

Perrin and Léandre nodded and headed toward the door. “You’ll tell us as soon as Esteban brings news, won’t you?” Perrin asked as Christian and Teodoro accompanied them back down to the street.

“Of course,” Christian assured him. “Will you be here or at your lodging?”

“We’re back on duty now that Aristide is found.” Léandre laughed. “At least, once
M.
de Tréville speaks to the King, we won’t need to don the Cardinal’s colors any longer!”

“Then we’ll bring word here as soon as Esteban arrives,” Christian replied. “It will be tomorrow evening at the earliest, I would think, but probably the day after unless he takes a sudden turn for the worse. That isn’t likely, though, with Raúl at his side. I’ve seen him tend far more serious injuries without batting an eye.” He glanced at Teodoro, who inclined his head with a wry smile.

Léandre offered their thanks, then grinned at Perrin once the Englishman and the Spaniard walked away. “Let’s bring the news to the Cardinal and return his livery to him,” he prompted. “Once we’re finished with that, you and I have several things to celebrate!”

Perrin returned the grin. “And just how, exactly, do you suggest we celebrate, since we’re back on duty and all?” he teased.

“Taking word to the Cardinal will complete our duty for tonight,” Léandre retorted. “And after that, I think we need to practice your swordplay!”

A
RISTIDE
wasn’t sure how long he’d drifted in and out of consciousness, or whether his unusual lethargy was due to how much blood he’d lost or some arcane treatment of Raúl’s. He thought he remembered Benoît at his side whenever he woke, holding his hand or touching his cheek, but that could have been wishful thinking on his part. Surely one of the others would have taken a turn watching him, if he were truly that weak.

He stirred against the bedding, his shoulder less painful than the last time he remembered moving, and he didn’t feel quite as warm, either. In fact, he was beginning to feel a bit hungry. Forcing his eyes open, the first thing he saw was Benoît, slumped in a chair beside the bed in what had to be an uncomfortable position, sleeping.

Reaching out a hand, he touched the smith lightly on the knee. “Benoît?” he husked, his voice still sounding unsteady.

The sound of Aristide’s voice woke Benoît immediately. “I’m here,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes blearily. “Do you need something?”

“Some food?” Aristide asked. “If there is any available?’

“Just broth,” Benoît apologized, “but Raúl said that was what you would need to build back up your strength.” He turned to the fireplace where the pan sat in the coals to stay warm. “Shall I serve you a bowl?”

“Help me sit up, and I can drink it myself,” Aristide requested, uncomfortable relying on Benoît for something so basic.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Benoît fussed, serving the broth and coming to Aristide’s side. “You helped me when I was wounded. Let me help you now.” He set the bowl on the table next to the bed and arranged the pillows to prop Aristide upright. Lifting the bowl, he scooped a little broth onto the spoon and held it to Aristide’s lips. “Drink,” he urged.

Aristide swallowed, though he couldn’t help flushing at the memory of holding Benoît to his chest to feed him when the blacksmith had been the one wounded. Another spoonful was held to his lips, and another, the rich broth restoring a bit of his strength. “Enough,” he said at last, leaning back against the pillows, his head feeling clear for the first time in days. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Benoît said, setting aside the bowl and returning to his seat. There was so much he wanted to say to Aristide, so much he needed to explain, and he had absolutely no idea where to start. He shifted on the seat, uncomfortable with the growing silence. Finally, steeling himself for rejection, he looked up. “Why did you leave?”

“Leave?” Aristide repeated, not understanding at first what Benoît meant. When the memory connected, his face hardened, and he turned his head away. “Don’t do this,” he grated, not sure he could rein his emotions in his weakened state.

“Please,” Benoît said softly, heart aching at the sight of the musketeer turning away from him. “Aristide… Emile. Just tell me why you left. What did I do to drive you away when all I wanted was for you to pull me into your arms and never let me go?”

“
You
pulled away,” Aristide countered, the wounded tone in Benoît’s voice tempting him to believe, once more, that the smith really cared. He closed his eyes, telling himself he couldn’t fall prey to that delusion again. “When I touched you—I knew as soon as I did I had gone too far.”