All for One (4 page)

Perrin cried out as he climaxed, every muscle standing out in sharp relief as his cock twitched in Léandre’s mouth. The gentle sucking never stopped, keeping him on a sensual high even after the spasms of his orgasm passed. As he knew it would, the continued stimulation soon had Perrin aching for more. He pressed his feet against the mattress, spreading his legs wide and offering himself to his partner. He lifted his head and stared down at the other man cockily. “You’re not done yet, are you?”

His tongue skimming his lips to savor every drop, Léandre grinned. “That was just the
apéritif
. We haven’t gotten to the main course yet.” Sliding his hands up the backs of Perrin’s thighs, he bent the younger man’s knees until his feet rested near his buttocks, opening him to Léandre’s hungry gaze. Dipping his head, he licked at the heavy sac, coating it with his saliva before moving to the smooth skin behind it. When his mouth touched the tight ring of muscle between the crease of Perrin’s cheeks, he had to clutch his lover’s hips to keep him in place while his tongue circled the beckoning portal.

“Yes!” Perrin gasped, pulling his knees up to his chest to give Léandre better access to his body. His muscles clenched again, as needy as if Léandre had not yet touched him, as if he had not found release in weeks. “Inside me. Please!”

Though he knew what Perrin was asking, Léandre let his tongue penetrate Perrin first, using his thumbs to stretch the opening wider to receive him. He knew Perrin wouldn’t need much more than that, and Léandre was quickly reaching the limits of his own patience as well. Perrin’s moan when he tried to pull away told him he wouldn’t make it to his pack to find the oil they usually used. Spitting onto his palm, he gave his cock a cursory wetting and plunged deep into Perrin’s heat, winning a howl of approval as he thrust to the hilt in a single motion.

The burn wasn’t unexpected, but it still caused Perrin to catch his breath. “Léandre,” he groaned, hips bucking up against Léandre’s ingress. He wrapped his legs around his lover’s waist, holding him close as the rolling of their hips provided constant stimulation against his sweet spot. His cock revived quickly, aided by Léandre’s hand slipping between their bodies to fondle his balls. “I want to feel you all the way back to Paris tomorrow.”

“Oh, you will,” Léandre gasped, any hope of taking things slowly disappearing when Perrin’s sheath tightened around him. Holding his lover’s hip tightly, he pulled back and slammed in again with the rough tempo they both craved. “You’ll need—a pillow—to sit on your horse—” He groaned, his voice rasping as Perrin’s arse rose to meet every thrust. A fierce tension was building in his gut, his fingers tightening involuntarily with each slap of their bodies. “
Merde
, Perrin,” he groaned, throwing back his head and shuddering as his climax shook through him.

The hot splash of Léandre’s release inside him was enough to trigger Perrin’s second climax. His body shook in the throes of an even more powerful orgasm than the first. Blindly, he tore his hands free, reaching for his lover’s head, guiding their lips together in a deep, passionate kiss. Eventually, the tremors eased. “I’ve ruined your stockings,” he commented blandly when he could speak again.

“I think they were yours,” Léandre answered smugly, settling onto his side and spooning around Perrin’s warm body. Deciding he needed sleep more than food, he stretched to snuff the bedside candle and pulled the sheet over them both. Perrin relaxed against his lover, his last thought before he slipped into sleep for Aristide still in Époisses. He hoped the third musketeer would fare even half as well as he and Léandre had.

A
RISTIDE’S
head fell back, awakening him with a start. Guilty at having dozed off in his weariness, the musketeer ran a hand over his face and leaned forward in the uncomfortable wooden chair, his gaze snapping back to his patient. His prisoner, if Léandre was correct, but Aristide found it hard to believe this man was plotting against the musketeers and, by extension, against the King they served. The wounded man hadn’t stirred, and Aristide was relieved to see that no fresh blood had seeped through the bandages. He had cleaned the injured shoulder scrupulously, knowing well how a fragment of ball or shred of cloth left in the wound could lead to infection, then bound it as tightly as he could. The shock and loss of blood had led to fever, as he expected, but beyond rinsing the stranger with cool water at intervals, there was nothing more Aristide could do. His body would have to fight off the fever on its own, though since his appearance hinted he had not enjoyed a good meal in far longer than Aristide had, that outcome seemed far from certain.

Chapter 3

Examining the wound more closely, Aristide was dismayed to see an angry red flush against the olive skin. He ran the back of his hand down the smooth chest, gauging the stranger’s warmth, and pulled it away swiftly when he recognized he was lingering. The water in the ewer he had been using to rinse his patient down was tinged with blood. Realizing he hadn’t eaten since the luncheon his friends had sent up the day before, Aristide decided to find a meal and some clean water. Perhaps he could get the stranger to swallow some broth, or even a little wine to strengthen his blood.

Unaccustomed to sitting still for so long, the musketeer stretched stiffly as he rose to his feet. With a last glance at the slender young man on the bed, he started downstairs, finding the innkeeper in the taproom.

“Will you send some fresh cloths and water to the room for my friend?” he asked. “And perhaps your cook has some broth for him? And a plate of whatever is cooked for me,” he added, tossing an
écu
on the bar when the innkeeper hesitated.

The sight of payment put new energy in the man. “Of course, of course,” he promised, turning toward the kitchen. “And a bottle of wine!” Aristide called after him before taking a seat at one of the small tables in the taproom.

Across the room, a tall, slender man with black hair and hazel eyes rose from his seat and approached the musketeer. “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with the innkeeper,” he observed, the accent of the south, perhaps even of Spain, strong in his voice. “If your friend is injured, I might be of help. I’m somewhat renowned among my own people for my skills as a healer.”

Aristide nodded for the stranger to join him at the table, noting the fringed scarf knotted around his waist and the glint of a golden earring beneath the long thick hair. A gypsy, he suspected, and though he did not share the distrust of many of his countrymen for the exotic wanderers, he hesitated before speaking. He did not trust easily, and in a matter as crucial as a potential plot against the King, he could not be too careful. Still, the letter was on its way to Paris, and he would learn nothing more if his patient were to die before he could question him.

“My friend was waylaid by brigands and took a shot through the shoulder,” he said finally. “The wound has stopped bleeding, but he is weak with fever.”

“Is the ball out?” the gypsy asked. “If it isn’t, we must remove it with all haste.”

“I removed it last night and cleaned the wound,” Aristide admitted. “But he has lost more blood than I like, and despite washing him down with cool water, the fever persists. I hope some broth and wine may help restore his strength.”

“Let’s take a look at him,” the gypsy offered, gathering a satchel from his table. “I have some herbs that may help him as well.” He followed the musketeer up the stairs, his eyes lingering in appreciation of the man’s fine form. It would be best not to allow his lover to catch him at it, though. The big Englishman was prone to jealousy, no matter how unfounded it might be.

The injured stranger hadn’t moved, and Aristide watched closely as the gypsy untied the bandage with deft hands, careful to ease it off gently so as not to dislodge the clotting blood. He ran his hands over the young man’s torso, bent near to listen to his breathing, even peeled back an eyelid to peer beneath it—the pupil was rolled back, but the sliver of color Aristide could see was deep brown. “How fares he?” he asked, curious if the gypsy’s assessment would match his own.

“He’s been better,” the gypsy replied drolly as he continued his examination. The man on the bed had definitely seen better days, and not just from the ball in his shoulder. The effects of prolonged hunger were clear in the thinness of his face in contrast to the bulk of muscle beneath the sheet. The gypsy could not heal all that was wrong with him, but he could speed his recovery from the wound in his shoulder. For that, however, he needed privacy, particularly since he had only Gerrard with him at the moment should the musketeer suddenly decide to accuse him of witchcraft. “Would you hurry up the innkeeper with water and clean linens? My herbs work best as a poultice.”

“Aye,” Aristide agreed, the calm surety with which the gypsy examined the young man convincing him it would be safe to entrust him to his care. “The sooner we can get something down his throat, the better I will feel.”

As soon as the musketeer disappeared, the gypsy rested his hands on the young man’s head, murmuring softly in a language long since gone from the earth. He could feel the incredible weakness, far more than just blood loss, and frowned. The musketeer named the man his friend, but unless they had just found each other again, something was off. The blond showed no sign of the same kind of weakness that could only come from extended starvation.

Leaving the innkeeper red-faced and sputtering at his softly voiced display of displeasure, Aristide seized a pitcher of water and a pile of kitchen rags from the table. “And bring up that broth as soon as it’s hot!” he ordered over his shoulder, long legs already taking the stairs two at a time to the upper story. He paused at the threshold to the bed chamber, where the dark-haired gypsy bent over the younger stranger, hands resting gently on his head. His gaze turned to consider the musketeer for a moment before he straightened with a frown.

“Has your friend been ill?” the gypsy asked. “His state is far worse than can be explained by the hole in his shoulder. Even with the blood loss, he shouldn’t be this weak or emaciated. I can’t help him as effectively if I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

“I don’t think he’s been eating well,” Aristide admitted, hesitating before saying more. He’d always been a good judge of people, and his instincts told him he could trust this gypsy with the truth. “I’ve told the innkeeper he’s my friend to keep him from throwing us out. In honesty, I’d never seen him before we found him on the side of the road yesterday, wounded as you see.” The musketeer shrugged uncomfortably. “I don’t even know his name, but I owe you mine. Aristide,” he added, offering his hand.

“Raúl,” the gypsy replied in return, shaking the outstretched hand. “I see you took the tale of the Good Samaritan to heart. It does you credit, but it makes my job harder. ’Tis not enough to simply heal the wound in his shoulder. He must be strong enough to recover and right now, he is not.”

“Not a Samaritan, just a musketeer,” Aristide answered, accepting the gypsy’s accolade reluctantly, though he knew he would have stayed to ensure the stranger’s recovery even if there were no letter. He would have felt purer did he not suspect his libido of influencing his compassion. “The innkeeper should be bringing some broth any minute, or I’ll string him up in the pen with his chickens.”

Raúl chuckled. “With that as incentive, I’m sure he’ll be knocking at your door at any moment.”

As if Raúl’s words had summoned him, the innkeeper’s sullen voice came from the hall. “I have the broth you wanted, sir.”

Knowing he would have to depend on the innkeeper’s assistance for at least another few days, Aristide swallowed an irritated retort and simply instructed the man to leave the crockery bowl on the nightstand, closing the door again behind him. “Let us see if we can get our patient to take something to build his strength.” Sitting at the side of the bed, he slid an arm behind the stranger’s thin frame and carefully raised the wounded man to lean against his shoulder. He distracted his awareness of the slender torso pressed against his, bare but for the encircling bandage, with the recognition that the man’s temperature felt slightly cooler. With his free hand, he dipped up a spoonful of the thin soup and raised it to his lips, blowing over it gently and touching the spoon to his own mouth to ensure it was not too hot before bringing it to the stranger’s lips. He tried to ease the spoon between the well-shaped curves, but more of the broth trickled down the young man’s chin to catch in the light beard than made its way into his mouth.

“There’s a trick to feeding someone who’s unconscious,” Raúl commented, coming to the side of the bed as he watched the musketeer. He could not criticize the care in the gestures, only the skill. “Shall I show you the way of it?” He hoped it wouldn’t be necessary for long, but depending on how long it had been since the man ate, even the gypsy’s efforts might not help him immediately.

“Please,” Aristide answered gratefully. “I know enough to bandage a wound from battle, but caring for an invalid is new to me.”

Raúl took the spoon from Aristide’s hand. “Tip his head back a little. His body won’t let him choke, so you have only to keep the liquid in his mouth until he swallows on his own. If he’s lost that reflex, he’s beyond any human aid.” Demonstrating, he lifted the dark-haired man’s chin until his head rested on the musketeer’s shoulder before dribbling a little of the broth into his mouth. As he’d predicted, the patient swallowed reflexively. “Not much at a time,” the gypsy cautioned, “or you could choke him, but you should be able to get it into him now. And I know you want to build up his strength, but we don’t know when he last ate. Too much could make him sick and set back his recovery even more. I would say give him half this bowl now, then the rest in a few hours. And another bowl at dinner time. If he does well until then, give him another bowl at sundown.”

Following the gypsy’s instructions, Aristide was able to get the younger man to swallow half the bowl of broth, the dark head resting on his shoulder giving him ample opportunity to study the finely carved features. He thought at one point he saw the dusky lashes flicker, but the head settled in the crook of his neck and the lids stilled, denying him another glimpse of dark eyes. When he judged their patient had taken enough, he set the spoon in the bowl and eased the thin body back to the mattress, brushing a strand of hair from the warm forehead before withdrawing his supporting arm and pulling the covers over further temptation. “I could use a glass of wine,” he admitted, rising to his feet with a final glance back to the unmoving form before looking across the bed to the gypsy. “Care to join me?”

“As long as you are only offering a glass of wine,” Raúl replied affably. “My lover is the jealous type.”

Aristide’s eyebrows rose at the innuendo the gypsy had—inadvertently?—revealed. His instincts told him the stranger was far too canny to let something so potentially incriminating slip without meaning it. France was less fanatical about relations between men than its neighbor countries, but even in the liberal atmosphere of Louis’s court, it was never acknowledged openly and discretion was practiced except among the closest of friends. Aristide wondered what Raúl hoped to gain by such an admission. In his heart he could not believe the gypsy meant him harm, especially after he had shown such care for the wounded man, but he could not take the risk that this was another ploy to discredit the musketeers.

“Then she need fear nothing from me,” he replied calmly. “I am looking for nothing more than a glass of wine, a bowl of whatever the cook has prepared, and some further guidance in caring for my new friend until he is well enough to travel.”

Before Raúl could reply, a deep voice called his name through the door, accompanied by heavy pounding. A smile broke out on the gypsy’s face. “It would seem Gerrard has found us.”

The musketeer’s gaze slid instinctively to his sword, hanging with his cloak at the opposite side of the chamber. “I want no trouble,” he cautioned as the door latch clicked open and an imposingly large man, with an equally imposing scowl on his face, burst into the room.

“Gerrard,” Raúl called, drawing his lover’s attention before he could overreact. “Why don’t you join our new friend and me for a glass of wine?”

Gerrard scowled in the direction of the unknown man, but the sight of the invalid in the bed told him all he needed to know. “One day, Raúl, your propensity for helping people is going to get us both killed.”

“Maybe,” Raúl replied with a shrug, “but not today. And you should know I’m not an easy target.”

The memory of their first meeting brought a smile and a rueful flush to Gerrard’s face. “Gerrard Hawkins,” he said by way of introduction, holding out his hand to the unknown man standing beside the bed.

“Aristide,” the musketeer answered with a relieved smile as their hands clasped. He judged he might have been able to defeat the bigger man in a fight, but if he were injured himself, he’d be of no use flat on his back beside his current patient. The mental image of the two of them together in bed heated his blood, but he calmed himself with a deep breath and added civilly, “Indeed, your friend Raúl seems to be a man of many talents, and I am most grateful for his assistance. I owe him a debt, which I would gladly repay by asking you both to join me for a meal and a bottle from the innkeeper’s cellar.”

“We’ll join you for a meal and gladly,” Raúl replied agreeably, “but I would rather you repay your debt at some future time by giving aid to another gypsy should you find one in need. My people have far too many enemies and far too few friends.”

“I would offer help to any in need,” Aristide answered honestly, “but your people may always count me a friend, as I hope you will also.” With a final glance to reassure himself that the young stranger still slept peacefully, he nodded toward the door. “Let’s rouse that sluggard of an innkeeper,” he suggested.