Mission to Vendôme

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Based on the characters created by Alexandre Dumas.

This story contains graphic material including depictions of sex and violence. It is intended for an adult audience.

Mission to Vendôme

By R. A. Steffan

Vendôme, France, 1631.

Porthos really hated dealing with kidnappers.

Especially these days, when you could never be sure whether they were just your ordinary, garden-variety kidnappers seeking ransom money, or Isabella’s spies out to uncover the network of Queen Anne’s supporters. Aramis was of the opinion that in this case, it was the latter, and unfortunately Porthos didn’t have any firm reason to disagree. Which made it all the more important that they find the missing Duc de Vendôme sooner rather than later.

Vendôme itself was a grim little town. It had been hard hit by the plague, and seemed to have turned inward in response, presenting a blank and uncaring face to visitors. Still, it was ideally placed as a meeting point between Le Mans to the east, Orléans to the west, and Athos’ castle at Blois to the south. The newly titled duc had returned to his estate near the town after his older brother fell ill and died. César, the former duc, had been a thorn in King Louis’ side for years, but, freed from his influence, Alexandre de Vendôme seemed eager to curry favor with the deposed ruler.

With Louis’ death, it was more important than ever for them to consolidate whatever support they could for the Queen’s unborn child. So it was that Porthos and Aramis found themselves acting as Her Majesty’s representatives in a meeting between the Comte du Maine from Le Mans, a mysterious man from Orléans who called himself Valois, and—at least until last night—their host Alexandre, Duc de Vendôme. Agreements had been signed; promissory notes for goods and currency exchanged. And then, the duc had failed to arrive at the meeting the previous evening. When questioned, the servants at his estate claimed not to have seen him since early that morning.

The man’s mysterious disappearance threatened to undo all that had previously been accomplished between the other parties. The Comte du Maine had reacted with genteel panic, while Valois reacted with anger and stony distrust. Aramis—who despite his protestations to the contrary, thrived on intrigue and excitement like the crops thrive on rain—sharpened instantly from the lassitude which had characterized his behavior during the slow process of negotiation, and now resembled nothing so much as a hunting dog on the scent.

Porthos, who much preferred his conflict to take place in the open with fists and swords, was merely weary.

The pair of musketeers were currently sharing a table in the shabby tavern that occupied the lower floor of a tumble-down building hidden halfway along a twisting street full of unsavory alleys and shadowy corners. They’d managed to talk Valois and the Comte du Maine into giving them a day to investigate before taking any rash action. Still, Porthos could feel the weight of responsibility for the situation pressing down on his broad shoulders, as surely as if de Tréville stood behind him in the room, glaring at the back of Porthos’ neck with his one good eye.

“The parish priest wasn’t much help, I’m afraid,” Aramis said, looking as cool and collected as ever. Porthos couldn’t decide if he envied his friend for that ability, or wanted to thump him on the head until he looked as outwardly flustered and frustrated as Porthos felt.

He sighed, knowing that grace under pressure was one of Aramis’ defining characteristics and it was foolish to wish any different. “I paid some of the local orphans to poke around and see what they could find, but there’s no reason to think he’s still in the town,” he said.

“I suppose we could try to gain entrance to his private rooms at the estate,” Aramis mused, his eyebrows drawing together. “Go through his papers; try to find out who his business associates were. Maybe there’s a clue there.”

“I dunno,” Porthos said. “There might be, but it could take hours just to find out who we should be talking to. I think we should visit the whore first.”

Aramis lifted a sharp eyebrow, caught halfway between confusion and teasing as he replied, “Really, Porthos… are you certain this is the proper time for such pursuits?”

Porthos scowled and tossed a crust of bread at Aramis’ hat, forcing the other man to shake his head to dislodge it from the brim. “Shut up, you. A man tells his prostitute things he’ll never tell his business associates. He was quick enough to recommend her to all of us when we first arrived. Remember? ‘Thank you for coming to our humble town, gentlemen,’” he mimicked in a lisping tenor. “‘We don’t have much to offer to weary travelers these days, but The Hogshead serves an excellent stew, and Mademoiselle Narcisse has no equal when it comes to helping a man forget his troubles for an hour.’ He’s obviously a regular of hers. Maybe he told her something that would give us a starting point.”

Aramis graced him with a slow smile. “As ever, you speak only the wisest words, my friend.” He turned to catch the attention of the gray-haired man wiping a table across the room from them with a dirty rag. “Excuse me, sir. My friend and I find ourselves in need of a diversion. Could you give us directions to the rooms of Mademoiselle Narcisse?”

* * *

The rooms to which they were directed had that sort of shabby elegance particular to brothels—leather, velvet, and lace worn at the edges; lamps casting warm, flickering yellow light over the center of the room, but leaving the corners in shadows. Mademoiselle Narcisse was a young woman of perhaps five-and-twenty, a voluptuous body hiding what seemed to Porthos’ eye like an unusual amount of muscle for a woman… comely enough except for a noticeable gap between her front teeth when she smiled.

“Well, well,” she greeted, “what have I done to deserve two such handsome strangers darkening my doorstep on this fine spring day? Come right in, my dears.”

Aramis swept his hat off, dipping his head in an abbreviated bow before entering. Porthos merely nodded briskly, knowing that despite her charming patter, the woman would appreciate directness and brevity from them since they hadn’t come to engage her for sex.

“Thank you, mademoiselle,” Aramis said, once Narcisse had arranged herself an embroidered chaise longue and was looking up at them through dark eyelashes. “Unfortunately, we are here on business of a less-than-pleasurable nature.”

Narcisse raised a sculpted eyebrow. “One man’s pain is another’s pleasure, monsieur. Perhaps you should explain what you mean?”

Porthos stepped in before Aramis could pick up the thread of banter and run with it. “We’re looking for one of your regular clients. He disappeared sometime yesterday, and we’re concerned that he may be in danger. We’d like to ask you some questions about him. We’re prepared to pay you for your time, and for any information you might have that could help us.”

He reached into his doublet and withdrew a small pouch, tossing it onto the table next to her. Narcisse picked it up and loosened the drawstring, shaking a number of sparkling gemstones into her left palm and making a noise of interest. The value of gold had been plummeting during the plague years as the supply of labor grew tighter and the cost of goods and services rose higher. For now, though, gems were holding their worth slightly better. It didn’t hurt that these were of above-average size and quality, from the Queen’s private collection.

“That’s for your time,” Porthos clarified. “There’s more if you can help us.”

“Well, gentlemen,” Narcisse said, raising her eyes to theirs once again, “you certainly have my attention. However, I’m afraid my ability to help you will depend both on the identity of the man and the nature of the information you need about him.”

“The man in question is Alexandre de Vendôme,” Aramis said. “We fear he has been kidnapped. Has he perhaps spoken to you in the past about enemies, or indicated that he was worried for his safety?”

Porthos couldn’t help noticing that the woman’s expression had become decidedly unimpressed as soon as the duc’s name was mentioned.

“Ah, yes,” said Narcisse, “the newly minted Duc de Vendôme. A tiresome little man, although his money is as good as anyone’s these days, I suppose. I’ll tell you what. You two promise to come back and visit me for an hour or two before you leave town, and I’ll tell you everything I can about him. Deal?”

Aramis met Porthos’ eyes and gave a barely perceptible shrug.

“You’re not exactly driving a hard bargain there, mademoiselle,” Porthos said. “I believe that’s a deal we can both get behind.”

“I’m quite pleased to hear it,” Narcisse said, flashing them a quick, predatory little smile. “So… kidnapped, you say? To be honest, Alexandre always struck me as more likely to disappear on his own with a bag full of incriminating papers and pilfered silverware.”

Porthos perked up at that, aware that Aramis was doing the same.

“What makes you say that?” Aramis asked.

“I wouldn’t have thought that the man was important enough to bother kidnapping. He may be a duc, but most of the family’s wealth was gone years ago, and around here, he’s considered a bit of a joke,” Narcisse said with a shrug. “He’s secretive, though. Keeps a private room behind the butcher’s shop that almost no one knows about. He used to meet with me there, rather than risk being seen visiting me here—as if anyone cared in the first place where he stuck his cock. It’s all a lady could do not to be insulted by that.”

Porthos and Aramis exchanged another look. The duc had presented himself as being someone with significant resources to commit to the restoration of the monarchy. If he’d lied about that, what else had he lied about?

“Did he talk to you much about his financial situation, or about politics?” Porthos asked.

“Only in vague terms,” Narcisse replied. “Like I said, he was secretive. But he was always going on about how he was going to regain his family’s lost money and influence… return to favor with those in power, at which point he would whisk me away from all this to be at his side, always.” This last was delivered with a fluttering of eyelashes and a patently fake look of innocence. “As you can no doubt perceive, I have pinned all my hopes on his words and await these developments with bated breath.”

Aramis snorted softly, and Porthos couldn’t stop the smile that quirked his own lips.

“If I didn’t know better, mademoiselle, I would take you for a cynic,” Aramis said. “Tragic, in one so young and beautiful.”

“Isn’t it, though?” Narcisse said.

Porthos cleared his throat. “I, for one, would be interested in knowing the location of this private room of his. Sounds like we might find all sorts of interesting things there.”

“I believe you just might,” said Narcisse. “From here, you’ll need to follow the Rue de la Chappe north to the alley that takes off to the right just before you get to the Rue de Bellevue. Follow it around until you find the courtyard at the back of the butcher’s building—you’ll know by the smell—and take the stairs on the opposite side up to the second story. It’s the room with the shutters painted red.”

“Thank you,” Porthos said, and dropped another small pouch onto the table. “You’ve been very helpful.”

Indeed, mademoiselle,” said Aramis, “we are indebted to you for your assistance.”

Narcisse picked up the little drawstring bag and smiled at them, showing teeth. “Oh, it’s my pleasure. Or at least, it will be. Don’t think that these trinkets release you from your promise—I still expect to see you back here before you leave.”

“Of course,” Aramis said, sketching another bow before they turned to take their leave. “A gentleman’s word is his bond, after all.”

* * *

“I don’t like it,” Porthos said as they made their way along the unsavory alley behind the butcher’s shop. “At. All. If he’s been spying for Isabella all this time…”

“Well, at least we caught on to the ruse fairly quickly,” Aramis said philosophically, “and it isn’t as if we’ve told anyone where the Queen is. Besides, there’s still the possibility that the duc is completely innocent, and has indeed become the victim of a kidnapping.”

“That’s not much better, from a tactical point of view,” Porthos grumbled, feeling surly and out-of-sorts about the whole situation.

“Ana María is in danger every moment of every day,” Aramis said. “As are all of us who have thrown our lots in with hers. It’s frankly amazing that this sort of thing hasn’t happened sooner.”

The buzz of flies and the cloying odor of offal combined to let then know that they were approaching their destination. Porthos shook his head. “It’s not the danger that bothers me. It’s the thought of it happening on our watch. Bein’ our mistake.”

Aramis patted him on the shoulder. “Just as well we still have a chance to salvage things, in that case,” he said, and pointed across the damp, dimly lit courtyard at a rickety set of stairs set haphazardly against the back of a building.

By unspoken accord, they fell silent and kept to the shadows as they skirted around the open space to the base of the stairs. Aramis led the way onto the steps and Porthos followed him, taking care to tread lightly and not to let his weapons belt creak or jingle. He allowed his eyes to rove around the surrounding buildings, watching their backs for danger as Aramis assessed the rooms ahead. The stairs terminated in a walkway that stretched the length of the second story, and the window with red shutters was roughly halfway along. Still moving silently, the pair crept past the first two doors. Aramis positioned himself to peer cautiously through the gap between the painted shutters and into the room, looking for movement within. After a moment, he caught Porthos’ eye and nodded; the duc was inside.

Porthos eased past Aramis on the narrow walkway to examine the lock and hinges on the room’s wooden door. The ironwork was of surprisingly sturdy construction, but the wood itself was cracked and dry where the hardware attached. He indicated with an economical hand gesture that Aramis should stand back and be ready. With a quick prayer that the wood of the door would give way before the wood of the walkway did, Porthos rammed his shoulder against the edge of the portal and was rewarded with the sound of splintering boards. The lock held and the remaining unbroken boards of the door still barred their way, but a strong kick aimed just under the handle sent the whole thing crashing open with Porthos half-falling into the room behind it.

He was aware of a cry of surprise; the duc flailed to his feet from a chair set by a desk in front of the window. The man jumped toward them, wild-eyed, and lamplight flashed against metal in his hand as Porthos regained his balance. A line of stinging pain sliced across the outside of his upper arm and Porthos growled, batting the stiletto out of his opponent’s grip and hurling him to the ground. The duc froze at the slide-click of a pistol being cocked, and Aramis stepped smoothly to Porthos’ side, sighting down the barrel at the man’s head.

“That’s quite enough, Monsieur le duc,” Aramis said. “I do believe we need to have a little talk. Porthos, are you hurt badly?”

Porthos flexed his left arm, feeling a slow trickle of blood and the mild burn of a shallow cut rather than the sickening pull of a gaping wound. “Nah,” he said, fixing his eyes unblinkingly on the duc and letting his lips part in the slow smile that he had been told on more than one occasion was terrifying to see. “It was just a little prick.”

He could hear the smirk in Aramis’ voice through the thin veneer of false concern as the other man addressed their prisoner. “Oh, dear. I do believe you’ve made Porthos angry.”

The duc finally found his voice. “What are the two you doing here, accosting me in my private rooms! How did you even find this place?”

“Oh, we’ve got eyes everywhere, don’t we, Aramis?” Porthos said, not allowing his disconcerting smile to slip for an instant. “Why don’t I keep an eye on our friend, here, while you have a poke around. Make sure there’s no incriminating documents lying around the place. Or, you know, pilfered silverware.”

“What an excellent idea,” Aramis said, ignoring Alexandre’s offended cry of “How dare you!” and offering Porthos his pistol.

Porthos cracked his knuckles slowly and deliberately. He was well aware of the role he played in such encounters, and in this case he actively relished it. “Not necessary,” he said in a low growl, still maintaining his unnerving eye contact with the man at their feet.

Aramis shrugged and returned the pistol to his belt before turning away and beginning a thorough search of the room. The desk yielded an unfinished letter instructing the staff at the duc’s estate on their duties during his forthcoming absence, which Aramis read aloud to them.

“So, planning a journey, eh?” Porthos asked, moving a step closer to the duc and looming over him.

“That’s none of your concern,” the man said, a faint tremor entering his voice.

“Hmm,” Aramis said noncommittally, and continued his methodical search.

One of the two chests at the foot of the low bed contained clothing for traveling. The other contained a motley collection of weapons, pouches, and bags. Aramis pulled out a set of saddle bags and opened them, rifling through the contents.

“How interesting!” he said brightly. “This bag appears to contain documents and agreements signed by Valois, the Comte du Maine, and our good selves over the past several days. Now, what earthly reason would a man have for taking these papers from safekeeping and packing them as if for travel?”

The duc paled, looking from one of them to the other. His mouth opened, working soundlessly for a few seconds before he said, “I… I was threatened. Someone suspected me! I… I had to flee immediately or risk exposure! Surely you can understand that?”

Porthos let his chest puff out, making himself look even bigger and more intimidating. “So of course, rather than—say—burning the evidence and informing your allies of the threat, you decided to gather all of these papers together and keep them on your person. That’s brilliant, that is. Aramis, we should have put this one in charge of military tactics!”

“Sadly, life is littered with such lost opportunities,” Aramis replied.

“Are all the papers accounted for? He hasn’t sent any ahead by messenger?” Porthos asked, hoping against hope that they weren’t too late to contain the threat.

“Of course the papers are all here!” said the duc. “Of what do you accuse me, you mercenary brutes?”

“Mercenary brutes, is it?” Aramis said with some amusement. “Careful, now—you’ll hurt my associate’s delicate feelings. And, of course, you must excuse me if I prefer to check the documents for myself.”

Aramis took the saddlebag and seated himself at the desk, pulling out the sheaf of papers and smoothing them out. Porthos continued to keep a gimlet eye on Alexandre as Aramis sorted the documents into piles and examined them one by one, rearranging them by date and tallying them with his memory of the previous several days’ discussions.

“I believe we are in luck, Porthos,” he said when he was finished. “Everything appears to be here.”

Porthos quietly let out the breath he’d been holding. Aramis picked up the saddlebag and rummaged around in the bottom to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. After a moment, he froze, and slowly lifted an object out of the bag. From his position, Porthos couldn’t see what it was, but Aramis let out a bark of startled laughter.

“What is it?” Porthos asked.

Eyes still crinkling with mirth, Aramis held up his prize—a shining silver ingot.

* * *

Fortunately, Valois seemed more than eager to deal with Alexandre de Vendôme after they dragged him back to face the others. This suited Porthos just fine. Not only did it save him and Aramis the fuss of dealing with a prisoner; it also saved them having to figure out where to take the man and what to do with him, since they couldn’t exactly bring a traitor back to the Queen’s hideout in Blois.

After questioning the duc at length, the Comte du Maine and Valois seemed convinced that the risk had been contained, and agreed to uphold their previous agreements. All in all, Porthos supposed, it could have been far worse. Having taken their leave of the others, they found themselves alone in the back room of the tavern they had been using for meetings. The May sun had disappeared behind the close-crowded buildings of the town, leaving shadowed darkness outside the dingy window behind their table.

“Are you going to let me look at that wound now?” Aramis asked, letting his tankard of weak ale fall to the table with a soft thump.

“Told you, it’s just a scratch,” Porthos said dismissively. “Stop fussing.”

Aramis made a gesture of surrender. “Fine, fine. So, back to Blois in the morning, then?”

“S’pose so,” Porthos said. “Could’ve gone better, but at least it wasn’t a complete disaster, eh?”

“Merely a near disaster,” Aramis agreed with a smile, “and those are far more enjoyable, as a rule. What is life without excitement, after all?”

“…says the man who claims that he’s destined for a quiet life in the priesthood,” Porthos teased, rising from his chair. “C’mon. I’m tired of drinking this swill, and I want some entertainment before I have to spend hours in the saddle.”

“You intend we should visit Mademoiselle Narcisse as promised, I take it?”

“Well, ‘a gentleman’s word is his bond,’ and all that,” Porthos said. “Or so I’m told.”

“Indeed it is, my friend,” Aramis said, rising to join him. “Indeed it is.”

The walk to Mademoiselle Narcisse’s rooms was chilly, but pleasant—the spring warmth fading quickly once the sun went down. Unlike the previous visit when they had been greeted by Narcisse herself, a maid answered the door and bade them wait in the parlor where they had spoken with the woman before. The girl made them comfortable and offered them refreshment. The two of them sat in companionable silence as they waited, sipping a passable vintage of wine from metal goblets and occasionally trading looks of amusement at the sounds of male pleasure emanating from the the room beyond.

Eventually, the grunts and moans subsided, replaced by quiet, indistinct conversation. A few minutes later, a young man entered from the hallway and walked sheepishly to the door without meeting their eyes. Porthos hid a smile at his obvious youth and discomfort, and saw Aramis doing the same. The maid showed the youngster to the door and secured it behind him. A moment later, Narcisse appeared, clad in a red corset and underdress with a loose dressing gown thrown over her shoulders.

“Well, well,” she said, smiling her slow, rapier-sharp smile. “I do like men who keep their promises.”

Porthos and Aramis both rose, doffing their hats.

“Did you doubt us, mademoiselle?” Aramis asked, meeting her gaze with an assessing smile of his own.

“Experience has taught me to retain a healthy level of skepticism in life,” Narcisse said easily. “Come back with me, both of you. I assume you’ve no objection to sharing? I’ll admit that I’m feeling rather greedy this evening.”

“That’s no problem,” Porthos said. “Wouldn’t be the first time; probably won’t be the last.”

“Indeed not,” Aramis agreed. “Soldiers tend to become rather open-minded about such things.”

“I’m pleased to hear it,” she said, and ushered them into her boudoir. “So, tell me the news. Will I now have to give up my dreams of a future of wealth and leisure at my dear Alexandre’s side?”

“Oh… he’s still alive and well,” Aramis hedged.

“But he’s found that he had to leave the area rather unexpectedly,” Porthos added. “Not sure I’d rely too much on his promises for the future, if you take my meaning.”

Narcisse placed the back of her hand against her forehead dramatically. “Alas, all my hopes shattered. Ah, well—back to the life of a poor prostitute, living hand to mouth and with the wolves always at the door.” She paused, fluttering her eyelashes at them. “Perhaps you two brave soldiers could help with that?”

Porthos rumbled a low laugh. “I thought we’d’ve made a pretty good dent in that problem earlier,” he said, thinking of the gems which had bought the information they’d used to catch the duc.

“Now, now, Porthos,” Aramis chided. “That was payment related to another matter entirely. Surely the lady’s witty companionship and charm also deserves some recompense?”

“Well, when you put it like that…” Porthos said, and produced a small knife sheath from his doublet with a flourish. “Perhaps something like this?”

The sheath was well-made, and cunningly designed in such a way that it could be sewn into a woman’s skirts, making the knife itself nearly invisible.In the current climate, such a precaution was wise for any woman—doubly so for a prostitute. Narcisse took the sheath from Porthos’ outstretched fingers and examined it, making a considering noise but not seeming overly impressed.

“Ah, but how could I forget?” Aramis said, producing a small knife that fit into the sheath from his sleeve like a magician. “That is only half of the gift. The other half is here.”

He offered the little dagger to Narcisse, hilt first, and a smile blossomed across her face.

“The two of you are far too practiced at this routine,” she said with a laugh, “but this will do very nicely indeed. Please, make yourselves comfortable while we discuss the details of the evening.”

Aramis smiled his acquiescence and began to remove his weapons and outer layers. Porthos followed suit, only to hiss in surprise when his shirtsleeve pulled against the cut on his arm. The blood must have dried and stuck the fabric in place, he realized. Porthos immediately found himself the focus of two sets of eyes.

“Perhaps a small diversion before the main course,” Aramis said, his expression brooking no quarter.

“Are you injured, monsieur?” Narcisse asked, worry clouding her expression.

“Honestly, it’s nothing,” Porthos said in a tired voice. “A scratch.”

“In which case, it will only take a moment to deal with it,” Aramis said. “Mademoiselle, do you perhaps have a rag and some spirits that I can use to clean the wound, and a length of cloth to bind it? And you, Porthos—shirt, off. Now.”

Narcisse raised a perfect eyebrow. “Well, that’s certainly a plan I can get behind,” she said. “Here, I have some brandy by the sideboard, and there’s clean linen in the chest.”

Knowing when he was defeated, Porthos eased the stiff fabric away from his arm with a grimace, and submitted meekly enough to Aramis’ care, which did indeed take only a few moments.

“Happy now?” he asked a bit sullenly, once the bandage was tied in place.

“Ecstatic,” Aramis replied, and Porthos huffed out a breath that was halfway between amusement and irritation.

“I trust your wound will not hinder your enjoyment of the evening, monsieur?” Narcisse asked, seeming genuinely worried.

I told you—it’s not a wound, it’s a scratch,” Porthos said. He smiled as he added, “And if it does, I’ll just make Aramis do all the heavy lifting while I lie back and enjoy myself.”

Narcisse laughed gaily. “Your comrade makes very freely with your favors, does he not, Monsieur Aramis?”

“Indeed, mademoiselle; the sacrifices I make for friendship…” Aramis said in a long-suffering tone.

“Well, then, what is your pleasure tonight?” Narcisse asked.

Aramis smiled gently. “Truly, I have no preference. Choose whatever pastimes please you; I am entirely at your disposal.”

“That’s very chivalrous of you, monsieur, but it hardly seems fair, given that you are the ones paying me.”

“Oh, Aramis likes everything,” Porthos said, “but mostly he gets off on his partner’s pleasure. If there’s something you really like—something that gets you hot and wet for him—that’s what he’ll enjoy.”

“Crudely put, mon ami,” Aramis said, looking faintly amused, “though I cannot refute it. Tell us about something that incites your passion, mademoiselle. Describe it to us, and if it sounds pleasing to us all, we will do it.”

Narcisse nodded and seated herself on the chair in front of her dressing table, looking thoughtful. “Very well. Give me a moment, though; believe it or not, no one has ever asked me that before. Hmm… yes. I do have one particular client. An older man. A widow. He is a forceful gentleman, known as driving a hard bargain in business, and curt in his personal dealings. When he comes here, though, he pays me to humiliate him… to take my pleasure from his body without letting him come, and hold him in my arms to comfort him afterward. Sometimes he asks to be whipped—“

“No whipping,” Porthos said firmly.

Narcisse nodded in understanding and continued. “On other occasions, I tie him to the bed and tease him until he loses his composure and begs me to let him come. I’ve always quite enjoyed that.”

She looked at Aramis questioningly.

“I am not averse,” he said, “though I would prefer to achieve my release at some point during the evening. Porthos?”

“Works for me,” Porthos said, before turning his attention to Narcisse. “How about I sit back and watch while you tie him to the bed and take your pleasure from him—get yourself nice and wet and open for me… all soft and sated. Then, when he’s straining and desperate for you, we’ll make him watch while I give you a good, hard fuck. Does that suit everybody?”

“Oh, admirably,” Narcisse said with a cheeky grin, while Aramis made an easy noise of assent. She straightened her posture, her demeanor becoming haughty, and pointed a commanding finger at Aramis. “You. Strip naked and kneel on the bed. Be quick about it.”

“Of course, mademoiselle,” Aramis said. “Whatever pleases you.”

Narcisse turned to Porthos. “And you, make yourself comfortable in the armchair, and let me get a look at what I’ll be dealing with later on.”

Porthos grinned and settled himself in the cushioned chair, which was carefully placed to take advantage of the warmth of the fire while still giving a clear view of the wide bed. He was already naked to the waist, so he unbuttoned his breeches and unlaced his smallclothes, pushing everything down a few inches so he could take his cock out. Palming himself lazily, he gave a few slow strokes to bring himself to hardness as she watched him.

A slow smile spread over her features. “Oh, yes,” she said, watching him shamelessly. “That will do very nicely indeed.”

By that point, Aramis had finished undressing and arranged himself on the bed like a supplicant, all long, lean lines and angles, peppered with a soldier’s scars. Narcisse gave a hum of appreciation and turned to her dressing table, removing several silk scarves from a drawer. She crossed to the bed and placed the scarves near the headboard before addressing Aramis once more.

“Undress me,” she said.

Aramis leaned forward and swept Narcisse’s gown from her shoulders, tossing it neatly over the back of the chair by the dressing table. He then proceeded to loosen the lacing of her corset, as smooth and efficient as any lady’s maid.

“Good to see all that practice you’ve had has paid off,” Porthos teased.

“Everyone needs skills,” Aramis replied.

Narcisse snickered in an entirely unladylike fashion before returning to character. She flicked Aramis on the ear and said, “Enough, you. Less talking; more undressing.”

With the laces loosened, Aramis helped Narcisse shimmy out of the stiff material of the corset. He reached down, gathering the hem of the long underdress in his hands and lifting it smoothly to reveal her shapely legs, wide hips, soft stomach, and ample breasts as he slid the folds of fabric over her body. She raised her arms to assist him in lifting it off of her completely, leaving her naked in the firelight.

“Nicely done, my beauty,” she praised. “Now, lie on your back on the bed and give me your left wrist.”

Aramis crawled back to the center of the bed and positioned himself as she had requested. Porthos kept a careful eye on the two of them as Narcisse bound Aramis’ wrists and ankles, ensuring that the scarves were not too tight, and that Aramis showed no sign of discomfort. Porthos knew that Aramis had, on at least two separate occasions, been bound hand and foot by people who intended to visit the worst kind of bodily harm upon him. Equally, though, he knew that Aramis trusted Porthos to keep watch during a harmless game like this one, and step in if there was a problem he was unable to communicate on his own behalf.

As it happened, Porthos had no cause to criticize Narcisse’s technique. The bonds were snug, but not tight, and tied with the sort of slipknot one might use to tether a young horse—a single tug on the loose end would unravel the knot in an instant.

“Very neat,” he said approvingly, and she winked at him.

Aramis tested the bonds, writhing sinuously for a few moments and making the bed frame creak. “I appear to be completely at your mercy, mademoiselle,” he said. “Whatever are you going to do with me?”

Narcisse grinned. “I’ve a mind to see if I can crack that cool exterior of yours, monsieur,” she said. “But first, perhaps, a kiss.”

Porthos relaxed back into his chair, taking himself in hand once more. He had always enjoyed watching, and the two in front of him made a very appealing picture as Narcisse crawled up the length of Aramis’ body to seal her lips with his. Aramis allowed her to take the lead—not that he had much choice, bound and spreadeagled as he was. His eyes fluttered shut as she deepened the kiss, and he kept them closed as she broke it. She reached across to take a small vial from the low table by the bed, and kissed her way down Aramis’ body, carefully avoiding his half-hard cock.

“Hips up,” she said, grabbing one of the many pillows strewn across the bed and placing it under Aramis’ hips as he awkwardly arched off the mattress for her. He settled back into place at her touch. “I’m taking your friend at his word when he says you like everything. Do, however, let me know if you don’t like this after giving yourself a bit of time to get used to it.”

Porthos looked on in interest as she unstoppered the vial and poured oil over the fingers of her left hand. In his experience, very few women chose to indulge in this practice with a man—even among prostitutes. He wasn’t sure if Aramis had ever had it done to him before or not.

“Not to worry— the spirit of adventure and exploration has found a home in me,” Aramis said with a half-smile, only to inhale a quick breath as Narcisse’s fingers disappeared behind his balls, rubbing oil over the sensitive skin there. Porthos watched his face intently, seeing the moment she breached him reflected in his expression. Aramis’ cock wilted slightly as she eased her finger further inside.

“All right?” Porthos asked, and Aramis nodded tightly, his eyes closed and his brow furrowed.

“Give it a moment, monsieur,” Narcisse said, her wrist flexing as she slowly worked him open. “There is method to my madness, I assure you. Ah! There we are…”

Her wrist flexed again, and Aramis arched against his bonds with a curse, his eyes flying open and his prick springing instantly to full hardness. “Mon Dieu,” he said, settling back on the mattress. “That was certainly an… interesting sensation.”

“What sensation are you referring to, exactly? Oh, you mean this?” Narcisse asked innocently, and did it again.

Aramis writhed and panted, but she gave him no time to recover, sliding her finger slowly back and forth over the place inside that made Aramis gasp and strain against the scarves binding him. Long minutes later, his his cock looked fit to burst, the head an angry purple and fluid leaking in a steady stream from the tip, for all that it had not yet been touched. Narcisse withdrew her fingers, ignoring the bereft sound of protest that the action drew from her victim. Porthos gave himself a final pull and let go of his own cock, not wanting to get ahead of things.

“I think that’s quite enough of that,” Narcisse said.

“A matter of… of opinion, surely,” Aramis managed, trying to get his breath back.

“Ah, but you are here for my pleasure this evening, monsieur; not your own,” she said, straddling his belly so that the tip of his cock barely brushed the crease between her buttocks. She raised her left hand to her breast, playing with the nipple, while her right delved between her own legs. “And what a pretty picture you make, all flushed and yearning to be touched. You’re completely helpless like this. I could do anything to you… anything at all.”

Porthos eyes flicked away from the show Narcisse was putting on as she touched herself, checking Aramis’ expression to make sure her words hadn’t taken him back to any unpleasant memories. The bound man seemed to have regained his usual composure, though, and was watching his captor with a lazy half-smile.

“Yes,” Aramis said, “you could do whatever you wanted to me. Take me in whatever way you desired, and I would be powerless to stop you.” His voice was purposely low and seductive; spinning the fantasy that his current partner wanted to hear. He watched avidly as Narcisse moaned and bit her lip. Reassured, Porthos returned his attention to the woman as well, looking on with appreciation as she writhed against her own fingers, her eyes—dark with arousal—pinned on Aramis beneath her. He strained deliberately against the scarves tying him, his body bucking and sliding underneath hers.

Narcisse gasped and came, her back arching as she cried out. Porthos felt a new wave of arousal wash over him at the sight, warm and insistent.

“You have a silver tongue, my dear captive,” the prostitute said once she had come back to herself. “I believe I’d like to put it to a different use.”

“I am yours to do with as you please,” Aramis said.

Porthos could see the trail of wetness smeared over Aramis’ stomach as Narcisse slid further up his body to straddle his face. She and Aramis both groaned in pleasure as she lowered herself down to meet his mouth. She set the pace she wanted, forcing Aramis to lick and kiss her exactly where she wanted him to; controlling his movement with a hand tangled in his hair. His cock twitched and pulsed each time she pressed him down, forcing him to delve deeply into her folds with his tongue for long seconds before letting him briefly up for air.

“I knew you’d be good at this,” she said breathlessly. “That pretty mouth was simply made for pleasuring a woman.”

Aramis hummed against her, making her shiver, and a short time later, she stiffened and came over his face, grabbing the headboard to steady herself. He licked her through the aftershocks, until she squirmed away from his tongue, oversensitive. Her attention turned lazily to Porthos, and he grinned at her as her eyes slid down to his crotch, where his cock lay stiff and heavy against his belly.

“Dunno about my mouth,” he said, “but I’ve got something else that was made for pleasuring a woman right here.”

She grinned back, showing teeth. “Oh, yes? Prove it.”

Porthos rose from his chair and crossed to the bed. With a growl, he lifted Narcisse away from Aramis as if she weighed nothing and manhandled her around to press her hips against the edge of the bed. She released a breath of laughter as he pushed her upper body down to sprawl on the mattress, her head and shoulders resting on Aramis’ hips so that his twitching, leaking cock was only inches from her face. She braced herself by grabbing the meat of Aramis’ inner thigh with one hand, so high up that her knuckles brushed his balls, and the bound man released a soft sound of desperation.

Porthos pinned her lightly in place with a hand on the back of her neck and lined himself up.

“I imagine after all that, you’re feeling nice and sensitive right now, yeah?” he asked, letting the head of his cock slide deliciously along her slick folds.

“Mmm,” she agreed, wriggling her hips and rubbing her cheek against the soft skin above Aramis’ hipbone like a cat.

“Good,” Porthos said, and slid into her with a single sharp thrust, driving a high-pitched cry from her as he bottomed out. He held himself still as she panted under him. “All right?”

“Oh, fuck, yes,” she said. “Give it to me!”

“You asked for it,” he said, letting his amusement show in his voice. “Tell me when I hit the right spot.”

He pulled back and thrust in hard again, keeping the pace slow and changing the angle slightly each time. When he leaned a little further over her back and drove his hips down and forward, she cried out and clawed at Aramis’ thigh with one hand and the bedclothes with the other. “Yes! Right there… Oh!”

“Right there, it is,” Porthos said, and picked up the pace, feeling his blood rise when Narcisse’s passage fluttered around him as if trying to grip his cock and hold it inside.

Aramis groaned beneath them, shifting restlessly. “How does she feel, mon ami? Tell me what she’s like…”

“She’s so wet, Aramis…” Porthos said. “She’s dripping with it, from when you made her come. And hot… it’s like sliding a sword into the blacksmith’s forge…”

“Merde,” Aramis cursed, before turning his attention to the woman. “Is it good, Narcisse? Is he going to make you come again?”

“So big…” Narcisse said, the words punched out of her in time with Porthos’ thrusts. “He’s… so big! Feels like… like I’ll be split in half…”

“And will you come like this?” Aramis asked. “With me trapped under you and desperate for any touch, so close to the edge that your breath against my flesh is nearly enough to make me spill?”

Narcisse keened, the noise trailing off to a sob, and Porthos thrust in hard… one… two… three more times before she convulsed under him. Her walls clenched hard around his cock and he spilled into her, his own pleasure crashing down like a wave over his head. When he could breathe again, he carefully pulled out and let himself slide down to sit on the floor, leaning against the side of the bed with one arm slung across the mattress to anchor himself.

“You good?” he asked Narcisse.

“Mmm,” she purred, not having moved from her position sprawled half over Aramis. “Yes. Very good.”

“Is anyone going to enquire about my well-being?” Aramis asked from his position on his back, sounding simultaneously amused and stressed.

Narcisse snorted laughter into his hip, and Porthos said, “I think we all know what you need at this point, actually. What do you think, Narcisse? You ready to put him out of his misery?”

“I’ll have to think about it,” she said, pulling herself up without much grace to sit on the edge of the bed. “I rather enjoy having him here for my use. Perhaps I should keep him like this.”

“Nah,” Porthos said. “See, you think it’s a good idea now, but just wait until the whining and complaining starts. You’d have to gag him.”

“Oh yes,” Narcisse said with a twinkle in her eye, “that would be terrible.”

“Here—I know. You should make him take it up the arse again until he comes,” Porthos suggested, purposely being crude for the entertainment of seeing Aramis’ offended expression. “He seemed to like that earlier.”

The expression of offence fled instantly when Narcisse’s fingers slid into the shadowed space between his legs, assessing—replaced with raw want.

“Perhaps you’re right,” she said. “He’s still all loose and open. Nice and ready for me. Hand me that oil, would you?”

Porthos retrieved the oil and poured it over her fingers. After putting it away, he pulled his braies and breeches back up and fastened them before crossing back to the overstuffed chair. He collapsed into it with a grunt of pleasure, intending to enjoy the afterglow while Narcisse slowly worked Aramis toward his peak. Aramis was grunting and cursing. His rock-hard cock still hadn’t been touched, and Porthos was impressed by the degree to which Narcisse had undone the normally unflappable man’s control.

“Deus meus,” Aramis groaned, beginning to fight against the restraints in earnest now, “pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo…”

“You know he’s about to come when he starts cursing in Latin,” Porthos said helpfully from his vantage point slouched in the chair.

Narcisse had arranged herself to lie between Aramis’ spread legs with her head resting in the crease of his hip while she massaged the sweet spot inside him with leisurely strokes. “Oh, is that so, my beauty?” she asked. “Well, I think you’ve waited long enough. Go on, then—come for me now.” With that, she leaned forward the last few inches and licked a broad stripe from the base of her captive’s cock to the tip.

Eyes tightly closed, Aramis threw his head back and came silently, the tendons of his neck standing out in sharp relief and his breath locked in his lungs. Ropes of white painted his stomach and chest; Narcisse continued to coax more pulses from him with her clever fingers inside him until he collapsed against the mattress, exhausted and shuddering, breathing like he’d just run a footrace.

“… I think you broke him,” Porthos said when he finally settled.

“All part of the service,” Narcisse said. “He struck me as the type who would enjoy being broken in such a way.” She slid her fingers free and rose to wipe them on a rag from the dressing table, returning with a damp cloth to clean Aramis’ spendings from his torso before carefully untying him. Aramis stretched luxuriously and rolled to lie on his side with his head pillowed in the crook of his elbow, eyes still closed.

“I was quite fond of that little dagger I offered as payment for the evening, you know, mademoiselle,” he said, “but I think it ended up being an equitable trade after all.”

“Back with us, then?” Porthos asked, amused.

“As if I would ever truly leave you, mon ami.”

* * *

Narcisse allowed them to linger for a few minutes longer before gently but efficiently chivvying them along, with the offer that they should stop in and see her again if they ever found themselves back in Vendôme. After the day they’d had, Porthos was happy enough to return to the little room they shared at the inn over the tavern and fall into bed. He was even happier to see Aramis do the same; his friend sleeping—uncharacteristically—like the dead.

First light saw them back on the road to Blois, the distance unwinding slowly under their horses’ hooves as the morning progressed. Aramis spent the time complaining about having to sit in the saddle for half the day when he was sore from the previous evening’s diversions, and Porthos spent the time trying not to laugh at him. Or trying not to laugh at him much, at any rate.

Aramis’ saddlebags contained an account of the agreements with Valois and the Comte du Maine, written in code, for de Tréville’s inspection. Porthos wasn’t looking forward to explaining about the duc’s attempt at treachery, but Aramis had been right that it could have been much worse. The Queen was still safe—as safe as she ever was, anyway—and Athos’s castle was still a secure haven for them.

He was mulling over their present and future plans when his gelding, which had been gradually lagging behind Aramis’ horse over the past league or so, pulled up awkwardly.

“Aramis!” he called, and the other man reined in his mare and turned to ride back to him.

“What’s wrong?” Aramis asked. “We’re nearly there; why have you stopped?”

Porthos dismounted. “My horse. He’s been off on the right forefoot since mid-morning, but it’s just got worse. Looks like I’m walking the rest of the way.”

“Hmm, well, at least the day is pleasant and it’s only another league or so,” Aramis said, making as if to dismount and join him.

“No, no, stay on your horse,” Porthos said. “You should ride ahead and get the papers to de Tréville. I’ll be along before too long.”

“You’re certain?” Aramis said. “As you said yourself, it won’t take much longer on foot.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he said. “You go on. The road’s practically deserted. I’ll be fine.”

Aramis smirked at him. “And of course, this way, you won’t have to be there when I explain to de Tréville about the duc.”

“I have absolutely no idea what you mean,” Porthos said innocently. “Try to stay out of trouble, why don’t you, since I won’t be around to fish you out of it.”

Aramis snorted in amusement. “Take your own advice then, mon ami—I won’t be around to fish you out of trouble either.”

Porthos made a rude gesture with the hand that wasn’t holding the reins, and Aramis touched the brim of his hat in ironic salute before reining his mare around and heading off toward Blois at an easy canter. Porthos sighed and looked up at the position of the sun before trudging down the road, leading his lame horse behind him.

With luck, he could still be in Blois by noon, or perhaps a bit after.

fin