Title: Love's Musketeer

Author: Angelise

Author Email: angelise7@hotmail.com

Rating: NC-17

Pairings: Jim/Blair Simon/m

Date: 10/21/02

Category: Alternate Universes

Author's website: http://writingonthewall.slashcity.net/~angelise7/index.html

Disclaimer: The Cardinal has threatened me with the gallows if I lay claim to these men. He has wicked plans for them! <eg>

Author's Notes: Several years ago, I asked my fellow listsibs a question. If you could place The Sentinel characters into an alternate universe, which one would you choose? Someone suggested the Alexandre Dumas classic, The Three Musketeers and, on a dare to myself, I wrote a few chapters. I challenged the other authors of the list to join me--threw down the gauntlet, so to say but no one accepted my challenge. Cowards! <bg>
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Anyway. what you see before you is my pitiful attempt at putting a different spin on Dumas' classic. I'm sure he is rolling over in his grave at this very moment. Please note that I specifically placed this series in a GAY universe, which means almost every major character is GAY. The muse found herself surrounded by all these wonderful MEN and decided this was the only way to go!
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Also. if you're looking for high adventure, in-depth plots, insightful thoughts from the characters, you're in the wrong place. This was purely written for fun and is most definitely "not" a literary masterpiece. <g> There's lots of sex with a little intrigue thrown in for good measure. Perfect way to pass the time, if you ask me.
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As many of you know, this series was originally hosted on another author's website. When she asked me to find a new home for my work, I did so but ran out of steam when it came time to reformat Love's Musketeer--the damn thing was nearly forty chapters long--a daunting task for me at that moment. I put it on the back burner and simply forgot about it. Recent interest in this series has peaked the muse's curiosity and we decided to dig it out of the moth balls and get to work on it-one chapter at a time, which, unfortunately, makes this a work in progress. Sorry!
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And. for those of you who had the opportunity to read this series the first time around, you will find some sections completely rewritten and a major change of characters. It does not affect the storyline whatsoever, but I'm sure you understand why I had to implement this change.
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Okay. enough of this! I hear swords clashing in the distance. Let's join our courageous Musketeers and lose ourselves in their world. All for one and one for all! Angelise
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P.S. If you go to the series main page, you'll find a coverart that features D'Artagnan/Blair. And if you would like to see a larger version of the image, just click on the picture itself.
http://writingonthewall.slashcity.net/~angelise7/LMmain.htm

Story Notes:
Cast of Characters:
Athos-Jim
D'Artagnan-Blair
Porthos-Simon
Aramis-Rafe
Cardinal Richelieu-Garett Kincaid
Rochefort-Lee Brackett
King Louis XIII-OC
King's Consort-OC
Duke of Buckingham-Stephen Ellison
Henri Phillipe-Henri Brown
Lady de Winter-Carolyn Plummer

Summary: D'Artagnan joins the group, in more ways than one!

Love's Musketeer
by Angelise

Aramis pulled free the handkerchief he had hidden within the cuff of his sleeve. "We must soon end our sparring, Athos." The dark-haired Musketeer wiped the sweat from his face. "I am escorting Porthos to Madame Bajon's to listen to the famous poet, Desportes." Glancing over his shoulder, Aramis smiled at the large black Musketeer lounging lazily at a nearby table. "Excited about tonight, mon ami?"

Porthos groaned secretly as he saluted his lover. "I am breathless with anticipation, Aramis."

"You are such a liar." Aramis laughed as he tucked his handkerchief back in its hiding place. "Would you care to join us tonight, Athos?" Turning his attention to the older man, Aramis found him standing absolutely still, his eyes unfocused.

"Porthos!" Aramis quickly sheathed his sword. "Make haste! Athos has lost himself again." Aramis lightly slapped his captain's cheek. "This is not the time, mon cher. Rochefort is in the building and it would please him to no end to find you like this. Awake!" Checking to see if anyone else noticed Athos' spell, Aramis gripped his shoulders and shook him hard. "Athos!"

"Here. Let me have him." Before Porthos could take hold of Athos, a young, unknown Musketeer brushed past him and touch the Musketeer captain on the shoulder.

"Excuse me, Monsieurs. May I be of assistance?"

Eyes widening in surprise, both Aramis and Porthos watched their friend take a deep breath and refocus on his surroundings, his usual confused and grumpy state of return, forfeited. With a nod to the stranger standing at his side, Athos smiled slightly before lifting his sword to Aramis and saluting. "Shall we begin again?"

Aramis nodded, his mind still grappling with the ease at which the longhaired youth broke Athos free of his spell simply by touching him. Raising his hand, he stalled his friend. "One moment, please." Aramis pulled his lover to the side and whispered urgently, "I don't care what you have to do but it is urgent that you convince Monsieur de Trville to assign this boy into our care. I'm not sure what just happened but if he can help us keep Athos from losing himself in these spells then it is most imperative we have him nearby at all times."

Porthos nodded his agreement and embraced the confused Musketeer standing beside Athos. "Come, boy! Tell me your name."

Athos clapped his hand on Aramis' shoulder, his curious gaze captured by the long mahogany curls of the stranger walking away with Porthos. "Who might that be?"

Aramis raised an eyebrow when the youth glanced back at them, his shy smile directed at his somber captain. "Your savior, Athos. I believe he is your savior."

+++++++

"No!"

"Yes!"

Athos slammed his fist down on the table. "No! I am your captain and I say... No!"

Porthos ignored his friend's protest. "You need D'Artagnan, Athos. We have been in the field an entire fortnight and he has wrestled you free from these spells that befall you. Not once but every time, Athos." Porthos pounded the table. "I say he stays."

"He is too young."

Porthos rolled his eyes and snorted. "D'Artagnan is a King's Musketeer. He is not too young." He looked closer at his captain. "Tell me the real reason you do not want him with us."

"He is inexperienced...."

Porthos gripped Athos' arm. "We were all inexperienced at one time or another, Athos. Besides, even you have to admit he has conducted himself honorably this past fortnight." Porthos tightened his grip, pulling Athos closer. "You must do better, my friend, to convince me to leave this young pup behind. Tell me the truth, mon cher."

Athos broke free of the older man's hold and turned to gaze out the window. "I want him," he whispered quietly. "He stirs my hunger." Athos closed his eyes briefly. "But he also gives me peace. A sweet peace that I have found with no other."

Smiling broadly, Porthos slapped his friend on the back. "This is good, is it not? Take him into your bed, Athos. Let his body warm your old bones." The black Musketeer gentled his voice. "You have denied yourself too long, Athos. Open your heart to this boy and maybe he will be the one to give you back the love you lost so many years ago."

Athos shook his head and turned away. "We shall see, my good friend."

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At last the inn was quiet, the remaining patrons moving upstairs with their chosen wenches. Rowdy male laughter mixed with female giggles floated down into the darkened dining area, tempting those that were left behind.

D'Artagnan sat at the table with two of his comrades. The sometimes priest, sometimes Musketeer, Aramis was tucked against the solid form of his large lover, Porthos. His slender hands held open a book of poetry, his soft voice whispering tender words of love, passion and desire. D'Artagnan smiled as his two new friends lost themselves in that magical world inhabited only by lovers.

The large and occasionally clumsy Porthos tenderly embraced the smaller man, nuzzling the area behind his ear. His rough and callused hands soothingly stroked Aramis' chestnut curls, bringing forth soft, quiet moans from his lover's lips. When Aramis turned to kiss Porthos, D'Artagnan blushed and looked away, his embarrassment wrestling with the loneliness that had taken residence in his heart. Unable to resist, he turned back and was stunned to observe the two Musketeers embracing passionately. Porthos had ripped Aramis' tunic off one shoulder and was trailing small bites across the pale skin, his fingers pulling and pinching the younger man's exposed nipple. Aramis moaned and tipped back his head, his tangled curls highlighted with sparkles of amber and bronze from the fire in the nearby hearth. D'Artagnan felt his own cock harden as he watched Porthos lower his head and suckle his lover's small erect nipple. A tortured hiss of air escaped his lips when he caught sight of Porthos' hand as it moved lower and firmly stroked the area between Aramis' legs.

His body's blatant reaction forced him to retreat and he sought refuge in the far, dark corner of the inn, the pain within his lonely heart nearly strangling him. Would he ever find such a love as the one shared by Porthos and Aramis? Would his body ever feel the embrace of desire? Be touched and caressed by the hands of passion? Be tasted and kissed by the lips of hunger?

The youth stumbled awkwardly, driven away by the husky moans and cries of love emanating from his friends. In his haste, he tripped over a discarded boot and fell heavily against a man sitting at a table hidden in the darkness. Strong arms reached out and steadied him, hands holding his hips in a firm grasp. D'Artagnan twisted around, a quick apology ready to be offered to this kind stranger.

All thoughts and words evaporated into the stillness as the dark, smoky blue eyes of his leader, Athos, captured his gaze. Mesmerized, he watched as Athos' gloved hand lifted and touched his face, capturing the single tear that fell down his cheek, tripping the rhythm of his heart when the salty moisture was brushed across his trembling lips. Closing his eyes, D'Artagnan imprinted the image in his mind, a memory to be treasured in the darkness of his lonely nights.

Athos sat quietly, watching the distracted youth, his mouth curved in an understanding smile. Gently gripping D'Artagnan's hips, he pulled him down unto the bench, folding his smaller body into a warm, caring hug. Straddling the narrow seat, he settled D'Artagnan between his legs, securing him close to his larger body.

"Little man, what troubles your heart this stormy night?"

The young Musketeer attempted to pull away from the intimate contact but Athos blocked all efforts of escape by encircling him with his strong arms. The captain then captured the youth's shaking hands and pressed his thighs against the slender legs that trembled with fear.

"Do not be afraid. I will not hurt you." Athos lowered his head and gazed into the clear sapphire eyes of his junior comrade, their color disappearing as D'Artagnan's pupils dilated with fright.

"You are safe, my child. Your body trembles with fear but there is no one here that can cause you any harm." Athos touched his lips to the boy's forehead, continuing to whisper soothing words.

D'Artagnan willed his body into stillness. It was not fear that shook his body. It was the overwhelming physical attraction to Athos that had him on the edge of losing control. He had always admired the older man but until this moment, he had not realized how much he was captivated by not only the man's physique but also by his sharp intelligence, his devotion to his friends, his loyalty to king and country. He sensed that a gentle spirit lurked beneath the gruff, often times brusque, exterior. And it was to that spirit his empty and lonely heart answered.

Athos watched D'Artagnan for a few minutes and smiled at the emotions that chased across his face. *Yes! You feel it too... this connection, this bond between us.* The hardened Musketeer allowed his gaze to travel over the young body held securely against him. It was a small, compact body, youthful muscles firming, evidence of the daily workouts the four Musketeers insisted on. Waist length hair, the color of burnished mahogany, fell across his shoulders, the curls soft and fragrant.

Athos allowed himself a brief touch of D'Artagnan's locks, burying his face in their silkiness. He took advantage of his heightened sense of smell and breathed in deeply, his nose detecting the musky scent of . . . arousal? Athos looked down in surprise, catching sight of the large erection straining against the boy's tight breeches. Lustful thoughts immediately rushed forth, inflaming his own manhood with extreme hunger.

Frozen in place, Athos realized it would be only seconds before D'Artagnan was aware of his body's uncontrollable reaction. How would the youth react?

(2)

An agonizing hiss whistled through Athos' tightly clamped teeth as D'Artagnan brutally gripped his legs. Using the older man's powerfully built thighs as leverage, the young Musketeer braced himself and purposefully leaned back. Blazing white heat exploded all through Athos' groin the instant he felt D'Artagnan's response. The boy's slender body molded itself tightly against his larger frame, his smaller hands trembling where they lay atop his thighs. Athos covered D'Artagnan's hands with his own and pressed them firmly into the corded muscles of his upper legs, his hips surging forward as his mind and body howled with need.

D'Artagnan whipped his head around as if he had heard the unspoken words, his innocent blue eyes captured and held by Athos' gaze, a gaze that was as dark as the blackest night. The subdued glow from the nearby fireplace illuminated the desire burning in the eyes of the elder Musketeer and he watched, spellbound, as Athos removed his gloves and gathered large handfuls of his hair. His thick mane was gently pulled on, forcing D'Artagnan to lean his head back, his words of weak protest evaporating into silence when Athos buried his face in the long tresses. D'Artagnan shivered as he listened to the quiet moans escaping from deep within the man. His virginal body threatened to surrender to the burning hunger as its passionate blaze seared his nerves and ignited needs that threatened to suffocate his very being.

D'Artagnan felt his cock struggle to escape the secure bindings of his breeches as the surging rush of blood to his groin increased his need for deliverance. His hips strained upward, seeking a release his mind had no answer, no reference for. A hoarse guttural sound was torn from him, his innocence reaching out, pleading for guidance, begging for instruction in the ways of loving.

Athos raised his head, stunned at the boy's helpless reaction. Could this one be a chaste virgin, untouched by the hand of a lover? Will he allow me to be his teacher? Athos called softly to D'Artagnan, smiling at the wild look on the lad's face. He cradled his head close, tucking it against his shoulder.

"Young one, I need to know something." He trailed one hand across D'Artagnan's chest, hesitating at the tunic's leather ties. "Do you...."

"Yes!" D'Artagnan's hot breath scalded the exposed skin of Athos' throat.

"I will not hurt you, child, but I need to know one thing. Have you ever coupled with a woman or a man?"

The youth shook his head in embarrassed denial and his body jerked helplessly as the first binding on his tunic was released.

"D'Artagnan! Look at me."

The longhaired Musketeer raised his head and focused his sight on the face of his friend and leader. His eyes darkened with a curious hunger as he beheld the lean, handsome features of the man who had bewitched his mind with carnal wants and desires.

"Do you want me to touch you as a lover would?"

The youth's gaze never wavered as he softly answered, "Yes."

Athos loosened another tie and slipped his hands inside D'Artagnan's tunic, stroking the warm skin of his chest. He chuckled when his hand encountered the thick coarse pelt that covered the upper torso. Such a manly growth of hair on one who has only seen eighteen summers.

"Do you want me to teach you how to pleasure a man?" His fingers discovered D'Artagnan's small nipples and began to rub and pull on them.

D'Artagnan arched into Athos' firm touch and another ragged moan escaped into the dark silence, signaling his overwhelming surrender. Yielding control of his body, he whispered again, breathless with need, "Yes."

D'Artagnan gripped Athos' thighs, re-anchoring himself to the larger man, seeking shelter from the fury of emotions that threatened to engulf his innocent heart. Athos' warm, agile fingers began a slow, maddening exploration of his upper body, pulling the heavy tunic open wide. He sucked in a tortuous gasp when one hand wandered away, only to return with wet fingers that stroked their liquid heat across his exposed nipples. His torment continued as Athos' rugged hands fondled the small nubs until they were drawn tight and erect.

D'Artagnan's moans spilled into the sheltering shadows, his head thrown back, exposing his throat to the man holding him. Athos grazed the flushed skin with his teeth, biting lightly on the juncture of D'Artagnan's neck and shoulder. His fingers continued their exploration into the boy's thick forest of chest hair, spreading wide to cover the flat abdomen, dipping inside the indentation of his navel.

D'Artagnan's labored breathing escalated as devastating pleasure besieged him. In silent supplication, he strained against Athos' arms, begging him for a release from the unfamiliar lust and desire. Athos ignored the breathless pleas and trailed a line of moist fire across D'Artagnan's quivering jaw and throat, nearly taxing his overactive senses with the taste, feel and scent of his young lover. His vision was captured by the sight of D'Artagnan's nipples, their peaks rising out of the thicket of curls, begging Athos to suckle them. He watched, mesmerized as the dark flesh tightened with every brush of his fingers across them. As the Musketeer focused his entire being on the one sense, sounds faded into silence. His hands ceased in their exploration, growing still, his breath faltering as a gray haze began to obscure his sight.

Unaware of Athos' plight, D'Artagnan protested the loss of his tormentor's touch and reached back with his hands, gripping Athos' neck, pulling him close enough to kiss. He latched onto the Musketeer's lower lip and sucked it hungrily before releasing it and laving it with his tongue. "Mon dieu! Don't stop. Athos, please!"

D'Artagnan's kiss and helpless supplication snatched Athos' attention and returned him to the moment. Shaking free of the fog that gripped his mind, Athos growled and tightened his grip on the youth, securing him in a protective embrace before biting down hard on his slender neck. His teeth branded what now would belong only to him, claiming the gift of innocence that would never be shared with another.

Athos pulled away the heavy tunic and dropped it on the floor. You are mine to touch. His hands caressed the boy's naked chest, tracing muscle and bone. To taste. The older man pulled D'Artagnan's head back and licked clean the wound that marked his throat. Hungry for a more intimate touch, Athos stroked his hands over D'Artagnan's lean thighs, delighting in the uncontrollable tremors. His fingers loosened the binding ties and opened the restrictive breeches, allowing the youth's weeping erection to escape.

Athos took a moment to extinguish the candle beside him before lifting the boy's hips and sliding down his breeches. He gently cupped D'Artagnan's large furry sac and squeezed gently. Several drops of pearly white fluid escaped his soon to be lover's cock and Athos quickly captured them with his fingers, taking a moment to savor the taste of D'Artagnan's virginal sweetness.

Athos had just lowered his head and exhaled a warm breath of air over the young man's erection when the inn's door flew suddenly open. With blinding speed, Athos was on his feet, propelling the near-naked youth back into the darkness of the room.

Sword drawn, Athos spared a glance for the passion-dazed Musketeer. "Clothe yourself, lad. This black night has brought trouble to our door."

Standing in the entranceway was Rochefort and four of the Cardinal's guards. Utter contempt was written across his features as he glanced around the empty room. The black eye patch contrasted sharply with his rugged lean looks, defining the corrupt and villainous nature of His Eminence's right hand man. His mouth curved in a derisive grin as he watched his men move against the Musketeers, their swords drawn, their points aimed at the hearts of his sworn enemies.

When his gaze beheld the disheveled appearance of Porthos and Aramis, Rochefort's arrogant smile faltered slightly and he sucked in a betraying groan of lust as his limited sight focused in on the slender perfection of the priestly Musketeer. Aramis stood beside Porthos, his upper torso bare, glistening with sweat. Rochefort damned the hardening of his cock upon seeing the bite marks that defiled the pale flesh of the man's chest. Tightly gripping the hilt of his sword, he stepped closer to the man, bitterly acknowledging the carnal craving his body had for him. Overwhelmed with the need to inflict pain upon Aramis' arrogant nipples, their peaks proudly erect and swollen, Rochefort wiped the spit from his mouth and thought, One day my beauty. One day.

His hot gaze encountered Porthos' enraged glare and he laughed as the older man stepped in front of Aramis, shielding his lover with his larger bulk. "And who do we have here? Porthos, you mangy old dog. I see your bitch is in heat. Been sniffing at his tail?"

Porthos was prepared to lunge forward and defend his lover, his brashness suddenly halted by the sight of blood on Aramis' chest as the sword of the Cardinal's head guard sliced into the tender flesh. His lover remained silent, his jaw clenched against the pain.

'Damn you, Rochefort. May your cowardly carcass rot in hell for all eternity."

Rochefort calmly stood before the incensed man, ignoring him completely. With total disregard for his life, he removed a glove and trailed a finger through the blood on Aramis' chest. He smeared some across Porthos' lips, daring him to retaliate. Dipping again into the wetness of the wound, he brought a taste to his own lips. After sucking clean the red stain from his fingers, he cruelly twisted and pulled on the injured nipple. The muffled groan from Aramis excited Rochefort and his cock throbbed in response. He stepped closer, his groin pressing hard against the younger man's hip while the hilt of his sword nudged the Musketeer's semi-limp erection through his breeches. Aramis' eyes widened at the invasive touch and Rochefort could not contain the feral grin that answered Aramis' look of outrage.

In a voice of pure evil, he whispered to the Musketeer. "Even though I hate you with my entire being, I still want you. Rest assured, those honeyed lips of yours will one day feast upon my manhood."

Moving away, the captain of the Cardinal's guard turned and directed his next comments to the older man. "I do believe you'll need to find another breast to feed upon my dear, Porthos." Rochefort, again, with deliberate cruelty, squeezed Aramis' small bleeding nub. "I'm sure you can find another bitch to fuck."

Porthos snarled with maddening fury, his body exploding into action, one blow knocking down the young guard that stood before him. Rochefort sidestepped, avoiding a lethal strike from the Musketeer's sword. The icy threat of his words terminated Porthos' charge of death.

"DESIST! NOW! Or else he dies."

Porthos froze into absolute stillness, his eyes riveted to the blade that lay across his lover's throat. Aramis' gaze pleaded for restraint, their brown depths filled with fear for his beloved. Porthos' dark features hardened with hatred as he surrendered his sword, his large hands tenderly catching his lover as the injured Musketeer was shoved abruptly toward him. Ignoring his attackers, Porthos cradled the slender man against his body in a protective embrace. He ripped off a piece of his tunic and held pressure to the bleeding wound, words of comfort soothingly whispered. Aramis turned his face into the warmth of Porthos' neck, his tears of relief staining trails of moisture down his cheeks.

Eyes blazing, Porthos issued a challenge. "If you ever lay a hand on him again, be prepared to die. For I will cut you into tiny pieces and leave your remains as food for the ravens."

Rochefort bowed his head mockingly. "I tremble with fear, Monsieur Porthos." He leaned forward and lightly stroked Aramis' hair. "Remember my words, priest. You and I will meet again."

He dismissed the two men, his guards once again confining them with drawn swords. Putting his glove back on, he turned and searched the room, looking for his most notorious adversary, Athos.

"Come into the light, you old toothless beast. And where is that sweet little cub of yours? I have a message from the Cardinal for him."

(3)

Athos stepped out of the darkness, his body defiantly pressing into the sword held to his heart by the unknown guard, its tip slashing through his tunic. His nostrils flared at the scent of his own blood and his mouth curved in a sarcastic grin.

"Rochefort. I should have known that foul stench was you approaching." Athos threatened the guard with his dark stare, his body still forcing itself into the blade. The man paled, swallowing nervously as he backed away slightly, removing his sword with a hesitant trembling. Athos laughed, his own sword brought forth with a swiftness that stunned the guard. The older Musketeer disarmed the man and proceeded to demonstrate his skill with the sharp blade, removing each decorative button from his vestment with a mere flick of his sword.

Rochefort stood idly by, bored with the whole display. A single snap of his fingers and three more guards emerged from the shadows and advanced upon the Musketeer.

Athos forced himself to remain absolutely still, giving no clue as to the Musketeer standing behind him. His heightened sense of hearing zeroed in on the accelerated rhythm of D'Artagnan’s heart and out of the corner of his eye, he was relieved to find that the youth remained hidden in the darkness. Inhaling deeply, Athos detected the scent of rage and anger. Under the guise of lowering his sword, he motioned to the youth, silently chastising the boy to remain in control. Confident D'Artagnan would obey his instruction, Athos turned his attention back to Rochefort and bowed disdainfully.

"I see you still allow your boys to do your dirty work. Afraid to take me on yourself?"

Rochefort ignored the taunt as he gazed around the room, his good eye probing the shadows. "I shall ask once more, old man. Where is that young cub of yours?" He waved his hand at Athos, cutting short his denial. "I know he's here. Wherever you are, he is always close behind."

Rochefort leaned closer to the captured Musketeer. "Have you taken him yet? I imagine his virginal ass is a tasty morsel. I might just have to force myself to partake of that sweetmeat."

"Touch him and die." Athos strove to calm his breathing, his hatred stealing precious oxygen from his straining lungs. His fists clenched and unclenched, the nails biting, tearing at the flesh of his palms as he struggled for control.

Evil laughter hung heavily in the silence. "Your threats so amuse me. Besides, my hunger is for men of the cloth." Rochefort cast a glance at Aramis, his gaze devouring the man's naked chest.

"Moreover, our Eminence the Cardinal has plans for your young plaything. He wants D'Artagnan to report to his chambers the day after tomorrow." Rochefort moved closer to the Musketeer, stroking a gloved hand down the front of Athos' body, his fingers cruelly teasing his clothed manhood. "I would strongly suggest that you refrain yourself from taking the boy's innocence. The Cardinal will surely want to claim that privilege for himself."

Athos howled as mind-numbing pain attacked his senses. His body lurched backwards in an attempt to elude the brutal grip on his genitals, his mind exploding with white hot flashes of agony as Rochefort tightened his hold. As tears blurred his vision, Athos desperately attempted to break free. His clouded gaze locked with that of Porthos and he recognized the helpless rage that burned in his friend’s dark eyes. Porthos was powerless to move, he and his lover still surrounded by the Cardinal's guards.

Athos managed to nod his understanding and, with a last thought for the innocence he had yet not tasted, he began to will his senses to overload, to shield him against the excruciating pain.

A cry of pure hatred erupted into the tense silence.

"Nooooo!" In one quick, violent motion, D'Artagnan launched himself from the darkness, his young Gascon heart throbbing furiously.

"Get your filthy hands off him!" The youth charged Rochefort with the fury of an enraged animal, his teeth bared, his blade seeking to kill its prey. His swift attack startled all, allowing Athos precious time to free his mind from the blackness he had placed himself in.

The clash of swords deafened the quiet as adversaries charged each other. A dance of death was embarked upon as the four Musketeers rallied together, their kinship strengthening the rhythm of their fight. Attacked on all sides, the four men stood fast, lunging forward to wound, retreating back to parry. Sparks flew as blades clashed, the ring of tempered steel reverberating throughout.

D'Artagnan cast a rapid and anxious glance at his friends. Porthos had killed one guard and was assisting Aramis in dispensing his. He, himself, had gravely wounded two older combatants, their bleeding bodies lying on the floor. A loud cry of victory signaled Aramis' victory over his opponent and the remaining guards fled before the maddening wrath of the very large Porthos, his mocking laughter adding speed to their retreat.

The three comrades turned and watched as Athos and Rochefort struggled for supremacy, their swords striking with deadly swiftness. Both were bleeding from various wounds, although none were severe enough to kill. The spilt blood only served to provoke the two men to greater feats of swordsmanship.

Rochefort parried a thrust from Athos before gliding under the weapon, twisting abruptly, the edge of his sword slicing across the older Musketeer's thigh, laying the flesh open.

Athos staggered but refused to yield. He pressed on, his renewed attack fast and furious, driving Rochefort back. The Cardinal's captain was not yet defeated. Jumping up onto a table, he danced out of reach and grabbed a tankard of wine, throwing it at Athos, the liquid momentarily blinding the Musketeer. Taking advantage of his adversary’s plight, Rochefort thrust forward, his blade wounding Athos in the upper chest.

D'Artagnan refused to remain a bystander and he entered into the fray with courage, his sword ready to defend and kill for his leader, his friend, his love. A chill crawled over his flesh as he gazed into the wild, feral eye of the Musketeers' sworn enemy. Refusing to glance away, he heard rather than saw Athos hit the floor. He knew his comrades would pull the injured man to safety.

Rochefort taunted the youth. "Come to me, sweet cub. Show me your talents." Vaulting off the table, the elder swordsman deflected D'Artagnan's sword, his own blade sinking deep into the tender flesh of the boy's groin. The young Musketeer crumbled, his cry of pain echoing in the hushed silence.

Porthos and Aramis moved, standing guard over their fallen comrades, their bodies joined together, protecting, defending against further attack. Rochefort bowed, his sardonic features darkened with arrogant condescension.

"Shall I sue for mercy? Surrender my sword to the King's dogs?" He laughed mockingly, slowly backing away, making sure his escape. "Never!" He stood in the doorway, a black demon of death. "Mark my words, Musketeers. We shall meet again. And young cub…."

D'Artagnan raised his head, his eyes wet with tears, his jaw clenched against the pain.

"Do not disappoint the Cardinal. You will find no mercy if you should decide to ignore his request." Rochefort stepped into the blackness of the night and disappeared, his voice echoing back to the four men.

'Adieu Monsieurs. Another day, another fight."

(4)

Porthos bid his thanks to the King's surgeon and closed the door. He stood there, leaning against the large wooden closure, his dark eyes witness to the beauty before him.

His lover was stretched out on a pallet, which had been placed close to the hearth, a single blanket covering the lower part of Aramis' body. His upper torso was bare, bronzed by the fire's glow, the perfection of his beauty marred by a swath of white cloth that covered his left chest wound.

Porthos seethed silently, his anger barely contained. That swine, Rochefort, had dared to hurt his lover. The large Musketeer's hands clenched and unclenched, the need to injure, to kill almost overwhelming him. That bastard would pay, Porthos promised himself and an evil smile appeared on his face as he envisioned Rochefort's murder. It would have to be a slow and painful torture, a bloody torment of anguish and abuse. Only then, when the mongrel was begging for mercy would Porthos consider allowing death to claim him.

His thoughts of revenge were halted by his lover's needy cry.

"Porthos?" The priestly Musketeer reached out a hand and beckoned to his dark lover. "My body is cold. Come warm me." Combing his fingers through his hair in an attempt to return it to its coiffed state of perfection, Aramis turned his face to the fire, his profile illuminated by the flame, the strands of his dark chestnut curls shimmering in the light.

Rochefort was completely forgotten as Porthos watched, his gaze completely mesmerized by his lover's beauty. The sight of Aramis' tongue snaking out to moisten his lips set Porthos' heart to pounding, its rhythm increasing when Aramis lifted his hand and placed it over his heart, his fingers idly playing with his nipple. Suddenly breathless, the older man haphazardly stripped out of his clothes, his movements hastened by the winter's chill. Settling in behind his lover, Porthos embraced Aramis and smiled when his lover instantly sought the warmth of his embrace, a tremulous sigh escaping his lips as he nuzzled Porthos' neck.

Porthos buried his face in the silky softness of Aramis' hair and inhaled its clean fragrance, the scent of pine mingling with that of Aramis' arousal. Tangling his hands in the dark strands, Porthos gently, guided his lover to face him. Eyes of deep hazel, their depths brilliant with love and desire, melted the heart of the large Musketeer. Porthos felt the heat of Aramis' gaze as it wandered over his naked body, ghosting a spirit touch of passion across his flesh. His body responded to that look, his nipples and cock hardening, reaching out for the reality of that exploration.

Porthos moaned as his mouth descended over Aramis', opening, tasting the fevered need. His tongue pushed inside, exploring the dark cavern and savoring his lover's unique flavor. Moments passed as Porthos drank deeply from the well of sweetness, feeding his desire with each sip.

A slow whispered plea slid out as the younger Musketeer opened his mouth wider, tangling his tongue with that of his lover's. Reaching up, Aramis clutched Porthos' shoulder, encouraging him to rest his weight against his smaller frame. He then wrapped his legs around Porthos' waist, and began to grind his pelvis against the hardness of his lover's large erection.

"Porthos. Please." Aramis licked along Porthos' jaw before biting down on his earlobe, a smile spreading across his face when he felt the larger man shudder. Wishing to push his Musketeer lover to the very edge, Aramis slid his tongue inside Porthos' ear, teasing the tip along the swirls of cartilage and leaving a path of heated moisture. After softly blowing upon the damp flesh, he whispered, "Make love to me. Sheath your dark sword in the heat of my scabbard."

Porthos moved, lifting his young lover, allowing his slenderness to straddle his lower body. His swollen manhood cried with its need, white drops of milky cream spilling out. He pulled Aramis close, his mouth capturing the man's uninjured nipple. Suckling the tender nub, Porthos lifted his fingers to his lover's hot mouth, wetting them thoroughly. He continued to feed at Aramis' breast as his damp fingers gathered additional lubrication, sliding into the seepage that trickled from his cock.

Porthos pressed his fingers into Aramis' hidden portal and slowly opened the small entrance. "I give you my love, my life. Do you accept this offering, my sweet priest? Do you wish to partake of my fleshy sacrament?"

"Yes. Fill me with your fire, my dark soldier. Make me burn with the heat of your sacrifice." Aramis threw his head back and moaned, the touch of Porthos' fingers making his body tremble helplessly. His wound completely forgotten, Aramis pushed Porthos into the softness of the mattress and, with slow and patient tenderness, lowered his body, impaling himself upon the large and needy cock that filled him so completely. He moaned as their bodies united and fused into one, his hips undulating in an ancient carnal rhythm, sensual notes of passion pouring forth from his throat. The heat of their desire burned hotter and Aramis' control slowly shattered, his eyes shuttering closed as his hands blindly sought those of his lover and directed them to his straining manhood.

Porthos sang husky words of encouragement to his young lover as his slender body began to sway wildly. The maelstrom of need soon engulfed them both and their passion exploded, both men surrendering to the inferno of their combined release, their screams echoing in the silence.

"My heavenly angel!" Porthos caught Aramis' limp body and kissed away the tears of happiness that stained his pale cheeks.

"My Warrior. My love." Aramis embraced his heart's hero and the two slipped into a satiated state of drowsiness.

+++++++

His wounds bound securely, Athos limped upstairs and quietly opened the door, his only intent was that of checking on his comrades. A rare smile fluttered across his somber face as he beheld the tangled arms and legs of the sleeping men. Porthos snored loudly, his hands cradling Aramis' head to his chest; the younger man, even though sound asleep, suckled drowsily at the dark breast pressed against his mouth.

"Love long, my friends," Athos whispered as he carefully closed the door.

His large body, despite its injuries, moved gracefully down the hall before hesitating outside his own chambers. He settled against the wall and meditated on the past events. Rochefort had branded the evening with his evilness, leaving in its wake, three dead guards. Athos breathed deeply, willing his wrath to remain hidden deep within the darkness of his mind. There would come a time when he and that Cardinal's lead dog would do battle, a fight that would end only in death. And the heavens be damned, he would be the one standing victorious in the end.

Athos straightened as the door opened and the King's physician exited the room. Looking beyond the older gentleman, Athos could see D'Artagnan lying on the bed, his naked body being bathed by the innkeeper's elderly wife. Turning away, he escorted the physician downstairs, thanking him for his prompt arrival and care of his fallen comrades.

"That young lad needs to rest for the next few days. No strenuous activity. The wound needs time to heal. He is indeed very lucky, Monsieur. It could have been a very grave injury." The physician shook his head. "A few more inches to the right and his manhood would have been severed from his body." Wrapping his cape around his shoulders, he turned to leave. "I've left several herbal wraps and oils. You will need to clean and anoint the wound twice a day. Keep it clean, Musketeer and your friend has a healthy chance of remaining alive. I bid you goodnight, dear sir."

Athos hurried back upstairs, passing the innkeeper's wife in the hallway. She curtsied to him.

"Monsieur, before falling asleep, the young man asked for you."

Athos dug into his pouch of gold and rewarded the older woman with several coins. She smiled and left as the Musketeer entered the darkened room. Athos closed the door and bolted it shut. He then moved to the fireplace, stoking the flames as he lay on extra logs. With his hand resting on the mantle, Athos stared at the fire and opened his mind to the exploration of his wildly confused emotions, acquainting himself with the unfamiliar feelings he had come to have for the brave young Musketeer. He spared a glance at the sleeping youth, his naked young body now hidden under layers of heavy bedding.

Athos felt a tingling itch in his fingers, a need to touch, to feel the warmth of that innocent form. His lips parted and his teeth latched onto his bottom lip, tearing the fragile flesh. Despite the physician's instructions regarding D'Artagnan's recovery, Athos hungered greatly for a taste of the lad's lusciously sweet lips. Faint shudders racked his large body as he imagined that mouth exploring the swollen territory that lay between his legs. Unbidden, a moan of raw need was unleashed, its deep baritone awakening the sleeping youth.

Athos turned away from the hearth and looked into the drowsy heat of D'Artagnan's eyes. A gaze of fathomless blue darkened as the younger man became aware of Athos' sensual stare. Struggling out from under the covers, D'Artagnan peeled away the layers of quilts and sheets, revealing the gift of his nakedness.

Athos' heart threatened to stop beating as the young Gascon displayed his body. He moved to the bed and knelt at its side, his gloved hands helping to remove the last hindrance of cover. An angry hiss escaped him as he surveyed the damage done to D'Artagnan's body. Swollen, bruised flesh surrounded the bloodied bandage that covered the boy's injured groin. Unable to stop himself, Athos touched the wounded area, the sensitive tips of his fingers detecting the heat as blood rushed its healing properties to the injury.

"Athos." The older man was startled from his thoughts, the youth's worried voice instantly calming the rage in his heart and banking the fires of his insistent hunger.

D'Artagnan searched Athos' face briefly before dropping his gaze. "I… I'm sorry I failed you." His hand stabbed into the empty air. "I should have killed that bastard."

Moving to sit on the side of the bed, Athos removed his gloves and tangled his hands in the gloriously thick strands of dark mahogany, pushing away the curls in order to reveal the boy's tear-stained face. "Lad, you have never failed me. Your courage and strength of heart have proven your loyalty and bravery in all endeavors."

The older Musketeer pressed his lips against the youth's forehead. "I am honored that you came to my defense."

D'Artagnan turned his head to the side and nuzzled Athos' throat. "I couldn't let him kill you. I…."

Athos leaned into the boy's touch, his neck arching, exposing more skin to D'Artagnan's hot and hungry mouth. "You what?" Athos growled as D'Artagnan began to worry the swell of his Adam's apple with his teeth.

Agitated, D'Artagnan fought to unfasten the ties that held Athos' uniform tunic together, pushing the cloth away from the larger man's upper body. Finished with his task, D'Artagnan lowered his head and scattered tiny bites across Athos' smooth, hairless chest, his tongue soothing the small wounds with moist heat.

Athos struggled for breath, his body on fire. He eased away, distancing himself from the boy's starving mouth. He smiled at the look of dazed wildness on D'Artagnan's face.

"Why couldn't you let Rochefort kill me? Speak up, lad. I need to hear your answer."

D'Artagnan lifted his eyes and gazed at Athos a second before leaning forward and stealing several quick kisses. "I refused to allow that blackguard to kill you because…." He licked his tongue across Athos' lips, sweeping inside to capture a brief taste of mature passion. "Because… I find that I love you, Monsieur."

With a rare strength, D'Artagnan pulled on Athos until he was kneeling over his upper torso. His nervous fingers fumbled, loosening the tight breeches, exposing his lover's wet and swollen cock. Pulling the garment further down, his hands lovingly cradled the large furry sac that hung low, carefully rolling it between his fingers, tantalizing it with gentle tugs. Athos' bandaged thigh caught his attention and D'Artagnan paused to caress the wound of honor.

A whispered sigh directed D'Artagnan to the damp flesh tapping his cheek and, with a smile, he turned his head and fed his hunger, sucking hard on the leaking head of Athos' cock. The older Musketeer braced himself against the wall, slamming one hand against the ancient wood, splinters digging deep into his flesh. His other hand wound itself into the silken strands of riotous curls, guiding D'Artagnan's mouth with a gentle pressure. Athos trembled as he experienced the liquid heat of that young virginal mouth and he couldn't help but stroke D'Artagnan's head, encouraging him to maintain an easy rhythm.

D'Artagnan opened his mouth, saturating his tongue with the taste, the flavor of his lover's liquid essence. He buried his face in the groin of the larger man as he attempted to swallow the Musketeer's entire shaft, his nostrils flaring as he caught the scent of Athos' musky arousal.

Athos felt his control slowly unravel, full-fledged shudders racking his body mercilessly. He moaned as tempting fingers crept up his abdomen and across his chest, seeking the sensitive flesh of his nipples. His gasps shattered the silence as D'Artagnan began to twist and pull on the tight nubs and Athos instinctively curled his body around his young lover, seeking more, needing more. Soon, the raging heat of his desire exploded inside his mind and he cried out as an errant finger found and penetrated him, caressing his dark tight passage.

"Mon dieu! I… I cannot… I must release my seed. D'Artagnan!!"

The young Gascon tightened his mouth around Athos' cock, frantically swallowing the man's earthy cream. His free hand reached for his own erection, struggling to ease the overwhelming need for completion.

"NO!" Athos hissed, his teeth clenched as his release ripped through his body. "That virgin cock is MINE!"

Careful to fall away from his injured lover, Athos collapsed on the bed, his body trembling, the aftershocks of passion vibrating throughout his abused muscles. He carelessly removed the remainder of his clothes and pressed his naked flesh against D'Artagnan's slighter frame. Resting his head on his shoulder, Athos guarded the boy's erection with his large hand, taking several moments to regain his control.

Inhaling deeply, Athos began a sensual assault on D'Artagnan's body. His mouth, his lips, his tongue feasted on firm flesh, taut muscles, tanned skin. Fingers lazily slid through the soft pelt of hair covering the youth's chest, twirling aimless patterns in it. Kisses were sprinkled over tempting nipples, sharp brief bites teasing them into pointy little nubs. Hands drifted lower, sliding across quivering stomach muscles, investigating a ticklish navel.

Athos tilted his head, looking up, his gaze held hostage by a blueness of lust and passion. Their wildness darkened to a deeper shade of blue as Athos lowered his head and swallowed the boy's cock. Athos watched as the ministrations of his mouth drove the youth insane with desire. He tasted the velvet satin and liquid fire of his lover's innocent cock and nearly came again, himself, at the realization that no other had ever partaken of this earthly delight. The older Musketeer gripped his renewing erection and growled his satisfaction, his appreciation, for the virginal gift D'Artagnan was allowing him to partake of. With a vice of lips, teeth and tongue, he increased his efforts to bring his young lover to completion.

Seeking to end his sexual torture, D'Artagnan's strained upwards, his protesting movements gentled by Athos' powerful hands. "Athos. You must…." He pleaded for release as he tangled his hands in the short strands of his lover's hair. Tugging hard, he urged Athos to finish him, to take him to the hilt, to drink of his innocence until his thirst was satisfied.

Eyes glittering with inscrutable emotions, Athos memorized the husky cries and moans that signaled D'Artagnan's orgasmic fulfillment. He cherished every drop, his tongue bathing every inch of the youth's now flaccid manhood until the flesh was completely cleansed. He gently kissed around the bulky dressing that covered his lover's left groin, nurturing the bruised flesh, warming it with his loving breath.

Lying back on the bed, Athos embraced D'Artagnan and cradled his head against his wounded shoulder, its slight weight a welcome anchor to reality. With his hand resting over the boy's heart, he sighed and buried his face in D'Artagnan's long silken mane, the low timbre of his voice whispering into the silence, its huskiness betraying the depth of his emotions.

"My beloved. You are mine just as I am now yours. We stand together in love, in friendship, in honor." Athos leaned over and kissed D'Artagnan, a gentle mating of lips and tongues. "I will guard and protect you . . . always."

Athos smiled at the darkness, listening intently as D'Artagnan fell asleep, his soft snores sweet music to his ears. Rochefort's parting instructions rose to mind and shadows of revenge darkened his gaze and stripped away his smile. He would die first before allowing the Cardinal to taste of his lover's sweetness. Closing his eyes, the elder Musketeer embraced the blackness of his soul and spent the remainder of the night devising ways to defeat His Eminence.

(5)

Bright sunshine streamed through the massively ornate glass windows of the palace hallway. The brilliant light was captured and reflected in the multicolored gemstones that decorated the large, gold cross pendant that lay nestled against an expanse of crimson cloth. Impatient fingers tapped furiously against the holy crucifix, their steady beat an indication of increasing anger and irritation.

His Eminence, the Cardinal Richelieu, his eyes flashing with barely concealed hostility, stood quietly at the window. His calm demeanor and stance contradicted by his inner turmoil of emotions. For the second day in a row the King had refused to grant him an audience. That ignorant young pup! Denying him, the Cardinal, the religious leader of France. How dare he!

Richelieu's hatred of the new King was buried deep, kept under heavy guard. Only a very few trusted co-conspirators knew his true feelings for the country's ruler. And that adolescent boy, the King's consort, who flaunted his importance, stirred not only the Cardinal's hatred but also his lust. His whole body came alive with unholy desire as thoughts of the King and his plaything making love assaulted his evil mind. His hands trembled with the need to caress those youthful bodies, his groin tingling deliciously as he imagined himself pounding his cock into those gloriously tight asses.

Richelieu wiped the sweat from his upper lip and glanced around, checking to see if anyone had taken notice of his agitated state. Releasing the fierce grip he had on his cross, he reached under the outer layers of his robes and lightly stroked his awakening manhood. Closing his eyes, he allowed himself a moment of carnal pleasure.

"Your Eminence."

The Cardinal's eyes snapped open and his hand cruelly gripped his erection, the intentional pain banking the fire of lust that had started to rage in his groin. Taking a steadying breath, he bowed his head slightly, barely acknowledging the servant's presence.

"The King will see you now."

The Cardinal gathered his robes around him and, with a false air of serenity, followed the young servant. He ignored the wondrous splendor of the Great Hall of Mirrors-the seventeen mirror-filled archways, the crystal chandeliers and gold candle stands, the resplendent ceiling paintings, the classical statues. His fiercely bitter gaze was focused on the King's Bedchamber at the end of the hall.

The Cardinal's features hardened as he discerned the time of his audience with the King. The *Lever ceremony would soon be commencing and his meeting would be witnessed by others from the court and from the masses. A harsh intake of breath acknowledged the implied insult.

The servant came to a stop at the entrance to the room. He bowed to the Cardinal and motioned for the older man to enter. Schooling his features into a welcoming smile, Richelieu swept into the room, creating a grand entrance that bespoke of his greatness and importance. Several men of nobility attended the King and, upon seeing the Cardinal, fell into a deep bow of respect. They were blessed with the sign of the cross, their presence immediately dismissed from Richelieu's mind. With complete determination, he strode toward the King, who was at the moment being assisted into his morning attire by several of his servants.

The King stood with his back to the Cardinal, a single hand held in the air, commanding silence. A whispered comment to his attendants and the room was cleared of everyone except the King and the Cardinal. With total disregard for His Eminence, the young man gathered the folds of his robes and gracefully situated himself on the edge of the bed. Maintaining the moment of absolute quiet, the King waved his hand negligently, directing the Cardinal to the foot of the bed.

Richelieu forced himself to walk forward slowly and, upon reaching the designated spot, compelled his rebellious body into a solemn bow of false respect. Lifting his head, his gaze encountered a display of blatant disregard for his holiness and a fire of pure hatred ignited in his heart, its flames searing a path straight to his groin.

There on the bed sat the King, his dressing gown of purple silk and velvet falling off one shoulder, exposing his naked chest. The long strands of his ebony hair cascaded down his slender body, pooling in his lap and the Cardinal's eyes widened as the young man moved deliberately, allowing the robe to part, tempting him with a fleeting glimpse of his bare abdomen.

Richelieu continued to stare as the King reached back and pulled at the bedding, revealing the naked body of his consort, asleep beside him. Struggling for control, the older man watched with abated breath as the covers slowly moved down, only to stop at the boy's waist. The rhythm of his heart escalated as his gaze was seduced by the King's hand as it sketched a sensual path down the boy's pale flesh, sliding out of sight as it fondled the hidden buttocks, their touch eliciting a drowsy moan that floated into the morning's tranquil calm.

"Your Eminence. To what do I owe the honor of this visit?"

The King's soft voice effectively strangled the carnal lust that was close to incinerating the Cardinal's fragile control. A swift intake of air afforded the older man some semblance of restraint as he widened his stance, giving space to his burgeoning erection. Grasping at his crucifix, Richelieu lifted his head and gazed into the King's startling green eyes, their depths dark with wicked mischief.

After taking a moment to gather his composure, the Cardinal began to speak, his eyes darting back and forth between the King and the tempting sight of his nude consort. "Your Royal Highness. May I offer you my humble thanks for granting me this audience?"

The King nodded nonchalantly, his hand pulling on the covers, exposing the sloping curve of his lover's backside. A single finger played at the beginning of the dark cleft. "Get on with it, Richelieu. I have more important matters to attend to."

The Cardinal caught himself, halting the hand that had slid under his robes, searching for his enflamed manhood. "I come before you to humbly ask for the protection of your Musketeers. You well know that the majority of my Guard has been recruited to fight in this war with England. And I find that I am sadly lacking in the number of confident and trusted soldiers to safeguard my presence as I travel to meet with the Ambassador of Spain."

Richelieu gritted his teeth as another wanton moan interrupted his speech. Clenching his hands, his nails digging into the tender flesh of his palms, he continued with his request. "I beg your indulgence, your Majesty. Please grant me the privilege of borrowing a chosen few of your Musketeers. I would be most grateful and forever in your debt." Again the Cardinal forced himself to bow to the young man, his body and mind revolted by this fraudulent display of reverence.

King Louis laughed, well aware of the torment he was causing the Cardinal. His contempt for the man provoked his disrespectful behavior and, without a doubt, he immensely enjoyed the Cardinal's discomfort, wishing to prolong it as much as possible. Bending over the prone figure of his consort, he scattered several tiny kisses over his firm buttocks, a smile appearing on his face when he heard the older man gasp at the deliberate display of sensuality. His ever-widening grin was hidden behind the thick curtain of his hair as he snapped his fingers, the sudden sound shattering the silence.

A servant appeared, his intent to assist the King with his clothing. A silent command and the servant immediately moved to the sleeping boy, waking him gently. Both the King and the Cardinal beheld the beauty of the youthful consort as his naked body was wrapped in a silk sheet and escorted from the chamber.

"RICHELIEU! Lower your eyes at once! How dare you look upon my lover when he is in such a state of undress."

The Cardinal fell to his knees, his gaze firmly fixed on the King's feet. "Please forgive me, Your Majesty. I beg you for your mercy."

Louis stood before the prostate form and tapped the Cardinal on the shoulder. "Be careful, Your Eminence. I will not tolerate this behavior again." The young royal turned and moved to exit the room, his voice drifting back to the man who remained on his knees.

"You may borrow four of my Musketeers, but know this. Your life is forfeit if any harm befalls my men. Good day, Your Eminence."

Richelieu remained silent for several moments before rising to his feet. With barely controlled anger, he made his way to a hidden panel in the bedchamber's wall. Verifying his actions were unobserved, he tapped the secret lock and slipped inside when the wall opened. With haste, he moved down the secret passageway coming to a halt at a specific partition. Moving aside a small section, the spy hole was revealed and the older man leaned forward, fixing his gaze on the activity inside the room.

His slumbering erection roared to total wakefulness as his eyes beheld the King and his consort locked together in a naked embrace. His breath shuddered in and out of his lungs as he watched his monarch swallow his lover's cock. Lifting his robes, Richelieu eased his hand around his erection, initiating a rhythm that mirrored that of the King's mouth. The Cardinal's eyes grew black as his hand increased the tempo of his stroking, a choked scream causing him to bite his lower lip and taste the copper tang of blood on his tongue as the fragile flesh tore.

Richelieu licked the crimson stain from his lips as he viewed the King's gentle taking of his young lover. Allowing the section to fall and block the spy hole, the older man gave himself up to the carnal pleasure of his hands, his hips bucking wildly, pushing his erection into the moist grip of his hands. A frantic stroking commenced as the Cardinal fell back against the far wall, his control surrendered when his cock spewed hot semen all over the corridor. He lifted dripping wet fingers to his mouth and tasted himself, imagining it was the King's sweet nectar his tongue was savoring.

Restoring his robes to their proper place, the Cardinal collected his wits and exited into a back, rarely used room. He quickly made his way through the palace, halting just outside the Royal Chapel before glancing over his shoulder, his haughty stare encountering the personages of Athos and D'Artagnan. His thin lips formed a scowl of renewed hatred for those two specific Musketeers, his spies having informed him that the men were now lovers. D'Artagnan's polite refusal to accept an appointment in his Guard had only added fuel to his malevolence.

"I am sorry, Your Eminence, but I must decline your gracious invitation to join the ranks of your personal Guard."

The Cardinal watched as the injured Musketeer played with the covers that hid his naked physique from the older man's lustful gaze. A polite note declining his request for an audience with D'Artagnan had been delivered to Richelieu by Porthos this morning and the Cardinal had been forced to seek out the young soldier, visiting him at the inn where he lay recuperating from the wounds inflicted upon him by Rochefort. If the Cardinal had not been so enamored with D'Artagnan's beauty, he would never have set foot in the inn's appalling filthiness.

"I do wish you would reconsider my offer, Monsieur. There are many benefits given to those that serve the Church." The Cardinal allowed his gaze to fall upon the shadowy outline of D'Artagnan's nipples, the tempting buds hidden in the thick mat of hair that covered the youth's bare chest. Many benefits, indeed, Richelieu thought to himself, his hunger to taste D'Artagnan's flesh so strong it nearly made his mouth water.

As if aware of the Cardinal's carnal thoughts, D'Artagnan dragged the coverlet further up his chest, wincing when the movement pulled on the torn flesh of his wound. "I have sworn my allegiance to the King's Musketeers and, after last night's exchange with your men, I do not feel I could place myself under the leadership of your captain, Monsieur Rochefort."

Hidden by the folds of his robes, Richelieu slammed his fist against the wooden seat of the chair he sat in and silently cursed Rochefort's rash behavior. Maybe a visit with the blade and the whip would curb his lover's reckless tendencies.

"Your feats of bravery have not gone unnoticed so I shall ask one last time, D'Artagnan. Will you do me the honor of joining my Guard?"

D'Artagnan shook his head, his dark curls spilling over his shoulders, their riotous dance across his chest forcing the Cardinal to close his eyes and swallow the sound of hunger that threatened to escape his mouth.

"I am sorry, your Eminence but I must respectfully decline."

With D'Artagnan's words still echoing in his mind, the Cardinal's spiteful gaze took in the gentle touches bestowed upon the young Musketeer by Athos. His peaceful countenance slipped momentarily and Richelieu sneered, his upper lip curling in derision, hatred beyond measure darkening his eyes. An angry expletive spilled from Richelieu's lips and his hand sought out and grasped a small hidden cross, his fingers lovingly stroking the cherished crucifix.

"Enjoy him while you can, Athos for you will not have him long. I will take his life just as you took Rogert's." Richelieu lifted the cross to his lips and tenderly kissed it. "Revenge shall be mine, old friend and you will rue the day you killed my lover."

Laughter of pure evil echoed throughout the holy chambers as the Cardinal spun on his heel and exited the Royal Chapel.

(6)

"I refuse! I absolutely refuse!" Athos slammed close the door to their bedchamber, anger rolling off his huge frame. "You cannot force me to guard that… that devil in red robes! I won't!"

Young hands consoled the angry Musketeer, their touch soothing his agitation, easing him into a calmer state of mind.

"Athos . . . this is a special request from the King. We cannot deny his wish." D'Artagnan brushed soft kisses across Athos' strong jaw line. "It's only a simple escort detail. We'll be back in Paris in two days." The young man tapped his lover on the chest. "Why do you hate the Cardinal so much?"

Athos turned away from the comfort of the youth's touch and looked down into the flames of the fire, the heat from the hearth adding to the slow burn in his soul. "We… we have a past. A darkness exists between us." He held up his hand, halting the questions that D'Artagnan was about to assail him with. "Not now, boy. This is not the time for confessions."

The older Musketeer enfolded D'Artagnan in a warm embrace, his lips whispering tender endearments into the youth's long satin curls, his hot breath stirring the mahogany strands. "Just remember this… the man is pure evil. And I want you to stay as far away from him as possible." Athos started to remove D'Artagnan's tunic, his hands fumbling in a slow dance of tease across the flesh that was exposed. Sinking his fingers in the thick pelt of hair that covered his lover's chest, he trailed a path of fire across the young man's collar bone with his mouth, his sharp teeth marking the pale skin.

"Tomorrow we leave for St. Lyonne. Stay as close to me as possible. I do not trust the Cardinal and I am suspicious of his request." Athos brushed the callused palm of his hand across D'Artagnan's nipples, his touch dragging forth a strangled moan from the boy's throat. Lowering his head, Athos slowly licked both erect nubs and a feral smile appeared on his somber face when his young charge whimpered and pressed closer to him, seeking more of his touch.

"Do not make me regret the undertaking of this mission." Athos opened his mouth over one of D'Artagnan's nipples and teased the swollen flesh with his teeth. Splitting his focus, he watched his lover's expressive face as his hands wandered lower to explore and torment another area of solid flesh. The youth's erection was leaking droplets of hot semen and Athos couldn't help but quietly chuckle when D'Artagnan growled and clutched at his shoulders, thrusting against him in an attempt to satisfy his hunger.

The older Musketeer wrapped his arms around D'Artagnan and gathered him close, nuzzling his neck as he whispered, "I would never forgive myself if something happened to you, my sweet boy."

Clothes fell to the floor as the two men surrendered to their desires, the roaring fire the only witness to their desperate blazing climax of release.

+++++++

The fog was thick, a white shroud that surrounded the four Musketeers as they waited, their horses prancing impatiently under their weight. Hushed voices barely broke through the heavy silence, falling instead into a void of unease and uncertainty.

Athos scanned the area, concern and doubt sharpening his skilled gaze. A mad hiss of breath escaped through his clenched teeth as he watched the demon from hell appear out of the mists. The Cardinal and his assistant emerged from the heavy cloud of obscuring vapor like two wraiths ascending from the pits of Hades.

"Shall we ride, gentleman?" His Eminence did not wait for acknowledgement. Instead, he spurred his horse and disappeared into the fog, leaving the Musketeers to follow in his wake.

The day passed swiftly into night, the six horsemen stopping only to rest their mounts. And even in those brief moments of respite, silence reigned as four pair of vigilant eyes scanned their surroundings for any signs of possible danger. One pair always guarding, watchful of his young lover's presence, ready to intercede if the need arose.

Darkness soon halted their journey, forcing them to seek shelter for the night. The Cardinal selected a small inn for their overnight rest and his underling quickly secured them the necessary lodging. Porthos and Aramis elected to take the first watch, moving around the perimeter of the inn, verifying the Cardinal's safety. His mind numb from the exhaustive ride, Athos took to the lengthy task of unsaddling the horses and settling them down for the night.

Noting his lover's weariness, D'Artagnan offered to haul the four men's saddlebags inside. He took a brief moment to hug Athos before making his way to the inn's front exit. His thoughts were on the journey ahead when he stumbled into the Cardinal who was standing just outside the open doorway. Before he could utter an apology, hard and cruel hands groped his manhood, their hold rough and painful. Richelieu sought to steal a kiss from D'Artagnan's lips, his tongue stabbing a forceful entry inside the young man's mouth.

"Kiss me, boy. Let a real man give you pleasure." A ragged moan accompanied the thrusting of the Cardinal's hips, their weight slamming the junior Musketeer against the side of the structure. A noise from inside interrupted Richelieu's advances and he quickly pulled away, pausing only to lick the boy's face. His eyes smoldered with carnal desire as his tongue slathered a damp path over D'Artagnan's pale cheek.

"You'll hold your tongue, boy, if you know what's good for you." The older man squeezed the youth's sensitive ballsac and gloated with evil delight at the expression of pain that crossed D'Artagnan's face. With a fiendish chuckle, Richelieu gave a mock bow to the Musketeer before disappearing into the blackness of the night.

The youth stood motionless, his lungs refusing to draw air. His injured manhood cried out in disgust and revulsion, the bruised flesh recoiling from the abuse. D'Artagnan dropped the bags he was holding and slowly slid to the ground, his hand furiously scrubbing at his mouth, trying to erase the other man's repulsive taste. His first instinct was to go running to his lover, confessing the Cardinal's offense, seeking shelter and protection in the arms of his beloved Musketeer. And yet… Athos' words from last night kept him where he was.

That one sentence made the young lad hesitate. He knew the instant he told Athos about the Cardinal, he would be gone, his sword drawn with the intent to kill the man. D'Artagnan spit on the ground in disgust. There was nothing holy about that red-robed creature.

Shaking his head, he pulled himself up and anxiously searched the gloom. He could not risk Athos' life, nor his career. The man was too important to him. D'Artagnan straightened his shoulders and gathered up the discarded saddlebags. He would deal with this on his own. He was a Musketeer, a defender of truth and justice. If he could fight the enemies of his King, surely he could fight off the depraved advances of an old man. Sure of his decision and of his fortitude, D'Artagnan turned and entered the inn.

+++++++

Richelieu slipped quietly inside his chamber, a groan of insatiable frustration burning his throat. His hands tangled in his robes, seeking his engorged erection, attempting to free it from the heavy fabric. Long elegant fingers moved his hands away, accomplishing the task of releasing the needy organ. A soft pair of lips surrounded the leaking head and sucked hungrily, pulling not only the liquid essence from the hard shaft but also a howl of reckless urgency from the Cardinal. A pair of scheming green eyes looked up and watched the leader of France's religious state lose total control of his body. After a final contemptuous kiss and pat to the flaccid cock, Lady de Winter stood and bit down on the Cardinal's bottom lip, lapping at the drop of blood that swelled up from the injured flesh.

"You asked for me, Your Eminence?"

The Cardinal threw the young woman across the room, his hands restoring his robes to their proper place. "You whore! How dare you touch me!"

Lady de Winter smiled, her features harsh in the revealing light of the roaring fire. "You appeared to need my expertise. I was only trying to assist you." She ran her tongue around her lips, gathering up the remnants of holy seed. A sultry glance was directed at the older man as she proceeded to clean away the evidence of his spilled hunger. Gracefully rising to her feet, she readjusted her corset, pushing her small breasts out so that they threatened to break free of their confinement. Satisfied her beauty was showcased to its best advantage, the dark-haired woman moved closer to the silent and brooding Cardinal.

"Rochefort and I arrived minutes ago. Why are we here and what diabolical plan has your mind conspired this time?"

Richelieu settled in the chair closest to the fire, beckoning for Lady de Winter to sit at his side. In hushed tones he outlined his plan for the Musketeers.

"Tonight my greatest enemy will lose his most precious possession." He caressed the woman's exposed bosom for a second before unexpectedly pinching the soft flesh. "The moment for revenge has come." His eyes glowing with pure hatred, Richelieu watched his lover and counterpart in evil, Rochefort, saunter into the room.

"Tonight the two of you will kidnap the young Musketeer, D'Artagnan."

(7)

A breathless moan whispered into the room's silence, the sound quickly disintegrating into a hoarse cry of need, its plea answered by a throaty howl of completion. As the voices tumbled into incoherency, two sweat-slick bodies rose from the tangled sheets and embraced briefly, their flesh gleaming in the glow of the fireplace's sleepy embers as they fell back on the bed.

With a happy sigh, D'Artagnan collapsed on Athos' chest and his curls became a silky blanket spread across their naked torsos. For several minutes he whispered words of love to the Musketeer before pushing himself upright and watching his lover struggle to regain control of his body. Just the mere sight of Athos' broad shoulders and smooth chest stirred D'Artagnan's desire again and, after taking a deep breath, he attacked the man's nipples and nursed upon them as if he was starved for nourishment. His mouth was unforgiving, teasing the erect nubs with quick swipes, lazy licks and sharp bites. And, when his mouth wasn't feeding upon them, his fingers pinched and pulled on the sensitive peaks. Smiling mischievously, he continued to torture the older man, reveling in the sensual arching of Athos' body every time he left his mark on his battle-hardened body. With each bite, the large cock that remained impaled in his tight ass twitched convulsively-lengthening, filling, hardening, and D'Artagnan thrilled to the fullness that signaled another wild riding.

"My beloved swordsman is ready for another duel? Shall I sharpen my blade and engage this worthy opponent?"

The youth pushed down on Athos' cock as his hands mapped the contours of his lover's flat abdomen. Reaching behind himself, he gathered the Musketeer's heavy ballsac in his grip and squeezed tenderly. A throaty growl and violent bucking of hips greeted his wanton touch.

"Does my captain object to this offensive tactic? Shall I try another move?"

Without warning, the young Musketeer grabbed Athos' shoulders, pulling him upright, his teeth latching onto the man's lower lip, biting swift and hard. His bathed the wound with the moist fire of his tongue before engaging in a deep, wet, heated exploration of Athos' mouth. Young, agile hips rode the experienced blade of flesh and blood, thrusting and retreating, the rhythm a tease of slow and gentle, hard and fast. A skilled, callused hand parried the lad's attack with a proven battle move, trapping the junior sword of flesh in a teasing grip. Strangled moans slipped out as both cocks surrendered, relinquishing their precious seed, the proof of their capitulation staining the skin of their captors.

First to recover again, D'Artagnan leaned back and smiled at his exhausted lover. He licked his lips in delight as his eyes beheld the love bites that were scattered across Athos' darkly tanned skin, the boneless sprawl of his long legs and arms, the muscular chest that was agitated by deep harsh breaths. Lifting off carefully, the youth rolled to his side and surveyed the length of the flaccid cock that now lay across Athos' thigh, large even in its slumbering state.

A slow, lazy rumble tickled the boy's ears. "Inspecting the troops, Monsieur? Do they pass muster?"

A deliberate caress woke the lead Musketeer's drowsy erection. "Well, there's this one old timer who needs a little…." D'Artagnan dissolved into laughter as talented fingers attacked his tummy and chest.

Athos pulled the lad close, capturing the sounds of happiness with a kiss. "Boy! Be careful who you call old!"

A knock on the door snagged their attention and they found Aramis peeking in, a wide smile on his face.

"Gentlemen! If you have sufficiently recovered from your strenuous, and might I add, quite boisterous, maneuvers, Porthos and I would appreciate the two of you taking your turn at guard duty." A pillow smacked the dark-haired Musketeer in the face.

"Shortly, Aramis. We will be with you shortly." Another missile of encased goose feathers flew across the room, hitting the retreating Musketeer on the derrière. The door to the bedchamber was shut quickly, Aramis' laughter trailing down the stairs.

Entering the inn's dining area, the younger man waved at his lover, signaling the accomplishment of his mission. Porthos nodded and turned toward the kitchen, seeking a late night snack of bread, cheese and wine for the two of them. Humming, Aramis made himself comfortable at a table in the far corner, next to the fireplace and, after pulling out his cherished collection of love sonnets, he lost himself in the words of devotion and passion.

Several moments later a shadow fell across the pages of his book. Glancing up, an adoring look on his face, Aramis was horrified to find himself staring at the menacing features of Rochefort. A cruel hand tangled itself in his hair, yanking his head back so that a sharp blade rested against his throat.

"Good evening, my sweet priest. Where's that toothless dog who claims to be your lover?"

Rochefort's gloved hand clamped down over the Musketeer's mouth, preventing any words of protest or warning. Aramis' tunic was then ripped open, Rochefort's blade slashing through all bindings. Savage fingers tortured the man's exposed nipples, brutally pinching and twisting the nearly healed flesh. A slobbering wet mouth replaced the muzzling hand as Rochefort raped the young soldier with his lips and tongue. He straddled Aramis lean hips, his engorged cock pounding ruthlessly against the Musketeer's groin.

"How does it feel, Aramis? Do your loins ache to be ridden by a swordsman with strength and vigor? Taken by a warrior that does not complain of aching joints and tired limbs?" Rochefort slammed his pelvis against Aramis, his tongue plundering deeper, his fingers bruising tender flesh. Ignoring the muffled cries of rage, the Cardinal's one-eyed demon follower pulled at the ties of Aramis' breeches. "Let's see if your priestly sword wants to come out and grant me absolution?"

The madman never had the chance to complete his licentious foray. An incensed bellow of fury splintered the night and a human vise gripped Rochefort by the neck, wrenching him away from Aramis. With inhuman strength, Porthos threw the man across the room and drew his sword, slowly advancing upon the fallen guard, the intent to kill gleaming in his dark eyes.

Just at that moment, the innkeeper's son came out of the kitchen and, upon taking one glance at the armed men, ran for the stairs. Pounding on the door to Athos and D'Artagnan's room, he yelled for help. "Fight, Messieurs! Fight!"

The older Musketeer threw the door open, his weapon in his hand. In the same instant, the Cardinal stepped from his chamber, his crucifix and bible clutched to his chest.

The young boy gestured wildly, pointing downstairs. "Fight! Your comrades.…"

Athos turned toward the Cardinal. "Please stay in your room, your Eminence. And secure the door. Do not open it for anyone but me." The older Musketeer charged down the stairs.

"D'Artagnan!"

The youth's voice rang out, "I'm right behind you, Athos. Let me get my boots on."

Seconds later, D'Artagnan rushed out of the room and straight into the arms of a cloaked man. A hood was thrown over his head, obscuring his sight. Just before the butt of a blade made contact with his jaw, he heard the honeyed sweetness of female laughter. Stars exploded behind his eyes and his thoughts faded into an empty blackness.

Athos burst from the stairs, skidding across the floor to flank his brother-in-arms. His gaze quickly took in the sight of Rochefort lying on the floor. Blood dripped from numerous wounds on the man's upper and lower torso, a tribute to Porthos' skill with the sword. A scarlet trail trickled from the corner of Rochefort's mouth, making his evil smile grotesque.

"Gentlemen! Again, to what do I owe this honor?" he asked as he roughly wiped his mouth clean.

Struggling to his feet, Rochefort fearlessly waved his sword at the two men standing in front of him, his gaze simmering with hunger as the disheveled form of the young priest moved to join his partners. Looking over the shoulders of the two men, his eyes widened minutely in recognition of the shadows that silently crept across the far wall of the inn and slipped into the darkness. A depraved smile suddenly danced across his face.

"Ahh… the King's beloved Musketeers. Athos! Porthos! And Aramis!" Rochefort laughed as he inquired, "And just where is the youngest member of this fearless foursome?" Bracing himself against the wall, Rochefort stood, the smile on his face taunting the Musketeer captain.

A subtle movement of hand and arm, a glint of steel and Athos' sword wounded Rochefort, the blade sliding silently into the flesh of his thigh. He crumbled to the floor again, a crimson stain spreading across his uniform pants.

"Guard him, Porthos. Do not let this vermin crawl away."

A third sword thrust forward, aimed at the fallen man's groin. "Do not fear, Athos. This vile snake will not escape us." Aramis stepped closer to his lover, his face twisted with an unmerciful smile. His features softened slightly when gentled by the comforting touch of Porthos' hand to his shoulder.

"If any harm has befallen my young comrade," Athos warned. The Musketeer leaned down, his hand capturing Rochefort's tunic, pulling him close. "You… will… die!" His grip transferred to the man's throat, tightening imperceptibly with each word spoken. Athos' eyes, dark with bitter loathing, promised a slow and excruciatingly painful death and the sudden release of his grip tumbled the wounded Rochefort back to the floor.

Without wasting another second, the swordsman bolted for the stairs, taking two and three steps at a time. He found the darkened hallway deserted. Throwing the door open wide, Athos quickly assessed the emptiness of their bedchamber. A hint of gold winked at him from the bed and he moved closer, blade drawn, fear strangling his swiftly beating heart. His sword dropped from his suddenly nerveless fingers and crashed to the floorboards. Identifying the gleaming item on the bed, Athos felt his legs buckle and he fell to his knees.

D'Artagnan's gold bracelet, broken, stained with blood, was nestled among the wrinkled linens. Athos clasped the treasured token of love and devotion to his heart, his fingers gripping the simple braiding with crazed desperation. His heart shattered, his lips whispering his beloved's name over and over as he bowed his head and touched his lips to the cold metallic links, a single fallen tear mingling with the droplets of blood.

Fear transformed into anger-anger boiled over into a blinding rage as Athos threw back his head and roared, the sound reverberating off the wooden timbers of the roof. Thoughts and emotions coalesced into action and, with a silent prayer to God, asking for absolution, the Musketeer picked up his sword and wrapped the gold braiding around the hilt of the blade. His task completed, he quickly left the room, his eyes thunderous black with hatred.

Athos paused for a mere second in the hallway. The unfamiliar scents that had assaulted his nose when he had kissed D'Artagnan's bracelet still lingered in the air. He traced them to the small alcove that sheltered the door to Richelieu's chamber and found they were joined with that of the Cardinal's and a perfume that was hauntingly familiar. Stepping next to the door, Athos rested his face against the rough wooden surface and closed his eyes, concentrating on the air he was slowly breathing in and out. It took him no time at all to discover the collection of scents emanated from within the holy man's chambers.

With a touch of his sword to his heart, he slammed against the door, breaking the bolted latch. Bursting into the room, he quickly dispensed of the young assistant who met him with a dagger in his hand. Athos laughed as he knocked the weapon to the floor and hurled him into the hallway. The Cardinal looked up from his study of a large manuscript, completely unconcerned at Athos' abrupt entrance. He templed his fingers and stared at the invader, his scornful countenance mocking, his lips curved in a sneer at the sight of the blade that was poised over his heart.

Athos' peripheral senses detected Aramis' presence. His gaze and sword never wavered, holding Richelieu motionless in his chair as he gave instructions to the young Musketeer standing in the doorway. "D'Artagnan has been taken. Arrange for a message to be sent to Paris informing the King. Also, request assistance from our headquarters."

"You're wasting your time, old friend. The boy is long gone." A scoffing chuckle followed the Cardinal's quietly spoken words.

Athos sliced Richelieu across the cheek with his sword. "Quickly saddle the horses, Aramis. The kidnappers cannot have gotten too far away."

Aramis began to whisper a warning. "Athos…."

The older man held out his hand. "Give me your sword."

Aramis started to protest and Athos silenced him with a single, deadly look. The weapon was handed over, a slender hand offering a quick touch of sympathy. Athos shook off the comforting contact. "Leave, Aramis. I do not want you to be witness to the murder I'm about to commit."

Aramis attempted one last time to reason with his captain. "Athos! Please! Do not do this."

"Leave us! NOW!" Athos kicked the door shut, all evidence of compassionate humanity vanishing from his face.

With a quick flick of his wrist, Athos divested Richelieu of his holy adornments. He snarled at the older man, each word he spoke drenched with hostility. "Strip. Your hallowed robes will not protect your soul now. Tonight there is only me and you, Richelieu. Man against man." The slender blade carved a long jagged rent in the scarlet material. "If I go to hell it is because I have killed a demonic bastard not a man of the cloth."

Athos stepped back, allowing his enemy to remove his outer garments, revealing the simple attire of cotton shirt, breeches and boots. With a heartless laugh the Musketeer tossed the borrowed sword to the silent Cardinal. "Defend yourself. For tonight, you return to the devil that spawned you."

After lifting and kissing the small crucifix that lay hidden beneath his shirt, Richelieu brandished his weapon with graceful expertise. "Before you kill me, wouldn't you like to know why D'Artagnan was taken?"

Swords arched, catching the light of the scattered candlelight as they engaged in deadly combat.
Athos ignored the man, his mind totally focused upon inflicting as much pain and torture before administering the killing thrust. Richelieu parried a mortally wounding lunge, the shadowed gloom of his voice insinuating itself into the silence, twisting around Athos' heart.

"Tonight, Athos, you will lose forever your cherished beloved. On this night, the anniversary of my sweet lover's death, I will take from you as you stole from Rogert from me. Bid adieu to the man your heart and soul has embraced."

A mournful lament ravaged the night's shroud of silence as blades once again tangled in the fateful dance of death.

(8)

"Athos!"

The thundering roar of his name deflected the killing blow and Athos staggered back, his sword stained with blood. He fell into the strong arms of his oldest friend and comrade, Porthos. His black gaze remained centered on the Cardinal's motionless body, his eyes following the small crimson river that snaked across the floor.

Porthos caught his captain, preventing his exhausted collapse. He could feel the trembling of Athos' body as it fought to stay upright and he worked for several seconds forcing the Musketeer's tightly clenched hand to release its death grip on the sword. With his foot, he snagged a nearby chair and lowered Athos into a sitting position, his heart weeping for the man who crumpled into a defeated slump.

"He's gone, Porthos. D'Artagnan is lost to us."

A single tear fell unheeded down Athos' cheek. "My beloved is lost." He turned his jaded gaze to the wounded man at his feet, his jaw hardening with loathing. "That bastard refused to speak." Athos shook his head, droplets of sweat scattering through the air as he wearily reached for his blade, determined to try one last time to wrestle the information from the human abomination lying on the floor. "If he continues to remain silent, he dies."

Porthos, once again, removed the weapon from Athos' hand. "There is another way, my friend." The large Musketeer reached behind him and pulled a frightened young girl into view. "This is Aislin, the innkeeper's daughter. She has the information you seek."

Athos knelt at Aislin's feet, clasping her hands to his lips, begging unashamedly. "Please, sweet maiden. Tell me you know where they have taken my friend. Please tell me."

A delicate blush crept across the girl's cheeks as she knelt beside the exhausted Musketeer and watched the emotion of hope awaken in the eyes of the older man. "Monsieur, I was at the kitchen door when a lady and two men escaped into the night's gloom. The men were escorting what appeared to be your young comrade. His face was covered by a cloak but I recognized his uniform." Aislin tentatively touched Athos on the arm, her tears of distress genuine. "I'm sorry I did not come for you at once but I did not know they had taken him by force. It was not until your friend here was questioning my brothers that I realized the young Musketeer had been removed from the inn against his will."

Athos saw the small grimace of pain on the girl's face and realized he was crushing her hands. He forcibly relaxed his grip. "Is there anything else you can tell us? Anything at all?"

"As they climbed into the coach I heard the lady address the driver, directing him to go quickly to the coast. I then heard her speak to one of the men, informing him that his payment would come only after the young Musketeer had been delivered to the Duke."

Directing a question to the young maiden, Porthos helped Athos to his feet. "Did this woman have a name?"

Aislin nodded, her small hands nervously tangling in her skirts. "Earlier this evening I saw her with Monsieur Rochefort and he addressed her as Lady de Winter."

Athos froze, the only part of his body moving was his hands as they clenched and unclenched. Without a sound, the fire of hatred rekindled in his eyes.

Thanking the girl, Porthos escorted her from the room. When he returned, his eyes went to the empty spot on the floor. "Athos! The Cardinal! He's escaped." A trail of blood led the two men to a doorway that connected to the adjourning room. Porthos moved to follow but Athos stopped him.

"Later, my friend. Right now we have a ghost to track." Athos retrieved his sword. "It seems my deceased wife managed to cheat death and has now joined forces with the devil and his demon." The Musketeer straightened his tunic, his gaze turning inward to a distant memory. "I should have killed that treacherous Jezebel with my own hands."

Athos pointed toward the open window, the blade of his sword greeting the first rays of the dawn. He acknowledged Aramis' presence with a nod of his head. "We ride towards the coast, my friends. And if I understand correctly, our pursuit will take us to the shores of England. So gather whatever food and supplies will be needed. We leave at half past the hour."

Aramis and Porthos departed with great haste, their voices echoing down the stairs as they divided up the necessary duties for the journey.

Athos knelt at the open window, the hilt of his sword to his mouth, his lips pressing a tender kiss to the gold braiding. Images of his lover drifted across his mind, the vision of his soul remembering.

The Musketeer opened his eyes and watched as the sun slowly crept over the horizon. His heart safely hid the memories away as his voice whispered a fervent message to his young lover.

"Have faith, D'Artagnan. I will find you. You are the mate my soul has embraced and I will not be separated from you."

Athos stood and lifted his blade to the heavens. Two companion swords joined his and three voices resonated throughout the morning silence.

"One for all and all for one!"

+++++++

Thrown back into the room he shared with Athos, D'Artagnan crumpled to his knees beside the bed, excruciating pain spreading throughout his body as a dagger imbedded itself deeply in his chest. The warmth of his blood as it soaked into his tunic confused him and he struggled to remove the cloak thrown over his head. The obscuring garment was ripped away suddenly and his blurred vision was filled with the vicious beauty of an unfamiliar woman. Her cruel laugh clawed at his tenacious grip on consciousness but the agony of his wound overtook him and he surrendered to the darkness, the woman's evil smile the last image his mind comprehended.

D'Artagnan awoke with a cry, awareness of his surroundings slowly creeping in as the veil of unconsciousness lifted. All was dark, a blindfold obscuring his sight. He determined that he lay captive in a moving carriage, the air heavy with the salty scent of the ocean. Cocking his head slightly, he was able to discern the presence of at least two people and, without thinking, he slid across the seat, his bound hands furtively searching for a means of escape.

A blazing fire engulfed his groin and he struggled helplessly against his bindings, trying to escape the sharp talons that held his manhood in a bruising grip. His vision clouded over with a red haze of pain as his groans of misery strangled against the gag in his mouth.

A deep, gruff voice, heavy with contempt and loathing, spoke loudly, "I do believe our young Musketeer has finally awakened."

Rochefort! D'Artagnan shrank back against the wall of the coach. An enticingly sweet perfume invaded his nostrils as small hands stroked and fondled his abused genitals, nails biting into the cloth-covered flesh.

"My, my. He is indeed quite a healthy young swordsman. I do believe I need to personally inspect his equipment. Make sure it is worthy of a Musketeer."

Hearty laughter boomed out. "Not yet, my sweet lady. I feel the need to tell this youth a certain story."

A petulant sigh whispered into the obscure silence. "You are no fun, sir." The trouncing of petticoats did nothing to disguise the noise of hungry mouths feeding upon each other and soon another sigh broke the silence, this sound one of sexual displeasure.

Slender fingers returned to torment and tease the bound and gagged Musketeer. The leather bindings of his tunic were undone and nails scored across his chest, pausing to scratch at the nipples hidden within the thick pelt that covered his upper torso. A sharp bite and a crimson teardrop fell from one abused nub. Before the drop could get lost in the abundant chest hair, an insatiable tongue lapped it up. The fingers then returned, pinching and twisting the pale flesh of D'Artagnan's abdomen but before further injury could be inflicted, the unknown hands were slapped away.

"Behave, you harlot. It's time for a wondrous but sad tale to be told."

D'Artagnan struggled against his bonds, managing to fall against his kidnappers. His attempts were rewarded with a brutal blow to his injured upper chest, white-hot pain bringing tears to his eyes. He was thrown back into his corner of the carriage and held there by a dagger, the sharp blade nicking the hollow at the base of his throat.

"Another foolish move like that, young friend, and you will not live to see the sun rise."

The weapon was removed and D'Artagnan nodded wearily, acknowledging Rochefort. He leaned back, trying to control the fear that threatened to overwhelm him. Taking a deep breath, he concentrated on his surroundings, his senses stretching out, trying to seize on any clue that would help him to escape. A swift cuff against his head demanded his attention.

"Listen!"

The dagger returned, again grazing D'Artagnan's neck before moving lower to lay a trail of nicks and cuts across his upper torso. "Do I have your full attention now?" D'Artagnan felt Rochefort's hand touch his groin, its light weight pressing down with a clear intent. Struggling briefly, the young Musketeer nodded and slumped back against the cushions, resigning himself to his present situation.

"Once upon a time, in this glorious country known as France, there was a man of state, a wealthy and powerful man. Yet, despite his position of importance, this man was very lonely. One day a young man in his employ caught his eye and his heart. He fell in love with the dark-haired youth. A passionate affair was embarked upon and the two were soon deeply in love with each other."

"The young man served his lover with absolute devotion, fulfilling his every wish and command. When his beloved's sanctuary was threatened by an imperial edict, the youth vowed to assassinate the evil one of royal birth. Alas, his plan did not succeed but his lover commended him and rewarded him with a personal visit to his humble abode. There the lovers enjoyed a night of great passion."

"Before the moon surrendered to the dawn, their reunion was abruptly interrupted by the untimely arrival of the evil sovereign's guardians. The commander of this force gravely wounded the youth's lover. Fortunately, a devoted servant was nearby and rescued his master, pulling him to a safe hiding place, preventing his recognition."

"The young man fought valiantly, knowing his beloved watched his every move. He parried thrust after thrust, defending his position bravely. But experience and age were against him and the lad was no match for the older swordsman. Before his lover could cry out a warning, the fatal wound was inflicted and the young man fell to the floor, the enemy's blade slicing straight through his heart. He died in that instant, his hand reaching for his beloved, his lips silently whispering the cherished name of his lover."

Rochefort tapped D'Artagnan on the chin with the tip of his dagger. "The lad's death was a major blow to the wounded man and he was overcome with grief at the loss of his one true love. On the day he buried the young man he vowed vengeance on the murderer." The one eyed man leaned forward, the stench of his foul breath causing D'Artagnan to jerk his head to the side. "The moral to this story, dear D'Artagnan is this...." Rochefort gripped the young Musketeer's chin and forced him to face forward. "Don't ever tangle with the Cardinal and never touch those he loves. Your Athos signed his death sentence the instant he killed young Rogert. And the moment he bestowed his love upon you was the moment you became a pawn in the Cardinal's plan for revenge."

The carriage lurched, its sudden movement jarring its occupants. A quiet curse was issued as Rochefort's dagger slipped, its edge cutting into D'Artagnan's flesh. The Musketeer felt the warm trail of blood trickle down his neck.

His blindfold was ripped off and his gag yanked out of his mouth but before Rochefort could touch him, the carriage swayed wildly and D'Artagnan tumbled off his seat. He looked up, the moon casting a sliver of light into the dark interior. His eyes collided with the woman's icy gaze of pure hatred and the young man's heart faltered, fear attacking his brave soul. With that one look he knew without a doubt his life had just been forfeited.

(9)

Whispering quiet words of assurance, Monsieur Henri Phillipe attempted to calm the nervous horses still harnessed to the overturned coach. The driver, who lay a few feet away, was beyond his help and was taking his last dying breath when Henri heard the thunder of hoofbeats approaching. He waved frantically at the three riders, who showed no signs of slowing down. As they drew closer, Henri recognized the uniforms the men wore and, without a thought to his safety, stepped into the path of the lead horseman.

"Stop! Musketeers, stop!"

He jumped out of the way as the riders reigned in their horses and the animals reared in protest at the abrupt change of course. Instantly identifying his fellow comrades, Henri caught the bridle of Athos' horse, pulling hard to keep the animal from unseating his rider. The large, coal black stallion wrenched his head away, ripping the leather bindings out of the Musketeer's hand. His large body danced wildly, legs and hooves thrashing in the empty air and Athos cursed as he struggled to bring the huge beast under control. Man and animal fought each other briefly, battling for dominance, muscles straining and flexing. A final rebellious rearing and the stallion admitted defeat, dropping to all fours, his sides heaving from the exertion of the fight.

Henri cautiously stepped forward and recaptured the horse's bridle, grimacing at the heaving bellows of hot breath blustering across his face. The animal pranced slightly away before allowing his owner to dismount and Henri immediately released his hold. Wasting no time, he grabbed Athos by the arm and pulled him to the edge of the nearby cliff. With an impatient wave of his hand, Henri motioned to the other Musketeers to follow and directed their attention to the precipice.

"I am in dire need of your assistance, my comrades. On my way to the harbor I came upon this wreckage and I believe a robbery has occurred." He looked back at the crumpled form near the overturned coach. "While attending to the driver, I heard a faint cry for help." Henri pointed to the cliff. "It seems the passenger of the carriage managed to escape but fell and is lying injured on a ledge far below."

Athos cast his eye over the debris, his mind calculating the delay. D'Artagnan's life was in danger and a second's delay could mean death for his young lover. But his engrained belief in duty and honor would not allow him to abandon one in serious need. He yelled at his companions, stripping the carriage horses of their tethers and reigns.

"Hurry! Form a rope with this and let us be about the work of saving this unfortunate individual. Aramis! Look for some suitable material to bind any wounds this person may have."

Athos and Porthos quickly tied the leather strips together and, after testing the strength of the rope, Athos moved to the edge of the cliff. Porthos and Henri slowly lowered the large man down, maintaining a secure grip on the rigging.

The Musketeer moved with assured grace down the rocky face and, within minutes, had reached the ledge. Squatting down carefully, he quickly assessed the situation, noting the injured was a young woman, her face obscured by blood-stained curls. With a quiet gentleness, he brushed the strands of blonde hair away and immediately his heart ceased in its rhythm as he gazed down upon the features of his supposedly dead wife.

"Mon dieu! Charlotte!"

Rage bubbled to the surface and boiled over and, mindless of the further injury he may be causing, Athos encircled the woman's slender neck and began to shake her, his fingers slowly squeezing the life from her.

"Where is he? WHERE IS D'ARTAGNAN?"

Strangled gasps for air and faint cries alerted the Musketeer to the brutality of his grip and he removed his hands from her throat but not from her body. Cursing, he gripped her shoulders and again shook her violently. "You evil, conniving Jezebel! How dare you live! And how dare you join forces with that devil, the Cardinal."

Athos lifted the woman and leaned her against the rocks, ignoring her whimpers of pain. Mercy and kindness had not been extended to him the night his wife had stolen all his gold and left him for dead, three of her jeweled daggers embedded in his body. Assured by his friends that his devious wife had been captured and executed, Athos had sworn off the gentler sex and given into his secret hunger for men. How Charlotte had managed to escape the hangman's noose was a mystery but Athos would damn his soul to eternal hell before offering compassion to this ghostly whore lying before him, this woman who, once again, had cheated him of happiness.

His eyes filled with hate, the Musketeer examined the richly dressed woman. "You are about to take your last dying breath, Milady. If you wish to visit with the angels instead of the demons, I suggest you tell me where my young friend is."

The woman struggled feebly to get away from the enraged Musketeer, her hands clutching at her torn bodice as she cursed the man in front of her. "Do… do not touch me, you heathen. I hate you!" She spat at Athos before attempting to crawl away, her shattered legs preventing escape. Cruel contemptuous laughter greeted her clumsy attempts and she began to sob.

"You are wasting precious minutes, Milady. Minutes I cannot spare. Tell me where he is and I will make sure you have a Christian burial. Deny me and I will leave you as food for the vultures."

Charlotte Backson, Comtesse de la Fere, Milady de Winter glanced up at her former husband, her jealousy, even in death, knowing no bounds. Summoning all her strength, she slapped Athos across the face and, with her last breath, condemned his lover.

"D'Artagnan is lost to you." The dying woman struggled to speak, her whispered words now barely discernable. "He goes to his death." Seizing Athos' tunic, she pulled him down. "You lose again, my dear husband." Milady's final breath mingled with the wind. "You… lose."

The sky darkened and the clouds clashed with the screaming wind, the heavens splintering from the roar that erupted from Athos' throat. He slammed the lifeless body of his wife down to the ground and stepped closer to the edge of the rocky bluff, his body trembling with unrepressed fury

Athos lost focus of the presence, his gaze mesmerized by the waves crashing violently against the boulders scattered along the coastal shoreline. His mind struggled to maintain a hold on the reality of the moment as his heart retreated from the excruciating pain of loss. He stood transfixed for minutes before the agonized cry of a raven snatched him from his nightmare trance. Cursing his fate, Athos ripped his tunic open and clutched the silver cross that lay against his heart. His fingers tightened into a death grip as he brought his sword up and touched the gold bracelet that tangled around the blade's hilt against the unadorned crucifix.

"D'Artagnan," Athos whispered the name of his beloved, the anguished sound mingling with the falling raindrops.

A rugged hand gripped Athos' shoulder and pulled him back from the precipice. Porthos held his old friend close, offering a silent moment of comfort before placing an understanding kiss against the Musketeer captain's furrowed brow.

"Do not despair, Athos. Look." He held out a tattered piece of paper, the rain attempting to obliterate the scrawled penmanship.

With a last glance for the dead woman at his feet, Athos shook himself free and took the offered note, his hope strengthening as he read the simple message.

Athos crumpled the small piece of parchment and dropped it on the body. "Damn the Cardinal and his schemes." He lifted his head and gazed at the coast, seeing a lone ship moving swiftly out to sea. His sight zeroed in on the person standing at the helm, conversing with a younger man who was dressed in rich finery. Rochefort. The gentleman beside him turned slightly, his short brown hair tossed by the wind. Buckingham.

Closing his eyes, the Musketeer took several deep breaths and attempted to calm the inner turmoil of his mind. With a tilt of his head to the side, Athos released his breath and reached out across the distance between him and the ship, gathering in the many sounds, filtering out each one until he identified the familiar heartbeat of his lover.

D'Artagnan. Alive.

Athos turned to Porthos as he gripped the rope that would take him up the cliff. "Come, my friend. We're about to embark on an English holiday."

+++++++

Porthos pulled his cape tighter, attempting to shield his large bulk from the storm. Muttering a curse at the fickle weather, he looked out into the darkness, searching for his fellow Musketeer.

"Henri?"

Silence. Securing a hold on a nearby beam, he stepped out into the rain, the wind tearing at the edges of his cloak. "Henri?" Porthos raised his voice, hoping his call could be heard above the storm. It was several minutes before he detected a low drawn out moan of distress. Holding his lantern aloft, Porthos located the huddled form of the young Musketeer and, with a laugh, pulled him to shelter. "My son, you look like a drowned rat!" He threw a heavy woolen blanket around Henri's shoulders.

"I feel even worse." Another moan issued forth, this one more miserable than the last.

Porthos looked down at the sickly Musketeer and his eyes sparkled with merriment. "I take it you are not a man of the sea?"

Henri hugged the large beam, resting his head against the rain soaked wood. "If the Almighty had wanted men to sail the waters of the deep, He would have given them fins."

Porthos chuckled as he tugged on Henri's arm. "Come below, dear boy, where it's warm and dry."

Henri nodded and moved a few steps forward. At that very moment, the ship lurched, tumbling the men sideways. Porthos watched as the young man recovered his footing and raced for the railing. He called out the Musketeer's name in concern. "Henri?"

A flash of lightening allowed him to see the weary hand waving him away. "There's a warm dry bunk down below for when you're feeling better." The simple sound of retching was his only answer and Porthos shook his head in sympathy as he cautiously moved towards the ship's bow.

The older Musketeer cursed again at the increasing ferocity of the storm. He watched the waves crash higher and higher against the ship's sides, sending torrents of water over the railings as the large vessel fought its way through the rough sea. Timbers groaned in protest and the sails snapped and wrestled with the squalling winds.

The darkness of the night seemed to increase tenfold and the light of Porthos' lamp barely pierced the murkiness. Heavy rainfall blanketed the twilight hour with a bone-chilling dampness that invaded even the heaviness of garments. Hungry for the warmth of his lover's lean body, Porthos shuddered and clutched his cloak tighter. Aramis was tucked safely below in their cabin and, more than likely, snuggled under the covers, reading his precious poetry.

"Soon my precious one. Soon," the large man whispered into the wind. Wiping the rain from his face, Porthos continued in his search.

A roar of curses directed his steps as he struggled forward. Pushing several loose crates out of his way, Porthos discovered his captain wedged into a hidden alcove and he frowned at the appearance of his old friend.

With his hair plastered to his head and his cheeks red from the cold sting of the rain, Athos sat on a wooden barrel, a half empty flask of whiskey dangling from his hand. His uniform was a crumpled mess, his tunic cast off in the corner, his white linen shirt wrinkled and open to his waist.

Ignoring the bloodshot eyes that glared at him, Porthos laid a gentle hand on his friend's shoulder. "Athos, come below. You're soaked. You need to change into some dry clothes and rest." He shook the younger man, trying to wrestle him free from whatever demons were plaguing his mind. "We reach England tomorrow, Athos. Think of D'Artagnan. Concentrate on the details of our plan." Porthos gripped Athos' chin. "This… this drinking yourself into oblivion is not going to help you save your young lover. Athos!"

Athos wrenched free of Portho's grasp and snarled as he threw the whiskey bottle at his friend. Porthos ducked to the side, watching the bottle sail through the air and splinter into pieces as it crashed against the lead mast. Tiny shards of glass were caught up by the wind, flying back into the Musketeers' faces, slicing small cuts in their skin.

Athos stood and faced the raging storm, his fist raised to the darkened sky. Black clouds seethed across the firmament, flashes of lightening illuminating the man's angry stance. His voice mated with the howling wind as his words hurled into the storm's tempest.

"Damn the Cardinal! Damn his evil soul to hell!"

Athos fell to his knees, his hands clenched in hate, his fists beating against his thighs. The rain mixed the blood from his wounds with the tears from his eyes. "I swear on my honor, on my very life that that bastard will die by my own hand! And I promise his death will be very slow and extremely painful."

Athos gripped the silver crucifix that hung from the chain around his neck, his voice breaking under the weight of the pain in his heart. "I swear, my beloved, he will die."

Porthos knelt beside his friend and sheltered him with his cloak. Silently, he pulled the man to his feet, guiding him across the deck and down the stairs to his cabin. Removing the sodden clothes and boots, he tumbled Athos onto his bunk and covered him with several blankets.

The shadow of heartbroken blue stared up at Porthos as Athos gripped the front of the older man's tunic.

"I love him, Porthos. I will die without him." The Musketeer captain reached down into his saddlebag and collected the slender circlet of gold he had removed from his sword. Holding it to his mouth, he bestowed a tender kiss on it. "D'Artagnan is my life. He is my true soul mate." Athos then pressed the bracelet to his heart. "He has given me a love I never thought I would have."

The younger man pulled his pillow from under his head and crushed it to his chest. "Before D'Artagnan, I was a mean and angry bastard. I can't go back to being that man again, Porthos. It would be the death of me." Quiet sobs escaped the solemn and desolate soldier, his heart starving for the love of his beloved companion. The silent weeping soon faded as Athos slipped into a restless sleep.

Porthos hovered over his comrade for a quarter of an hour, watching him with concern. Touching Athos' head lightly, he whispered, "Do not worry, my friend. Your D'Artagnan will be found and returned to your loving arms."

The older Musketeer moved to the cabin's door, his eyes resting momentarily on the blade that lay beside the sleeping man. "And yes, Athos, the steel of your sword will be stained red with the Cardinal's blood. I promise you this." Porthos extinguished the lantern and quietly closed the door.

"Sleep well, dear friend. For tomorrow we ride into hell to fight the devil himself."

(10)

D'Artagnan blindly stumbled over unseen obstacles as cruel hands pushed him down a long passageway. There was the recognizable screech of rusty metal as a door was forced opened but before the Musketeer could take a step forward, one of his escorts gave a swift jab to his lower back and shoved him inside, the excruciating pain dropping D'Artagnan to his knees.

A fist cuffed him just before the hood was ripped from his head and he momentarily saw stars. Blinking furiously to clear his vision, he watched as the ropes around his wrists were carelessly slashed, the blade slicing a crimson path across his forearm. His injury was greeted with a contemptuous laugh, followed by a hard kick to his butt and, suddenly, D'Artagnan found himself sprawled face down in a pile of damp, foul-smelling straw.

The withdrawal of light and the clank of metal against metal signaled the departure of the young Musketeer's tormentors and, for a moment fear paralyzed him, pinning his trembling body to the floor. A single cry escaped his lips as he clawed at the dirt floor beneath him.

"Athos."

The image of his brave and courageous lover bolstered D'Artagnan's resolve, giving him the strength to upright his sorely protesting body. His eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom, a pale ray of sunlight from a window high above his head his only illumination. It was only a moment before the silence was broken by a choked gasp, the sound tore from D'Artagnan once he comprehended the reality of his surroundings.

A prison cell . . . the bruised and wounded Musketeer found himself locked in a prison cell.

He moved quickly to the small window and, ignoring the pain of the wound in his upper chest, grabbed the steel bars and pulled himself up. The view of the recognizable landscape sent a chill of foreboding down his spine as D'Artagnan stared out the window. And the longer he looked at the high walls that ran as far as the eye could see, the longer his mind refused to believe he was being held a prisoner in the Tower of London.

A single tear escaped down his cheek as D'Artagnan let go of the bars and collapsed upon the meagerly filled straw pallet lying beneath the window. He whispered a prayer to the Almighty, pleading for divine intervention. Finished with his heavenly supplication, D'Artagnan's heart took up the plea, calling out to his Athos.

The long-haired youth withdrew inside himself, warming his frightened soul with cherished memories of his lover. Several hours passed before his weary body finally capitulated, succumbing to an overwhelming state of mental and physical exhaustion. Clutching a threadbare blanket to his chest, D'Artagnan closed his eyes and slept.

Agonizing cries ripped through the morning's silence and the sounds jerked D'Artagnan out of a restless sleep. He rubbed his bleary eyes and combed his fingers through his tangled curls as he struggled to sit up. Ignoring the pain in his arm, he stood and dusted off his tunic as best as possible, smiling slightly at the thought of seeing Aramis again and the horrified expression that would come over his friend's face the moment he got a look at the state D'Artagnan's uniform was in. He could almost hear the peacock-ish Musketeer, reminding them all that… 'A soldier does not have to look like a soldier. We are all gentlemen and, thus, should dress as such.'

D'Artagnan was startled from his thoughts by a cultured English voice. "Good morning, Monsieur. I believe I have the honor of addressing the renowned D'Artagnan."

The Musketeer searched the dark confines of his cell for several seconds before discovering a cloaked individual standing in the shadows. "You must excuse me, my Lord. You have me at a disadvantage. It seems you know who I am. Dare I ask you allow me the same privilege?"

The shadowy visitor chuckled and moved forward, the feeble beam of sunlight revealing his features.

D'Artagnan gasped with surprise and stumbled backwards, unable to believe the identity of the man who stood before him.

The young man's boot connected with the edge of his cot and he tilted backwards, his astonishment causing him to loose his balance. Strong, elegant hands caught him, pulling him into a brief embrace before releasing.

"Now that you know who stands before you, please, young Gascon, tell me why I should not call for the executioner? The accusations brought against you are quite impressive." England's ambassador removed his cloak, revealing a slender frame garbed in simple garments. Brushing errant strands of dark chestnut away from his face, the Duke made himself comfortable on a nearby stool and, with a wave of his hand, instructed the bewildered Musketeer that he should also take a seat.

"Let us not stand when we can sit and discuss this as gentlemen." Reaching across the distance between them, the older man gathered D'Artagnan's hand in his own, his gloved fingers stroking a soothing path across the youth's trembling palm. "Having seen you face to face, I, for some reason, find myself unable to believe the tales that have been conveyed to me by your highly revered Cardinal."

Intent in his inspection of the Musketeer's features, the Duke lifted D'Artagnan's chin and stared deeply into his eyes, discerning the unspoken truth of the lad's character. His fingers traced a slow path across D'Artagnan's cheek, grazing the outer edges of his mouth before tracing the lines of his jaw and neck.

Satisfied with his assessment of the Musketeer, he leaned back and asked. "Tell me, Monsieur, why have you been labeled a threat to my sovereign and why does the Cardinal wish for your immediate death?"

D'Artagnan's mouth fell open, his mind grappling with the outrageous allegation. A warm chuckle greeted his astonishment and the Duke gently tapped on his chin, alerting him to his pose. D'Artagnan snapped his mouth shut with a vengeance. Anger quickly replaced confusion and he shook himself loose from the older man's grip. Jumping up, he began to pace his narrow cell, his hands gesturing wildly, his tousled curls whipping around his animated face as he related the events leading to his kidnapping.

D'Artagnan's voice strengthened with confidence as he explained Rochefort's lustful contempt for the Musketeers. He recounted all to the silent Duke, even to the point of revealing the Cardinal's hatred of his beloved Athos.

"I fear, my Lord, I am just a pawn in the Cardinal's plan of revenge. He is a bitter man, intent on destroying my Captain. He seeks full retribution for the death of his lover."

Buckingham left his seat, moving to stand next to the young Musketeer. "I am still confused as to why the Cardinal would involve you in his vindictiveness. He has gone to great lengths to insure your death. Please enlighten me, dear boy."

The English ambassador stepped closer, his dark eyes questioning. "The truth is most imperative. Your life hangs in the balance."

D'Artagnan blushed as he turned away, hiding his face from the astute gaze before him. He lifted his face to the narrow beacon of light shining into his cell and slid his hand inside his tunic, sheltering his beating heart.

"My Captain and I.…" D'Artagnan's voice whispered into the silence, his words barely discernable. "We are lovers, Monsieur."

The Duke laid a gentle hand on D'Artagnan's shoulder and steered the youth so that he could see his face. "Pardon?"

D'Artagnan looked up, his sky blue eyes stormy with unspoken emotions, his voice catching slightly. "Athos and I are lovers."

"Damn!" Buckingham pulled the youth into an understanding embrace, his hands caressing the thick strands of mahogany hair that fell down his back. "This is indeed a royal mess." The Duke released D'Artagnan and guided him to the vacant stool. Gathering his cloak, Buckingham moved to the cell's entrance and signaled an unseen attendant. "We leave immediately," he whispered. Turning back to the seated lad, he smiled and allowed himself another touch of the satin curls. How soft, how lovely it would be to feel…. With a silent curse, Buckingham restrained his attraction for the innocent Musketeer and forcibly removed his hand from temptation.

"Do not worry, dear boy." The Duke knelt before D'Artagnan. "I refuse to allow Richelieu to embroil me in his own petty affairs. It's bad enough he thinks I will be part of his plot to overthrow your King. If he believes he can further play me for a fool, he is sorely mistaken."

Buckingham cupped the side of D'Artagnan's bruised face, his gaze serious with his intent. "Allow me two days and I will have you back safely in the arms of your lover. Until then, I must leave you here in this squalor, pretending that you are the condemned criminal Richelieu has declared you to be. I am sorry but it is for your own safety. If it will calm your fears any, please know that my personal guard will be outside your cell, protecting you from any that would wish you harm."

The ambassador stumbled backwards when D'Artagnan rushed forward, embracing him so tight he could hardly draw breath.

"You are my savior, my Lord. Merci."

Buckingham laughed softly as he pulled away. Securing his cloak, he turned to the opening door, his countenance lapsing into a brooding solemnness. "Do not sing my praises yet, young D'Artagnan. I fear the Cardinal may have a grasp that reaches farther than either one of us can imagine. We will declare victory only when you have been returned to your beloved Captain."

The English ambassador took one final look at the handsome Musketeer, memorizing his youthful beauty. "Adieu, my dear boy. Pray to your God for His guidance and protection… for yourself and for me. We shall surely need it."

A silent darkness surrounded D'Artagnan after Buckingham departed and he immediately sank to his knees in order to offer up a humble prayer. With his heart beseeching the angels, D'Artagnan lifted his face heavenward, a trembling smile of hope on his face.

"Athos, my love. Hold true to your faith. I will be with you soon."

(11)

Author's Note: Do not read anything into the selection of Stephen Ellison as the Duke. When I originally wrote this series and posted it to a *single* mailing list, Rafe was not Aramis but was, actually, the Duke. Aramis was an OC that belonged to the owner of the mailing list and when she removed her permission for me to use her characters, I had to shift people around. Rafe took over as Aramis and I just randomly placed Stephen Ellison as the Duke. Unless I get really ambitious, <g>, there will be no connection between the Ellison brothers and their corresponding characters, Athos and the Duke. Sorry about the confusion!

The night surrounded London in a cloak of heavy silence as a full moon broke through the clouds and revealed the few brave individuals wandering the deserted avenues. A certain gentleman kept to the shadows, moving quickly to an obscure establishment deep in the heart of the city. With a glance behind him, he knocked on the door, offered a password and revealed his face to the man guarding the entrance.

"Sunset."

The door was thrown open. "Welcome, my Lord. It is a pleasure to have you with us again."
Cape and hat were taken as a welcoming handshake was exchanged. "And how may we serve you tonight, sir?"

The man answered softly, his low pitch voice tinged with weariness. "Walter, I would appreciate a glass of your finest brandy and a patient man to enjoy it with."

"Excellent choice, my Lord. Do you wish David to escort you upstairs?" The guardian of the establishment waved at the slender youth standing nearby. A sociable pat on his shoulder declined his offer.

"Thank you, dear friend but I would like to stroll through the sitting rooms and see who is here. And Walter? Please lay on a healthy fire in the hearth. Winter is teasing us with a light chill tonight."

"As you wish, sir."

The Duke of Buckingham walked through room after room, nodding a silent hello to various couples, pausing occasionally for several moments to speak quietly with old acquaintances. Brief hugs and kisses were exchanged and memories of past love relived. Smiling sadly, Buckingham moved upstairs to his private apartment, hesitating in the hallway. A twinge of jealousy ran through him at the sounds of pleasure he could hear coming from behind closed doors. Ignoring the emptiness in his heart, he ran his hand through his hair and turned his thoughts to the details of tomorrow's affair. The procurement of the innocent Musketeer was fraught with hidden dangers and the Duke's confidence waned with each passing moment.

Pulling out his key, Buckingham stared at it, contemplating returning to his estate. Lost in thought, he loosened the brocade collar that was suddenly too tight and absently massaged the tenseness from his neck.

"Allow me," a smoky voice whispered.

Strong hands kneaded tightly knotted muscles as mysterious fingers strayed and stroked across the Duke's shoulders, slowly tracing the straight line of his back. "I believe you requested a patient man," a breath of warm air teased the Duke's ear. Wandering hands circled the Englishman's narrow waist, slipping inside the heavy garment of his coat and caressing the warm skin below.

Untangling himself, the Duke groaned and clumsily unlocked the door. A gentle light greeted them, the fireplace offering its heat and radiance to the large room. Moving shakily toward the hearth, Buckingham stoked the flame and welcomed the stranger in.

"My name is---"

An arm reached around him, dark fingers touching his lips, halting his words. "No names. Please."

Buckingham turned, curious at the request of anonymity but his inquisitive mind went blank when he beheld the handsome stranger. A dark-skinned man, a broad shouldered warrior stood before him, the midnight color of his skin contrasted with the white linen of his simple attire and, from the fit of his clothes, the Duke knew the stranger was a sturdy, well-muscled man. Moving closer, he examined his handsome features, noting the full lips, the strong jaw, the ebony curls. A restless sigh left him as he felt himself drawn to the man, his hunger reflected in the deep indigo eyes that observed him.

Suddenly, the stranger smiled at him and touched a single finger to the exposed skin at the Duke's open collar. "I believe a brandy awaits you."

Buckingham watched as the striking newcomer lifted a snifter of brandy to his lips and took the first sip. Turning the glass, he offered the liquor, silently encouraging the Duke to drink from his side of the crystal goblet. Locking glances, Buckingham rested his mouth against the warmth of the glass and slowly savored the brandy, appreciating the heady flavor of not only the shimmering bronze liquid but also that of the dark stranger.

Reaching a decision, the Duke pulled his unknown visitor into his arms. "Join me," he whispered, smiling invitingly as he captured a taste of the brandy and boldly shared it with the man.

The brandy glass was tossed aside as their lips clung wetly, their tongues searching and tangling with each other. Hands and fingers joined in the dance, seeking out sensitive areas, muscular strength, straining flesh. Clothes were hastily removed, finally allowing skin to glide over skin. Buckingham shuddered as a silent mouth sketched a sensual journey across his chest, pausing to nourish its hunger at a rigid nipple. The Duke's moans resonated through the room, his body desperate with need, his trembling hands guiding the greedy mouth back to his own.

The stranger became the aggressor, steering the Englishman to the large bed, hidden in the shadows. He was lowered down into its softness, the ebony-skinned warrior following without hesitation, his weight a welcome embrace as Buckingham wrapped his arms around him, pulling him closer. The Duke's trembling increased when his lover's greedy lips attacked, leaving a trail of passion marks across his chest. He tried to strangle a moan as his thighs were teasingly stroked and nudged apart. The varying textures of his manhood were investigated, memorized by a blazing mouth and searing fingers, a masculine gateway worshipfully prepared as lingering caresses tempted a noble shaft.

Buckingham drew the stranger to him, savoring his smoky taste, leaving his own brand of ownership on the dark skin that fascinated him. His teeth marked a nipple and his body sang with sweet anticipation as midnight steel slowly breeched his most intimate of openings. He cried out as pain became pleasure and the heat that seared his flesh, seared his brain, scattering his thoughts as his body was overtaken by the blazing inferno of lust.

The handsome stranger was merciless, driving deeper, harder, faster. His strength lifted the Duke, pulling him upright, allowing him the freedom to feed on swollen English lips. Whispering words that inflamed and tortured, his thrusts grew frantic, nearly pushing Buckingham off the mattress.

A fire roared out of control as liquid heat flowed into his body and the Duke tangled his fingers in short wiry curls, demanding his own satisfaction. His hips searched for an answering friction, his manhood craving the touch that would send him into sweet oblivion. Buckingham groaned with frustration when his body realized it was being refused release. He arched off the bed in surprise, his erection swallowed, then unexpectedly released. His scream fractured the night, ending abruptly when his mouth was stuffed with a gag, his naked body held against the bed by a bruising grip that did not belong to his companion of the night.

The Duke's eyes flew open and widened with panic. Confused anger ripped through him as he watched his silent warrior, standing across the room, replacing his garments, his demeanor unconcerned and unafraid. Buckingham screamed his frustration but the gag muffed the sound. The noise caught the black man's attention and he lifted his head to meet the Duke's eyes. Guilt darkened his gaze with a hint of lingering shame but before he could offer an explanation, an elegantly dressed stranger, followed by a giant of a man came into view and guided his lover out of the room.

Pain broke through the bewildered haze that surrounded his mind and Buckingham looked down, astonished to find a crimson path of blood trickling across his pale flesh. He lifted his eyes and encountered a sword, its blade hovering above his heart. His attacker remained faceless as a blindfold immediately shrouded his eyes. He began to struggle against the weight that still straddled his lower body and the sword marked him again, warning him against any further attempts at rebelling his capture.

The harshness of his breathing deafened him, masking the sounds of movements inside the room. The man that was holding him down bound his arms and legs, moving only once he was satisfied his prisoner could not move. His naked body was then wrapped in the silken bed sheets and a hot breath blasted across his face, the voice heavily accented, the angry words piercing his heart with fear.

"You English dog. Say your prayers for you will soon join your accomplice, the Cardinal, in Hell."

Buckingham felt the edge of the sword slide across his throat.

"Remember the name Athos, dear Duke. It will be the last word you scream when you die."

+++++++

Porthos slipped into their quarters, closing the door quietly. He was instantly embraced by his lover, Aramis surrounding him in a gentle hug. Leaning down, he kissed the concerned priest and whispered reassuring endearments as he returned the embrace. Holding Aramis close, the large man moved to where Athos and Henri were sitting at a table and pulled out several documents, spreading them out so that all present could examine what he had been given.

"It took a little time but I was finally able to procure the designs for the prison." Porthos squeezed the hand clutching his as he sat down bedside his Captain.

"Where is he?" Athos demanded impatiently.

Porthos leaned over and pointed to the far corner of the plan his leader held. "Here. D'Artagnan's being kept in this area. It is seldom used… kept only for those whose identity must remain secret."

Athos lifted his gaze from the prison layout and silently questioned his friend. Understanding the unspoken request, Porthos shook his head. "My source assures me our young Gascon has not been harmed and appears to be in fairly good spirits." The black giant ran a hand over his face, his features sobering.

"What is it?" Athos looked closely at the older Musketeer, sensing his quickened heartbeat.

Aramis also noted his lover's apprehension and moved nearer, caressing the side of Porthos' face. "What is it? What's wrong?

The tall Musketeer leaned into the Aramis' touch, taking a few seconds of comfort before releasing a deep sigh and facing his oldest friend. "I fear we have taken on an impossible task, Athos. D'Artagnan is heavily guarded. A royal convoy of soldiers has been assigned to him."
Porthos looked down at the prison layout and traced an area that included D'Artagnan's cell.
"There are at least three guards keeping a constant watch on our comrade. One is positioned outside the cell itself. The remaining two patrol the corridor leading to it."

Henri set down his tankard of beer and studied the plans before him. After a moment he looked up at Porthos. "Can your source discover when they change the guards? That would be the perfect time for our attack."

Porthos shook his head, his hand fondly tangling in the soft strands of his lover's hair. "Unfortunately, my friend, no. My source is under the impression that there is no set time to the convoys' assignments. They come and go without warning."

Porthos looked at Athos, trying to discern the thoughts behind those unfathomable blue eyes. "We would have no idea when it was safe to make our move. But even with these insurmountable odds against us, make our move we must."

The scent of fear assaulted his nose and Athos immediately grabbed Porthos' arm, gripping it so hard a grimace appeared on the older man's face. "You are holding something back. Spit it out, Porthos."

"There are whispers in the local taverns of a hanging. The hanging of a French spy." Porthos clenched his jaw against the pain in his arm. "It is D'Artagnan they speak of."

A muted howl of anguish escaped him and Athos quickly released his hold, shielding his face from his comrades with his hands. Moments passed as he struggled to regain control of his emotions. Finally, he lowered his hands and his dark gaze turned to the documents scattered across the table in front of him. "Leave me," he ordered brusquely.

Aramis tugged Porthos toward a shadowed bedchamber, leaving Henri alone with Athos. The newest member of the famed group looked around, his eyes straying down the hall to where their prisoner was being kept. Moving slowly as to prevent disturbing the solemn man beside him, Henri left the table. He found himself standing outside a locked room, his hand fingering the key that would open the door. A nagging discomfort caught his attention and he frowned as he slid his hand inside his tunic and touched the nipple that still ached from the mark of passion Buckingham had placed upon it.

Sparing one last glance at Athos, Henri opened the door and watched as the outside light spilled across the floor and over the sleeping form of the Duke of Buckingham. He quickly closed to the door and took a seat next to the bed. Candlelight revealed that the Englishman remained gagged and bound. A bruise was spreading across the left side of his face, a testament to Athos' rendering blow of unconsciousness. Without thought the young Musketeer reached out and tenderly brushed his fingers over the discolored flesh.

I'm so sorry, Monsieur. I did not mean for you to be hurt. Unable to resist, Henri threaded his fingers through the dark locks of soft chestnut hair that fell across the high forehead. So soft. So handsome. He smiled at the nobleman's incredibly long lashes and tested their raven texture with his finger. Unbidden, his touch wandered lower, exploring the warm flesh of the Duke's naked form. The sheets that had once been wrapped around Buckingham's unconscious form had slipped down, catching low on the man's slender hips and Henri groaned with shame at the sight of the inflamed gashes on the Duke's chest.

Leaving his chair, he went to the small dresser where a pitcher of water sat and searched through several drawers before finding a soft cloth of cotton. Collecting the porcelain container, he returned to the bed and began the task of tending to Buckingham's injuries. The Musketeer sighed as he worked, his emotions warring with his duty to his comrades. This man was the enemy and should, thus, be despised. Somehow that thought did not calm the turmoil in his heart.

Putting the dirty cloth aside, the black soldier rested his hand on the Duke's chest and assessed the strength of the man's heartbeat. His fingers suddenly rebelled against the innocent touch and began to skim across Buckingham's warm flesh, testing the solid feel of his muscles. Licking his lips, Henri traced each nipple and remembered their sweet taste. Warning bells sounded in his mind but Henri refused to listen and moved his hand lower, following the flat planes of the Duke's abdomen, seeking out the trail of dark hair that beckoned him to search even lower.

Without thinking, the Musketeer leaned forward and pressed a fragile kiss to the exposed shaft, his tongue savoring the Duke's salty flavor. A sudden movement and muffled howl startled Henri and he fell back in his chair, his eyes moving immediately to the Duke's face. Alert and angry brown eyes stared at him as Buckingham struggled against his bonds. The Englishman twisted his head back and forth, trying to dislodge the gag in his mouth. His frantic thrashing and garbled screams soon frightened the young Musketeer and he left his chair in order to straddle the Duke's body and keep him on the bed.

"Quiet!" Henri whispered urgently. "Be quiet, I say! Athos will hear you." He struggled for several minutes with the combative Duke, using his greater strength to subdue him. Finally, the Englishman exhausted himself and fell back against the bed panting, his eyes still communicating the fight his body was too tired to pursue.

Henri slowly released his hold and stroked the Duke's heaving chest in a soothing manner. "Do not fight me, please. If Athos hears you, he will come in here and we will both be in trouble."

The Duke nodded, his body slowly relaxing under Henri's touch. The Musketeer watched as the man's eyes took on a distressing anxious look, his mouth laboring against the gag that enforced his silence. His desperate need to speak was made evident by the agitated sounds coming from his throat.

Henri looked over his shoulder and made sure the room's door remained firmly shut. He turned back and touched the gag in Buckingham's mouth. "If you promise not to scream, I will remove this."

Buckingham shook his head, his eyes now pleading.

Henri reached for the ties that held the gag secure. Hesitating, he removed his hands and leaned down to whisper in the Duke's ear. "For what it is worth, I am sorry for the way I treated you. I wish--- I wish we had met under different circumstances." The black Musketeer pressed a fleeting kiss to Buckingham's bruised cheek before moving off the bed and untying the gag. He staggered backwards in disbelief at the words that spilled out of the Englishman.

"Please. I beg you. Let me go! If you ever want to see D'Artagnan alive again, you have to let me go! Please! I have already arranged for his escape."

Athos slammed into the room, his sword pointed threateningly at the Duke.

"WHAT??!!"

(12)

 ~~~~~~~

Afternoon was fading into evening as the coach reached its destination, the occupants inside remaining completely silent, each one reviewing his role in the forthcoming rescue. Athos gripped the silver crucifix that guarded his heart as he stretched out his senses, praying to hear the voice that had healed the restlessness in his heart. Fellow Musketeers Porthos and Aramis sat across from him, their hands entwined, their touches demonstrating the abiding love they had for each other. The newest member of the closely knit group, Henri, sat facing the English nobleman, watching him closely, memorizing the man's handsome features and lean form. He smiled when Buckingham caught him staring and his smile widened when the Englishman blushed and looked away.

The horses were reigned in suddenly and the coach swayed to a halt. Without a word being spoken, the door was swung open and the men gathered their capes and swords, each moving swiftly to exit the coach. The Duke of Buckingham straightened his finery as he shifted in his seat, acutely aware of the remaining Musketeer's presence. Henri moved quickly and captured the lips of the English Duke, his hands gripping the man's slender shoulders and pulling him close. Pressing hard against Buckingham's mouth, he thrust in his tongue when the man gasped with surprise and, for a single moment, Henri savored the wet heat of the foreigner before releasing him to whisper in his ear.

"For luck, Monsieur."

The dark-skinned Musketeer caressed Buckingham's cheek, his lips grazing the man's smooth jawline for a cherished moment before he stepped down from the carriage. With one last look, he touched his lips and saluted the Englishman before joining his companions.

"To our future, Monsieur. I have no doubt we shall meet again when the circumstances are less dire."

Buckingham snapped his mouth shut and stared after the Musketeer, his heart hammering inside his chest. Taking a deep breath, he shook his head and liberated himself from the man's spell. Now was not the time for matters of love, Buckingham admonished himself as he recalled the desperate look on D'Artagnan's face. Collecting the royal pouch his assistant had presented to him before they left, he disembarked from the coach and took note of the men standing before him.

The four Musketeers wore the uniform of the England's Royal Guard and Buckingham couldn't help smiling at the memory of when the men had first changed into their outfits. Aramis had protested the loudest when presented with the borrowed garments, his close examination and disapproving frown indicating the uniforms were definitely inferior to their French counterparts. Porthos had added his complaints when he had slipped on his tunic and immediately ripped out the back seam, a sure clue his top was way too small for his bulky frame. Athos had simply thrown his on a nearby table, refusing to waste time with such things when his mind could be better occupied with the plans of rescuing his beloved.

And then there was Henri and his whispered need for assistance as he stood half naked in the doorway to his chamber, his jacket dangling from a finger, the laces of his breeches half undone. Buckingham snatched his mind away from that particular memory and cleared his throat noisily, catching the attention of the Musketeers.

"Shall we proceed, gentlemen? D'Artagnan awaits us."

Silently the five men moved through the prison and presented identification when requested. They traveled across the open grounds of the stockade, hurriedly moving toward the far corner of the stone structure. Reaching their first true obstacle, they stood shoulder to shoulder and watched an enormous wooden gate opened slowly to reveal the prison master, a toothless hunchback with only one eye. The Duke stepped forward and presented the royal pouch to the hulking beast of a man, trying to appear unconcerned as the seal was broken and the single piece of parchment inside thoroughly examined. The hunchback spit on the ground at the Duke's feet before acknowledging the royal order with a nod of his head and a bark to his men to allow them safe passage inside. With a suspicious grin, the prison master returned the paper and royal pouch to the Duke's outstretched hand and watched as he and his escort were ushered into a darkened passageway led by a young prison guard.

The damp walls closed in on them as they moved deeper and deeper inside, agonized moans of tortured prisoners lending speed to the Musketeers' feet as they followed their guide. Athos remained at the head of the group, spurring the guard to move faster. A sense of foreboding hung over him and the sooner he could assure himself of D'Artagnan's safety, the better.

Rounding a corner the entourage came face to face with the Duke's private convoy of guards. Buckingham stepped forth and spent a few moments questioning the leader before dismissing the four men. He then turned to the young prison guard and secured the keys that would unlock the cell. Opening the door, he thanked the youth for his assistance and instructed him to return to his post.

As soon as the guard disappeared from sight, Athos pushed the Englishman out of the way and threw open the door. The fading light barely touched the gloom within the small enclosure but Athos had no trouble locating D'Artagnan. And it wasn't his sight that led him to D'Artagnan's side. The moment he entered the cell, his distressed soul had instantly been soothed by the familiar heartbeat of his lover.

Turning to his friends, his unspoken request was witnessed and granted. The three remaining Musketeer took up positions outside the cell, allowing Athos and D'Artagnan a brief moment for their reunion. The Duke remained behind and cautiously touched the elder Musketeer on the arm. "We have only a short time before suspicion is aroused. Be quick. There will be ample time for loving as soon as we are free of this place."

Athos acknowledged the nobleman's warning with a grunt, his attention completely focused on the huddled form of his lover. Waiting until Buckingham had closed the cell door, Athos slowly approached D'Artagnan and knelt beside him.

His heart nearly broke at the appearance of his young companion. Athos took note of the youth's thin frame, the sallowness of his skin, the dark shadows under his eyes. He reached out and brushed away the tangled curls that covered D'Artagnan's face, a curse being forced back as his fingers tenderly slid over a bruised cheekbone.

The lad stirred in his sleep, unconsciously seeking the caress. Even in slumber, D'Artagnan still reached for his loved one, seeking the hand that lay against his cheek and bringing it to his lips so that he could kiss it while whispering Athos' name.

The Musketeer knew his eyes were wet with tears as he leaned down to kiss his lover awake. His mouth eased over D'Artagnan's with a gentle possession, his husky voice murmuring quiet endearments. "Beloved, wake up," Athos instructed as he wrapped his arms around D'Artagnan's shoulders and pulled him into an upright position.

D'Artagnan ignored the voice he knew could not be whispering to him. Instead, he snuggled closer and murmured sleepily, "Soon. I will see Athos soon."

Smiling at D'Artagnan's steadfast belief in him, Athos nuzzled his throat and nipped at the tender flesh. "D'Artagnan! Open your eyes. It's time to leave."

Drowsy blue eyes slowly opened and then widened with disbelief. "Athos!!!"

The elder Musketeer found his arms full of one very happy Gascon and his face was quickly covered with sloppy wet kisses as D'Artagnan verified his presence by touching every part of his body he could reach. "Dear God, please let it be true. Please don't let this be a dream." D'Artagnan clutched the lapels of Athos' tunic, jerking the older man down. "You are real, aren't you?" He transferred his grip to the sides of his lover's face, holding him still as he devoured the smiling lips that had haunted his dreams for the past few nights. "Athos, Athos, Athos," he whispered as he lost himself to the unique taste that belonged only to the man holding him tight.

Athos laughed and the sound was instantly captured by his lover's hungry mouth. "Yes, my brave lad, it is I and I am no illusion." An attempt was made to control their enthusiastic reunion as D'Artagnan pressed against him but the lonely days and nights without his lover had tested Athos' control beyond measure and he allowed a brief moment of desire to flare through him as he experienced the touch of the hard shaft that searched for its mate.

Enjoying a final kiss, Athos gentled the frantic youth, using soft words and gentle caresses to soothe his trembling limbs. A whisper of urgency caught the Musketeer captain's ear and he was quickly pulled back into the reality of the moment. "Beloved, wait! We must leave. Now!"

Athos assisted the D'Artagnan to his feet, catching him as he stumbled. A precious moment was stolen in order to allow the youth to find his footing and, once Athos was certain D'Artagnan would not fall, he moved the two of them to the cell's doorway. "Open," he called out. His instruction was followed without delay and Porthos met them as they came out, offering his comrades his assistance if needed.

D'Artagnan smiled at his friends and laughed when Aramis hugged him and then sank to his knees in prayer. He shook hands with Henri and nodded at the Duke, his eyes communicating the thanks he could find no words for. "Athos?" D'Artagnan questioned when chains were reapplied to his wrists and ankles. A tender kiss and quiet assurance from his lover soothed his fears and he stood ready to follow those that had risked everything to rescue him.

The entourage moved quickly toward the prison exit, pausing occasionally to allow D'Artagnan a moment to rest. Athos constantly ran a comforting touch across the smaller man's back, assuring himself that his lover was safely in his arms. Buckingham stepped forward as the giant gate opened, prepared to finalize D'Artagnan's release. A stunned gasp fell from his lips as he staggered backwards and was caught by Henri who pulled him to his side.

Four swords slashed through the air as the Musketeers recognized the man who stood before them.

"Rochefort!"

Athos could not believe his eyes, could not believe that Fate had once again dared to tangle its wickedness in his life. His anger knew no bounds. Acting quickly, the Musketeer passed D'Artagnan into the safety of Porthos' arms and moved toward Rochefort, taking a small measure of pleasure at the confused astonishment on the older man's face. Tossing his sword to Aramis, Athos stepped forward and allowed all his frustrations to blaze forth.

"HELLFIRE AND BRIMSTONE! I'VE HAD ALL I CAN TAKE! YOU CANNOT HAVE HIM!!"

Gathering all the hate and fear that had plagued him since D'Artagnan's abduction, Athos lashed out with his fist, violently impacting with Rochefort's jaw. The Frenchman's head snapped back from the force, his eyes glazing over. He wavered on his feet mere seconds before Athos' next two powerful blows tumbled him to the ground, blessed unconsciousness overtaking him.

Athos bent down, intent upon inflicting more damage on the one-eyed demon but a firm grip stopped him. Porthos pulled him back and returned an exhausted and frightened D'Artagnan to him. His lover's distress stripped him of all hostility and Athos wrapped his arms around the younger man, whispering soothing words of comfort and safety. He bestowed several tender kisses on the youth's lips before quietly moving away from the body of the fallen man.

Sheathing his sword, Henri released Buckingham and swiftly moved to pull Rochefort's crumpled body from view, following Aramis' instruction to place him in a nearby vacant cell. Grabbing Rochefort's feet, Aramis assisted Henri in moving Rochefort into the darkest corner of the prison chamber and, after a brief second of consideration, grabbed an armful of hay and scattered it over the prone body, effectively hiding it from view. Just to make sure it remained unseen, Aramis took hold of the cell's lone cot and turned it on its side before shoving it in front of the body, providing another bit of camouflage for any curious eyes that may pass by.

The six men quickly gathered themselves and proceeded out of the prison, wasting precious moments at each checkpoint, satisfying security protocol. Finally, the steel gate of the stockade slammed shut behind them and anxiously held breaths were released. D'Artagnan whispered a prayer of thanks to the heavens and then proceeded to collapse into the arms of his lover. Athos caught the young Gascon, falling to the stone pavement, the unexpected weight of the lad dropping him to his knees. A soft grunt of pain reflected the bruising impact of the jagged rocks upon his knees but his grasp did not loosen, his large but gentle hands maintaining a solid hold on his cherished Musketeer.

The Duke hurriedly motioned for his carriage, opening the door as Porthos helped Athos to his feet. The two men wrestled D'Artagnan's body inside, trying to be as gentle as possible. Athos crowded into the far corner of the coach and positioned D'Artagnan on the seat beside him. Buckingham and Henri climbed in and took the seat opposite him as Porthos and Aramis clambered up to sit beside the driver. With a crack of the whip, the carriage pulled away from the prison and into the darkness and only then did the six men congratulate each other on the success of their mission.

Henri watched as Athos tenderly removed the chains and manacles from D'Artagnan's wrists and ankles, amazed at the loving gentleness shown by the older man. There was no sign of the impatient, bad tempered and, often brusque, Musketeer he had encountered only days ago. The man before him had tears in his eyes as he whispered soft words to the young man he held so carefully in his arms, his trembling hands caressing D'Artagnan's body as they searched for and found the various injuries inflicted upon his lover's body. Embarrassed at witnessing the stark evidence of Athos' feelings, Henri turned his eyes away, only to be snared by the smoky gaze of the English nobleman sitting next to him. Gloved fingers slid along his thigh and stole into the warmth of his hand, leaving Henri no recourse but to stare at their clasped hands. He flexed his fingers testing the strength of those wrapped around his and he whistled in a breath as Buckingham's hand answered his inquiry, tightening imperceptibly.

A startled gasp escaped his lips as the Duke's gloved fingers broke free and traced a burning path of sensation to his groin. A lightening fast stroke over his manhood left the dark-skinned Musketeer struggling for air, his need to breathe hampered even more when Buckingham settled his hand upon Henri's groin, communicating an unspoken promise. Henri looked up at the Duke, mesmerized by the play of a half-smile on his lips as he leaned close and whispered to him.

"For the future, dear sir."

Buckingham's hand returned to his, fingers threading through fingers, each subtle caress a reminder of the delights they had once shared. Henri blushed and felt the heat of his embarrassment spread across his cheeks. Averting his eyes, he knew his blush deepened as he caught the understanding look on Athos' face.

The older man took a moment to look upon the sleeping features of his lover before glancing over at Henri and his companion and reaching forward to grasp their entwined hands. "Hold on to this love you two have discovered," Athos instructed. "Hold on tight. You never know…."

Athos choked and could not continue. He, instead, feathered a touch across D'Artagnan's face slowly mapping his pale features, hesitating ever so lightly over the full lips that would once again smile and speak words of love to him. Sliding his hand inside the youth's disheveled tunic, Athos rested it over his heart and allowed the steady rhythm to comfort his battered soul.

"Time is precious, my friends. Do not waste a single moment when you are with the one you love."

Athos leaned his head back against the cushioned seat and unlocked the tight control he had placed upon himself, finally allowing his lover's safe deliverance to permeate and replace the fear he had so long lived with. Dear God, he prayed. Do not tempt me again. My sanity may not survive.

Athos caressed the soft pelt of hair that covered D'Artagnan's chest, his hands warming the flat nipples he discovered. Whispering words of love, the older Musketeer fell asleep to the restful heartbeat of his beloved, his fingers tangled in the softness of D'Artagnan's curls.

Athos stood at the fireplace, his gaze lost in the flames. A firm grip on his shoulders startled him from his reverie and he glanced up to see his old friend Porthos standing beside him. A glass of wine was pressed into his hand and the Musketeer captain took a sip, his eyes shifting to the sleeping figure in the large bed.

"How is he?" Porthos moved across the darkened room to stand beside the bed and, with fatherly smile on his face, leaned over and smoothed back the covers that hid D'Artagnan's face from view.

Athos resumed his contemplation of the fire's dancing flames. "He's not roused since his collapse. Not even when Buckingham's personal physician examined him."

Porthos looked back at the friend. "And?"

Athos swallowed down his wine and set the glass on the mantle. "He treated his wounds."

With a last reassuring glance at D'Artagnan, Porthos turned and walked toward Athos. "Why hasn't he wakened yet? Did the doctor have a reason for that?"

A burning ember of wood tumbled to the edge of the hearth and Athos kicked it back into the fire. Reaching for his wineglass, he grimaced at its empty state. "Exhaustion. Mental and physical exhaustion was the good doctor's explanation."

Porthos laid a soothing hand on his friend's back. "I see before me someone else who is suffering from that malady." The dark giant firmly led the younger man to a nearby armchair and pushed him down into the cushioned softness. "You, my friend, are dead on your feet and it would take only a gentle spring breeze to knock you down. When was the last time you slept?"

Athos attempted to stand, his movements blocked by his comrade's gentle but determined grip. "My health is irrelevant. D'Artagnan's rescue was my sole focus and nothing, I mean nothing, was more important than getting him back."

Porthos knelt beside Athos and grasped his hands. "I understand that. But dear friend, we still have a long trip ahead of us. It will be days before we are safely back on French soil again. It will serve us no good if you, yourself, become ill with exhaustion. You need to rest."

Finished with his admonishment, the older Musketeer embraced Athos and rose to his feet. Whispered words stopped him at the door.

"I almost lost him, Porthos. I...."

Porthos looked back at his friend, a small smile of understanding on his face. "Go to sleep Athos. Climb in bed and wrap your arms around that young man. Let the feel of his body erase your fears."

Athos stared down at his boots, his ears detecting the quiet closing of the door. He sat for a long