The Musketeer's Seamstress - By Sarah D'Almeida Page 0,46

the cook brought her head close. “And none of them, not one,” her hands moved upon Porthos’s garments, to his waist, his breeches, the lacings.

“Madame!” Porthos said.

But she only giggled and left her hands where they rested, warm and inquisitive against Porthos’s flesh, separated only by the insufficient—or so it felt—material of his breeches and his embroidered over breeches. Her face leaned close, the smell of cinnamon and ginger overpowering.

Porthos tried to back up against the wall, but his back was already against the wall and all he managed was to squeeze himself against it farther, feeling, even to himself, like a shy maiden trying to avoid a musketeer’s advances.

The cook’s face leered, close to him, and he tilted his hat desperately, trying to avoid eye contact with her. Stories crossed his mind—he could tell her he was injured. A knife fight, a duel. Something that made it impossible . . .

But, no. Even as he thought of it, her hands, moving softly, trying to figure the way to untie his breeches, had probably felt enough to give such stories the lie.

“The maids, madame, the maids,” he said, desperately, his voice higher and far more nervous than normal. “You said you’d spoken to them. What did they say?”

“Oh, that there was no passage,” the cook said. “So I guess your friend was guilty. This is what comes, you see, from getting involved with these high ladies with their fine manners.” She grinned close to him, then planted a soft kiss upon his cheek. “You see, they’re all strumpets who’ll betray you and—”

“Madame,” Porthos said, and slid against the wall, feeling the age-roughened plaster drag at his fine cloak, and not caring so long as he avoided the worst for just a moment. “It is impossible that Aramis is guilty.” He turned slightly, trying to avoid her hands, which were making it hard enough for him to think, much less to think coherently. He invoked the memory of Athenais, bringing to mind her sharp eyes, her smiling lips, her sweet voice, as a way of avoiding responding too much to the present danger. “It is impossible, I tell you. Your investigation was incomplete.”

“How could my investigation be incomplete?” the woman protested. Her hands found him again, and didn’t relent, though in the insufficient light neither could she seem to see enough to determine how to untie his breeches. “I asked every maid, I tell you, every one of them.”

Porthos slid farther and realized he’d wedged himself behind her bed. The only way to escape her hands—and her—now was to vault over her bed. He pictured himself jumping over the bed, pushing the woman aside . . . No. It was ridiculous. He couldn’t do it. Not without hurting her. Not without raising alarm.

“Madame, I can’t—” he said.

But she giggled. “Oh, I think you can.” She gave him an emphatic squeeze. “In fact, I’m sure you can.”

Porthos could tell her that he was not interested in women. But—curse it all—though several members of the royal family were just that way, for a mere musketeer to confess to such would bring the law on him.

A fleeting thought of discovering a sudden vocation crossed his mind, but how could he, when the whole city knew that Porthos was not even interested in Aramis’s sporadic preaching.

He looked at her, so near, leering triumphantly. He felt that her fingers had finally figured the lacing in his over breeches and undone them. The breeches fell around his knees, revealing his under breeches. She made a sound of annoyance.

But the lacing for the under breeches was the same, and her fingers had the way of it, pulling the under breeches loose.

A knock at the door made them both jump.

“What is it?” the cook asked, ill-humoredly, her hands stopping at their task.

The door opened. A young woman, probably not much older than seventeen, stood in the opening. She had a sweet oval face and large blue eyes. A scraggle of blond hair escaped from beneath her cap. “If you pardon me, madame, only they told me you wanted to know as soon as possible—” She curtseyed.

The cook let go of Porthos’s breeches and turned around. Porthos’s breeches fell, and he bent to grab them, and pull them up quickly, all too conscious of the maid’s giggle.

But as he tied his breeches and over breeches back in place, he still paid attention to what the maid was saying.

“They told me you were looking for a passage into the room of