of no help to her. The blond Musketeer, however, brightened up at the name. “My lodgings are only a quarter mile away. They’re big enough for all three of us to hide out there until the hue and cry dies away.”
Much as she misliked this suggestion, Sophie had no choice but to accept. She had no desire to be dragged in front of the tribunal to be punished for brawling in the streets. As instigator of the ruckus, she would be sure to be punished most harshly of all. If the captain was in a foul mood that day, she could even be deprived of her commission and sent home in disgrace.
She had joined the Musketeers to bring honor to Gerard’s name, not to drag it through the gutters. Her blistered heels complaining at every step, she followed the others through the darkening streets, staying in the shadows as much as possible and keeping a wary eye out for any guards who might still be on the prowl.
The blond Muskeeter lodged in a fine house not three streets away from her own. Sophie started to relax a little now that she was in familiar territory, and not lost in the dark in some back alley in an unidentifiable part of Paris.
Like a trio of thieves, they crept in the front door as quietly as possible and dashed up the stairs to the blond Musketeer’s apartments on the second floor.
The blond Musketeer sank into a comfortable chair with a sigh of relief and motioned his visitors to do likewise. “God in heaven but my feet are killing me in those damned boots,” he said, unlacing his boots and tossing them into a corner. He wiggled his toes with relief. His feet, Sophie noticed, were surprisingly small and dainty for such a tall man.
She resisted the temptation to do likewise. “Gerard Delamanse, at your service, Sirs,” she said, as she sank into a chair in her turn. “And I hope I don’t have to run like that again for a while.”
The blond Musketeer gave her a lazy salute from the depths of his chair. “William Ruthgard at yours.”
The thief pulled a bottle of wine out from under his shirt with a flourish. He grabbed a couple of glasses off the sideboard and poured a generous measure into each, before tilting the bottle to his own lips, taking a long drink and wiping his mouth clean again with the back of his hand. “Since we are in a formal mood, let me introduce myself to you both,” he said, and he aimed a mocking bow in their general direction. “I am JeanPaul Metin, at your service. To your health, gentlemen.”
Sophie glugged a mouthful of the rich, warm wine. It trickled down her dry throat like manna from heaven. “You carried this all the way in your shirt without breaking it?”
The thief tilted the bottle to his lips again, smacking his lips with satisfaction. “It slowed me down some, but it was worth it. The very best Rhenish wine doesn’t come my way every day.”
The blond Musketeer swirled the wine around his mouth and then shook his head. “Not the very best, but a damn good bottle, anyway. How did you manage to swipe it when I wasn’t looking?”
The thief laughed as he flexed his fingers. “Years of practice and a good eye.”
She was drinking stolen wine, Sophie thought with an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her belly. The landlord had been duly punished for his callousness by having his tavern destroyed in a brawl. Drinking his wine without paying for it was adding insult to injury. Still, she was very thirsty and the wine was too good to waste. She would pay him for it on the morrow, she decided, as she drank another mouthful.
A few more mouthfuls and Sophie started to feel lightheaded and bone weary to boot. She closed her eyes briefly for a moment, and then shook herself awake again with a start. She did not dare fall asleep in company. She must concentrate on staying awake. Her eyes focused on the blond Musketeer’s face. Something was awry – she couldn’t put
Much as she misliked this suggestion, Sophie had no choice but to accept. She had no desire to be dragged in front of the tribunal to be punished for brawling in the streets. As instigator of the ruckus, she would be sure to be punished most harshly of all. If the captain was in a foul mood that day, she could even be deprived of her commission and sent home in disgrace.
She had joined the Musketeers to bring honor to Gerard’s name, not to drag it through the gutters. Her blistered heels complaining at every step, she followed the others through the darkening streets, staying in the shadows as much as possible and keeping a wary eye out for any guards who might still be on the prowl.
The blond Muskeeter lodged in a fine house not three streets away from her own. Sophie started to relax a little now that she was in familiar territory, and not lost in the dark in some back alley in an unidentifiable part of Paris.
Like a trio of thieves, they crept in the front door as quietly as possible and dashed up the stairs to the blond Musketeer’s apartments on the second floor.
The blond Musketeer sank into a comfortable chair with a sigh of relief and motioned his visitors to do likewise. “God in heaven but my feet are killing me in those damned boots,” he said, unlacing his boots and tossing them into a corner. He wiggled his toes with relief. His feet, Sophie noticed, were surprisingly small and dainty for such a tall man.
She resisted the temptation to do likewise. “Gerard Delamanse, at your service, Sirs,” she said, as she sank into a chair in her turn. “And I hope I don’t have to run like that again for a while.”
The blond Musketeer gave her a lazy salute from the depths of his chair. “William Ruthgard at yours.”
The thief pulled a bottle of wine out from under his shirt with a flourish. He grabbed a couple of glasses off the sideboard and poured a generous measure into each, before tilting the bottle to his own lips, taking a long drink and wiping his mouth clean again with the back of his hand. “Since we are in a formal mood, let me introduce myself to you both,” he said, and he aimed a mocking bow in their general direction. “I am JeanPaul Metin, at your service. To your health, gentlemen.”
Sophie glugged a mouthful of the rich, warm wine. It trickled down her dry throat like manna from heaven. “You carried this all the way in your shirt without breaking it?”
The thief tilted the bottle to his lips again, smacking his lips with satisfaction. “It slowed me down some, but it was worth it. The very best Rhenish wine doesn’t come my way every day.”
The blond Musketeer swirled the wine around his mouth and then shook his head. “Not the very best, but a damn good bottle, anyway. How did you manage to swipe it when I wasn’t looking?”
The thief laughed as he flexed his fingers. “Years of practice and a good eye.”
She was drinking stolen wine, Sophie thought with an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her belly. The landlord had been duly punished for his callousness by having his tavern destroyed in a brawl. Drinking his wine without paying for it was adding insult to injury. Still, she was very thirsty and the wine was too good to waste. She would pay him for it on the morrow, she decided, as she drank another mouthful.
A few more mouthfuls and Sophie started to feel lightheaded and bone weary to boot. She closed her eyes briefly for a moment, and then shook herself awake again with a start. She did not dare fall asleep in company. She must concentrate on staying awake. Her eyes focused on the blond Musketeer’s face. Something was awry – she couldn’t put
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