The Huntress and the Nightingale

Author's Note: It's been a long time! Enjoy this next installment <3

IV.

"Tonight?"

Louis draws herself up to her full height, letting Constancia's bunched skirts finally fall to cover her bare thighs. The Huntress breathes deeply, an attempt to calm herself, but the orange glow of the hearth at her back casts her in an almost hellish light. The more she tries not to show it, the more apparent it becomes how angry she is. The edges of the noblewoman's auburn mane are licked golden by the roaring fireplace and her silhouette casts a dark, restless shadow on the olive widow.

But she won't be cowed.

Steeling herself, Constancia adjusts her stays as she gets to her feet as well, meeting Louis' gleaming hazel eyes with the black pools of her own. This close, no light reflects within her onyx stare as she whispers in sharp French, lips nearly brushing her lover's, "You have always been spoiled,

monsieur

, so used to getting everything you want."

"Constancia-" Louis growls her name, her tone dripping with annoyance at being so tested.

"You can live freely as you are," Constancia interrupts, now pressing her body closer to the taller woman, "you have everything at your disposal to do so. Yet, here you hide beneath my skirts from a little songbird."

The maned noblewoman is taken aback by what she hears, it shows in the lift of her eyebrows and the slight parting of her lips. She searches Constancia's gaze, trying to come up with some retort but she is met only with her reflection.

"Does she know any love but yours,

monsieur

?" Constancia asks, her voice no more than a hissing whisper, "One where you have not plucked her from the sky like your father's precious merlins?"

"You go much too far-" Louis growls, the challenge making her voice deepen with authority.

"And you?" The widow interrupts again, rendering her Master into a stunned silence once more, "Have you not gone too far bringing her here, my love? Making her wait in this chateau for weeks and weeks with none but me and her dog for company? You took her away from all she knows again and kept her here, surrounded by everything that belongs to you. Including me! Including her!"

This is too much for Louis, she turns away from the olive woman and stalks across the room to the roaring fireplace. She can hardly swallow the truth of Constancia's words and pours herself a glass of red wine from a carafe on the mantle. The heavy-handed flavors help ease it down and the hearth's warmth envelopes her lean body, soaking her in its embrace as her mind roils.

She has no response for her lover, Constancia is correct.

"And so I have become a cruel brute to you when you know the politics within the nobility, at Versailles, with the Duc d'Orleans..." Louis finally says, her voice trailing off with distaste at the mention of the Duc, "You are both important to me and I want to keep you safe in this manor, where I know none could molest you."

Constancia watches the Huntress for a moment, her eyes sweeping over the lines of her toned frame outlined by firelight beneath a billowing white blouse. Her black breeches fit snugly over her narrow hips and long legs, somehow bringing about traces of her femininity yet making her more masculine than ever.

The olive woman takes careful, quiet steps across the room, following her Master's trail to the mantle. She slips her arms around her lover's middle and sidles up to her back, fitting herself flush against the curve of her spine.

Louis' cologne wafts over Constancia's senses as she lifts onto the tips of her toes to nuzzle her neck and brush her lips around the lobe of the noblewoman's ear. Louis shudders in response, she even tries to turn around but the widow captures that same lobe between her teeth and tightens her grip around her middle, holding her in place.

"Your love is felt, monsieur," Constancia whispers, her voice dropping to a raspy timbre as her lips brush against Louis' ear, "and like your dogs, she and I adore every scrap of attention you give us."

The Huntress' heart tightens, she even feels a wave of disgust wash over her at Constancia's comparison of herself and Clara to the royal hounds. She did not think she deprived them so but she remembers that first night when she returned. Constancia's lowered eyes, her uncharacteristic silence as she dutifully dressed her for dinner. Then there was how deeply Clara curtseyed upon her arrival, the relief on her face once she was addressed, and how she so wanted to please her that night. Her lovers were not only deeply loyal to her, they trust her, rely on her, and she would be remiss to unravel something so rare.

"Have I truly been so selfish and cruel?" Louis asks without turning around, her hazel gaze watching the dark-haired woman from the corners of her vision.

"You have. We recognized it in each other in your absence," Constancia confesses, her breath warm in the hollows of Louis' ear, "were we not so desperate for your approval, we would have found much more comfort in each other. More than you intended, my love."

Just the mental image of Constancia and Clara kissing, bodies pressing together, their tongues exploring, makes Louis' mouth dry and her breeches tingle. Suddenly, she is hyper-aware of the olive woman's hands traveling up her midriff and the tightening squeeze of her full breasts at her back. She can't reply, not yet, and her wine glass in hand trembles with excitement.

"She is sweet, your songbird, how I wanted to comfort her with my tongue..." Constancia's voice trails off in a soft exhale as she traces the noblewoman's ear with the warm tip of said tongue, making her point clear. Meanwhile, her hands climb ever upwards, slipping into Louis' blouse to squeeze her modest breasts and feel her hardened nipples press firmly into her palms.

One hand confidently cups her breast while the other retraces its trail downward to linger at the waistband of her trousers. Louis is utterly enthralled by Constancia's touch. Her fingertips are like the tips of hot knives on her winter-paled skin, exciting and frightening. While she has been throwing herself at her two lovers, she has neglected her own needs almost entirely and her body melts in the widow's possessive grasp.

So it's no surprise when Constancia's wandering hand manages to duck into her breeches and find her wet, heated cunt eager to be touched.

Louis lets out a gasp, nearly dropping her glass of wine, when the olive woman's slender yet lightly calloused fingers caress her hairy mons and slickened lips. The very tips of each digit trace her increasingly warm and hungry sex then apply pressure over her hardened clit. Her tongue and lips kiss her ear all the while, she even sucks the lobe into her mouth with a soft moan of pleasure.

The taller woman is forced to set her glass back on the shelf, choosing instead to grip the warm mantle tightly in both hands. Her knuckles pale when she feels a finger test her entrance then lets out a groan when it slides two knuckles deep inside. Constancia's fingers curl to stroke her walls just so, this time pulling a strangled moan and then a whimper from Louis that makes her tremble with pleasure.

She can feel herself get wetter and wetter with every delicious stroke of the woman's talented hand and her hips push back against her as she rides it. Her fist bangs against the mantle, making the crystal glass and decanter rattle in time with her excitement.

It was all coming together now, she'd forgotten how well Constancia knew her and in moments she would come undone in her breeches.

Somehow Constancia manages to hold Louis up when her knees buckle, all the while her fingers never cease their insistent stroking. They caress her silken folds, circle around the hardened pearl of her clit, then dip inside to collect more wetness to do it all over again. Each cycle inches her closer and closer to her peak but never close enough, making the taller woman squirm in her olive lover's arms.

"Constancia..." Louis manages to growl between ragged, panting breaths, "Constancia, let me-"

"Let you what, Master?" The widow asks, her breath so warm and her voice so husky that it makes Louis' nipples tighten. "Would you like some relief? Some release?"

Constancia doesn't wait for the noblewoman to answer. Her teeth close sharply around the lobe of Louis' ear and tug just as her fingers do much the same to her nipple. The cry that comes from her in response is pained yet wanton, there was no mistake that it surprises and excites the Huntress.

She concentrates solely on her clit now, applying firm and steady pressure, never letting up as her lover's gasping cries fill the room. A flood of viscous fluids fills the woman's hand as her handsome lover's head falls back. The musk of her cologne, reminiscent of expensive wine and brandy, filling her senses.

Her hand withdraws, sticky with her Master's fluids, and she sucks them into her mouth to savor the taste.

--

Tonight, Clara was mentally exhausted. Where before she chafed at the idea of the helpful but ultimately awkward rosy-cheeked maid undressing her for bed, she allowed it this time without complaint.

The girl was not as experienced as Constancia, who handled her like a delicate bird, or her silent but dutiful handmaid she left in Vienna. Though efficient, the soprano felt the young woman was often too rough with her body and clothing. She had yet to actually rip anything but she lived in fear that she would. This time was no different than the others but she did not have the energy to correct her.

For once, Louis actually helped with her voice lessons this evening rather than ravage her on the music room floor. The instruction was much harsher than her castrato tutor ever gave her. She was critical of her whistle notes, which Louis normally praised, and chided her on the French pronunciation of certain lines. The woman was insistent on eradicating any inkling of her German accent when she sang. Clara recognized the importance for her career but it was exhausting. Perhaps she wanted her to be prepared, Clara rationalizes, knowing that her teacher would return and her real voice lessons would resume.

The snow had come to a stop but there was still a heavy blanket of quiet in her patron's emerald rooms and she was grateful the maid made no effort to make conversation. When the sharp tap of footsteps coming down the hall alerts Clara to Constancia's approach, neither she nor the rosy-cheeked maid jumps at the loud creak of the door opening but they do start upon hearing the Housekeeper's firm command, "Leave us."

Keeping her head bowed, the young maid drops the hem of Clara's nightgown and shuffles past the olive woman without a word. Confused, Clara turns to watch her go then her gaze falls on the widow. She looks as stern as ever, silent with her back straight, black eyes reflecting the warm light of a nearby candelabra. Once the maid pulls the heavy doors shut, Constancia listens for the plump young woman's steps to fade before speaking again, "Come,

mademoiselle

, we must speak."

Reaching elegantly for the candelabra in one slender hand, she leads Clara by the small of her back to the inner chambers of the emerald wing with the other.

Inside, it was dark and chilly, the fire had not yet been stoked and the candles remained unlit since last night. In the gloom, Clara can hardly make out anything but the outline of the bed and her own breath in the dampened glow of moonlight. She shivers as she makes a beeline toward the warm quilts and furs waiting for her on the large mattress, pulling a goose-down duvet over her shoulders as she sits down.

Constancia is quick to make the room more comfortable for her charge and takes a mental note to chastise the maid for neglecting this pivotal task. She brightens the space with a few licks of her candle to its sleeping brothers and has a newborn fire near roaring with a practiced hand within minutes.

Clara watches all of this from her perch, her fingers loosening around the quilt she draped over herself as the bedroom begins to warm. When Constancia finally turns to her, satisfied that the hearth has been well fed, she does not wait for the older woman to speak. She asks in French, her German accent still apparent, "Has something happened?"

Constancia does not answer right away, instead she unhooks the keys from around her waist and sets them amongst an array of colognes on their Master's toilette. Clara swallows the nervous lump in her throat seeing this. She assumed Constancia practically slept with her ring of keys. This doesn't stop there either, next she pulls discreetly placed pins from her neatly coiffed hair, sending it tumbling down her back in inky waves.

"Do not worry, our Master is fine and well. She will join us in a moment." The olive woman's tone is soft and comforting but something about her demeanor has changed. Without the weight of her keys, a symbol of her station and responsibility, it was as if she suddenly blossomed into the true woman she is.

It makes Clara both nervous and surprisingly aroused to witness this slow, measured, undressing of this manor's Housekeeper turned personal chambermaid. Constancia has seen her naked body plenty, she knew it intimately not only from their brief dalliance but from every dressing, undressing, and thorough scrubbing. Yet, this was the most vulnerable and naked she had ever seen Constancia. In the golden light of the candles and the fireplace, her raw beauty was arresting.

Clara's eyes fall to the olive woman's elegant hands as she twists and then slips a golden wedding band from around her finger. Turning only at the waist, she places it gently in the center of the keyring. It makes a soft clatter against the polished wood, signaling Clara's thighs to involuntarily squeeze tightly together.

Holding her breath, the young woman squirms in her seat for relief.

"I have begun to wonder, little bird," the Housekeeper murmurs, a prickle lighting at the nape of the soprano's neck at the nickname, "if you ever think of that night..."

The question shocks Clara, she finally sucks in a breath but she cannot speak. She can only feel a gathering warmth between her legs at the mention of it and an ache in her breast. She keeps her eyes fixed on Constancia's hands clasped against her skirts, concentrating on the features that she knew so well. She follows the small veins on their backs with her gaze, the slender curve of her fingers, and lastly the shine of her clean, carefully manicured nails.

"Even if you are afraid to say it aloud, I think of it often," Constancia continues in the silence, her dark stare fixed on the soprano's crown of brassy hair and her plump lower lip caught between her teeth. "How you felt against me is in my thoughts when I wash you, dress you, hear you make love with our Master-"

"Constancia, please!" Clara interrupts her, finally lifting her doe brown eyes, brows knitted with embarrassment. She knows that she should be appalled by this breach of privacy, though she is not a noblewoman she is still a guest.

Yet, she could not deny the excitement pounding in her heart at the thought of Constancia listening to them. Not only listening to them but hinting at wanting her.

And she could see it now in the Housekeeper's dark eyes, there was undeniable desire there just waiting for permission. She betrayed nothing since that night so long ago, how had she been able to mask it in all that time? How had she been able to bear it was even beyond her.

"You believed that we should not continue and when our Louis returned the next day I-" The young soprano draws in a breath, allowing herself a pause before speaking again, "I knew that what you said was correct."

Something seems to soften in Constancia then, her black eyes glitter like onyx stones with pity and she touches a hand to her heart. In just a few footsteps she crosses the chamber from the vanity to the layered bed to sit beside Clara, their hips and knees touching.

"Oui, mademoiselle," she whispers, pushing back soft and tightly coiled curls away from the young woman's cheek, "I did say such a thing and every moment after how I regretted it! Did you not feel the same way? Did you not regret it?"

This was not how Clara thought that she would end her night. Never did she imagine that Constancia would bring this up again and certainly not in their Master's emerald rooms. Suddenly the room was sweltering and she felt as if it were slowly spinning under the watchful eyes of the tastefully nude Dianas on the walls.

"I..." Clara struggles to find the words as her mouth goes dry. She puts a hand to her throat, feeling the muscles in her palm gulp as she swallows in an attempt to find her voice. Any moment now Louis would return to her chambers and what then? What would she make of her soprano confessing her simmering mutual lust for her former lover and Housekeeper?

The young woman thinks of how she could lie and say that she put it all behind her. And yet, the glimmer of hope in Constancia's black eyes, her parted lips eager to kiss, the lavender scent in her sable hair, and the closeness of her body to her own...all of it weakened her resolve. She could not lie and say that she did not want the widow as much as she did that one night so many weeks ago.

"Constancia," Clara finally answers, averting her eyes for a moment before bringing them back to meet hers, "what I would not give to relive that night again, this is true."

With her confession now uttered, Constancia lets out a joyful sigh of relief and squeezes the soprano's soft brown hands tightly in her own, "Oh,

mademoiselle

-"

"But I cannot return this properly without our Master's knowledge and consent." Clara interrupts, dipping her gaze to shield herself against Constancia's glittering stare. She returns the squeeze of the widow's hands with a firm one of her own as she gathers her resolve, somehow her heart aches to continue, "It is not fair to her and we both love her too much to hide."

For a long moment there is silence and Clara's cheeks burn with embarrassment, she fears that her clumsy French has offended the elegant older woman. However, she is met with a soft, almost pitying, chuckle as Constancia leans in to press her lips briefly to her forehead and chastely to her cheek. She does not depart immediately afterwards.

The soft strands of Constancia's wavy dark hair whisper against the soprano's brown skin, tickling her nose and filling it with the scent of a familiar masculine cologne mingled with lavender. Leaning in, she whispers huskily into the curve of the young woman's ear, "And she has more than enough love for us both, little bird, if you are willing to let her."

Clara's stomach drops at what she's just heard, the utter connotation of it has taken her aback. She pulls away just enough to look Constancia in the warm blackness of her eyes, still drunk with desire. In her confusion and arousal, she searches for answers in the parting of her plush lips and the knit of her brow.

But before she can ask if Louis has been having them both, the Housekeeper captures her lips in a hungry kiss.

Clara stiffens at first in response but when the olive woman's tongue sweetly reaches for her own, she finds the answer to her question in this tender display. The older woman pours all of her want for the sweet soprano into her kiss, drinking her in with the same eager, splendid thirst for her favorite wine.

Their lips part as they become quickly engrossed in the act and find the soft points of their tongues reaching for each other. Clara's hands move from gripping the Housekeeper's hands to her elbow and cheek, pressing her thinly veiled breasts to the flattened surface of Constancia's chest. Her hard nipples ache with a wanting, a yearning for more contact. Yet, the textured surface of her nightgown catching against the fabric of Constancia's dress titillates her even more.