The promise in a kiss

Chapter Eleven

THEcreak of a floorboard pierced the deep slumber that had enfolded Helena in its warmth. She blinked into darkness. Realized from the deep silence that it was nowhere near dawn. Realized that she was not at Cameralle, that Ariele was not in the next room.

Realized that the warmth that surrounded her emanated from Sebastian, slumped heavily asleep by her side.

Another creak, nearer and too tentative to be natural, reached her. Sebastian had drawn the bed curtains. Easing from his side, sliding from under the heavy arm he’d draped over her, she searched for the gap in the curtains, carefully parted them, and peeked out.

For one instant she thought it was Louis creeping into her room. She nearly panicked, then her eyes adjusted, and the man, his hand on the latch of the open door, glanced around the room. The weak light revealed the truth.

Phillipe. Louis’s younger brother. He who had fetched Ariele from Cameralle and taken her to Fabien.

Panic was the least of the emotions that rocked Helena. Phillipe entered, then eased the door closed. He glanced around the room again; his gaze came to rest on the curtained bed. He took a step toward it.

Helena clamped her hand to her lips, smothering her instinctive“No!” She glanced at Sebastian; he was still fast asleep, the deep rhythm of his breathing undisturbed.

But she was naked. Casting around, she spied her robe draped over the bottom corner of the bed, pushed back by the violence of their mating and now jumbled with the covers. Beyond the curtains, she could hear Phillipe cautiously approaching.

She stretched—and just managed to snag the edge of the robe and drag it to her. Frantically, she shrugged into it, fervently praying that Sebastian wouldn’t wake, that Phillipe wouldn’t draw back the curtains—that he’d realize the rings would rattle. Reminded herself of the same fact.

With the robe covering the top half of her, she held it closed, then, with an even more fervent prayer, eased from the bed.

She heard a whispered curse from Phillipe—he’d seen the curtains shift. As carefully as she could, she slipped from the bed, wriggling the robe down, then slid through the gap in the curtains.

The instant she emerged and saw Phillipe—face pale, eyes wide—she waved him back, then put a finger to her lips. With her other hand she held the robe closed, tugging it free of the covers until, at last, she stood barefoot on the floor, the robe falling to conceal her limbs, the curtains falling almost fully shut behind her.

She noticed the gap, glanced up at the rings, wondered if she dared risk closing the curtains fully. Sebastian hadn’t stirred—yet . . . She couldn’t reach the curtain rod to ease the rings along.

Leaving the gap, she turned to Phillipe, to the source of her most urgent worry. Her heart thudded painfully as she padded across the floor, waving him back, all the way back to where the shadows hung heaviest by the door. It was as far from the bed as they could get. She glanced briefly back at the sliver of darkness that was the gap in the curtains. She had to weigh her options carefully—for Ariele’s sake, she didn’t dare do otherwise. Outside in the corridor would be safer on the one hand, but how much trust could she place in Phillipe, knowing him to be one of Fabien’s creatures?

“What are you doing here?” She kept the hiss barely above a whisper, yet her panic, and her accusation and distrust, rang clearly.

To her surprise, Phillipe flinched. “It’s not what you think.”

Even though he’d whispered, she frowned and waved at him to lower his voice. “I do not knowwhat to think! Tell me of Ariele.”

Phillipe paled even more; Helena’s heart lurched.

“She is . . . well. For the moment.”

“What do you mean?” Helena seized his arm, shook it. “Has Fabien changed his mind?”

Phillipe frowned. “Changed? No. He still intends . . .”

The disgust and heartache in his face were too familiar for Helena to mistake them. “But he hasn’t changed his mind about Christmas—about me having until Christmas Eve to bring the dagger to him?”

Phillipe blinked. “Dagger? Is that what you have to get?”

Helena gritted her teeth. “Yes!But for pity’s sake,tell me—has he changed his schedule?” She shook Phillipe’s arm again. “Is that why you’re here?”

Phillipe focused, seemed finally to grasp her question. He shook his dark head. “No—no. It’s still to be Christmas, the blackguard.”

Helena released him, watched his face closely. “Blackguard?” When Phillipe looked away, jaw setting, she prompted, “He’s your uncle.”

“He’s no uncle of mine!” Phillipe spat the words, drenched with an equal mixture of fury and revulsion. He looked at her; even in the poor light she could see the anger burn in his dark eyes. “He’s amonster —an unfeeling tyrant who would take a young girl and”—he gestured violently—“use her to force you to steal for him.”

“On that we’re agreed,” Helena murmured. “But what has brought you here?”

“I came to help.” Through the shadows Phillipe met her gaze. Desperation colored his voice. “I want to save Ariele. I didn’t know, when he sent me to fetch her, what he wanted her for. I thought he was just concerned for her safety, alone with only the servants at Cameralle.” He laughed bitterly. “More fool me. But my eyes have been opened—I’ve seen what he’s truly like, I learned of his real plans.”

Phillipe caught Helena’s hand, holding it beseechingly between his. “You are Ariele’s only hope. If there were any other way”—again he gestured, searching for the word—“offreeing her from his hold, anything I could do to draw her safely away, I would do it. But there is nothing. The law is the law—she is in his power. And she’s currently at grave risk.”

Another horror rose in Helena’s mind; she clutched his hand. “Does she know?”

To her relief, Phillipe shook his head. “No. I do not believe she even imagines . . . She is such a sweet soul, so pure and untouched.”

If she hadn’t already realized what emotion was driving Phillipe, the look on his face as he spoke of Ariele would have confirmed the matter beyond doubt. One thing Fabien in his coldly calculating cleverness had not foreseen and could not control. The irony did not escape Helena. “Then things are as they were before. I must steal this dagger and take it to him by Christmas Eve.”

“I only knew he had set you some task, and that if you failed . . .” Phillipe frowned at her. “Fabien thought the likelihood of your succeeding was slight.”

Helena frowned back. “I do not think the thing impossible.” She couldn’t believe it—wouldn’t believe it.

“Then why have you not brought this thing—this dagger—to him? When you didn’t return soon . . . That is why I came. I thought there must be some problem.”

“As to that . . .” Helena grimaced. There was a problem, but she would do it anyway. Had to, for Ariele. “Fabien says the dagger is here, somewhere in this great house, and in that I think him correct. But neither Louis nor Villard has found it—between us, we’ve searched all the obvious places bar one. It must be there. I was going to search there tonight, but . . .”

Phillipe seized her hand. “Come—let us go there now. We can look while the house is asleep, find it, take it, and flee before any wake. I have a horse—”

“No.” Helena tried to tug her hand free, but Phillipe clung. “We need more of a start than that, or monsieur le duc will catch us—and Ariele will not be saved.”

Puzzled, Phillipe stared into her face, then said, “You are frightened of this duke. I had not thought it of you.” Straightening, he looked censoriously down his nose at her. “But that is no matter. Now I am here, you can tell me where this dagger is and I will seize it, take it back, and free Ariele.”

Only his patent sincerity saved him from her temper. “No!You don’t understand.” She bit her tongue against the urge to tell him he was yet a boy—a naive boy trying to influence the games of powerful men. “Do you not think Louis would have taken the dagger and gone long since to claim kudos from your uncle if it werethat simple? Fabien has decreedI must be the one to take it. Me and no one else.”

“Why? If he wants it, what matter the courier?”

Helena sighed. “He will have his reasons. Some I can see, others I can but guess at.” The thought that hurting—wounding—Sebastian was almost certainly high on Fabien’s list weighed on her heart.

Her deep reluctance must have reached Phillipe; he caught her hand again. “But you will take this dagger soon, yes?” He stared into her face, his whole expression one of earnest entreaty, then he relaxed, smiled, the gesture heartbreaking in its simplicity. “But yes, of course you will. You are good and loyal, brave and generous—you will not leave your sister to suffer at my uncle’s hands.” He pressed her hand, then released it, his smile gaining in confidence. “So you will take the dagger this coming night—you will, won’t you?”

Helena took in the calm, solid confidence with which Phillipe regarded her and was distantly grateful that Ariele had found such a steadfast cavalier. Would that she herself had one similiar, who would come to rescue her. Patiently, Phillipe waited for her answer; she knew what it had to be.

Yet still she hesitated. Tried not to remember the warmth, the sharing, the glory—the powerful love of the hours just past. Tried to shut her mind to its beauty. Failed. Tried to oust Sebastian from her mind, from her heart—knew she never could. She felt as if her heart were slowly tearing in two.

Feeling tears gathering, she stiffened her spine, parted her lips, started to nod.

A deep sigh rolled across the room.

“Mignonne,you should have told me.”

Helena gasped, whirled—hand to her lips, she stared at the bed. One white, long-fingered hand grasped the curtain. The scrape as it was pulled back echoed through the room.

Sebastian lay in her bed, propped on one elbow. The covers had fallen to his waist, exposing the heavy musculature of his chest. His gaze rested on her for a moment, then shifted to Phillipe. “You are related to the comte de Vichesse?”

His tone was even; a subtle menace growled beneath.

Phillipe swallowed, then, head high, stepped forward and bowed stiffly. “He is my uncle. Louis—who I believe is staying here—is my brother. To my shame. I am Phillipe de Sèvres.”

Helena heard the words but didn’t glance at Phillipe—wasn’t sure she could meet his eyes. What must he be thinking, finding Sebastian, patently naked, in her bed?

The least of her worries. Her gaze was fixed on Sebastian—she could barely get her mind to function. His sigh, his words . . . what did they mean? He had found her out. She knew better than to hope he hadn’t heard all. They’d spoken in French, but he was fluent in the language. He knew everything now. He would think the worst of her, yet . . . he’d still called her“mignonne.”

His eyes had left Phillipe to return to her. Seconds ticked past. She could feel his gaze, sensed he was waiting, but for what she couldn’t guess. Sensed he was willing her to understand, to read his mind—as if she could.

When she simply remained, literally struck speechless, rooted to the spot, he sighed again, then threw back the covers and rolled from the bed.

Rounding it, he crossed the room toward her.

Helena felt her eyes grow wide, then wider. She opened her mouth to protest. Couldn’t find words. Her breath caught and stuck in her throat.

He was naked! And . . .

Did the man have no shame?

Transparently not. He walked toward her as if he were gowned in purple and gold—as if he were in truth the emperor he’d once pretended to be.

He ignored Phillipe completely.

When he was close enough for her to see his eyes, she opened her mouth to explain, to say something . . .

Nothing came.

She raised her hands to ward him off, weakly let them fall.

He halted directly before her. As always, his face remained inscrutable; his eyes were too shadowed for her to read.

Defeated, her heart in her throat, she flung up her hands and turned away. She could never explain.

He lifted one hand, turned her face back to him. He studied her face, briefly searched her eyes.

Then he bent his head and touched his lips to hers.

Made her lips cling with the gentlest caress. Lingered just long enough to reassure.

Then he lifted his head. Looked into her face. “Get back into bed,mignonne, before you take a chill.”

She stared at him.

After a moment he lifted his head, looked at her dressing table, at the two letters wedged between the mirror and her jewel case. He looked back at her. Arched a brow. “With your permission?”

She hesitated, searched his face, then inclined her head. How did he know? What was he thinking?

Sebastian left her and walked to the dressing table.

Her wits were whirling; her head was reeling. She’d stopped breathing too long ago. The bed wasn’t such a bad idea. Without looking at Phillipe, she recrossed the room. Hugging the robe to her, she climbed into the bed, still warm with Sebastian’s heat.

A sudden shiver racked her; dispensing with all pretense, she gathered the covers close about her. Felt a little of the paralyzing ice that had frozen her start to melt.

She watched Sebastian pick up the letters.

“You had better sit down, de Sèvres.” Without looking up, Sebastian gestured with the first of the letters he’d opened, the obviously less-read of the two, to a chair by the wall. “This matter is clearly going to require more than two minutes to sort through.”

He was aware of Phillipe’s hesitation, of the quick glance the boy shot at Helena, but then Phillipe moved to the chair and sank down. One glance at Phillipe’s face as he looked again at Helena confirmed that the boy was utterly at sea. He didn’t know what to think, much less what to do. In gross features he was like his older brother—dark-haired, handsome enough, a younger version by two or so years—yet there was something much more open, honest, and straightforward about Phillipe.

Having heard his story, Sebastian saw no reason not to trust him. In setting himself to overturn Fabien’s scheme, Phillipe had declared his hand with somewhat touching, if impulsive, naïveté.

The letter in Sebastian’s hand was inscribed with a fine girlish script. He laid it down, lit the lamp, turned the wick high, then picked up the second letter.

He recognized Fabien’s heavy hand even though it had been years since he’d last seen it—since the last offer for the ceremonial dagger. From memory, that had been the tenth such offer, each grudgingly increased over the years. Each had made him smile. He’d taken great delight in exceedingly politely refusing them all.

So Fabien had devised another scheme to make him pay for his temerity. He supposed he should have expected it.

He hadn’t expected the guise, yet perhaps he should have anticipated that, too.

Fabien had a nice feel for irony, as did he.

He set down Fabien’s letter and picked up the other. “You received these letters after you arrived here.” It wasn’t a question. “From whom?”

Helena hesitated, then replied, “Louis.”

The confusion in her tone made him smile, even though he knew she couldn’t see. She still didn’t believe, still did not understand.

No matter—eventually she would.

He read through the letter from her sister—read every word. It was important he glean every bit of information; anything could be important in what was to come.

Finishing the first letter, he opened the second. The threat from Fabien. Even knowing what it would contain, even having guessed from the note Ariele had added at Fabien’s request what the nature of the threat would be, he still saw red. His hands shook. He had to look away—stare into the lamp flame until he had his rage under control again. Fabien wasn’t here for him to take apart with his bare hands. That could come later.

When he’d regained control, regained the ability to deal with his reaction to what Helena had been put through—all for a ridiculous dagger!—he finished the letter, then laid it down.

Paused for an instant to get all the facts straight in his mind. To see the whys behind her reactions, to draw comfort, reassurance, from her internal strife—from the fact that she’d dragged her heels, put off the moment of betrayal, clung to him for as long as she could. Even though it had been her sister, the one person she held most dear in her life, whose well-being had been set so deliberately on the other half of the scale.

Helena had guarded Ariele for many years; her reaction to any threat to her sister was instinctive, deeply ingrained. Fabien, as always, had chosen well.

Unfortunately for him, a higher power had been dealt into the hand.

Quickly, with the facility that had been his from birth, honed to excellence by the world in which he’d played for so many years, he assembled the basics of a plan. Noted the important facts, the essential elements.

Absentmindedly refolding the letters, he put them back by Helena’s jewel case, then turned and walked to the bed. Picked up his robe from the floor beside it and shrugged into it.

Met Helena’s gaze.

After a moment she asked, “Will you give me the dagger?”

He hesitated, wondered how much to tell her. If he declared that Ariele was safe, that Fabien’s threat was all bluff, designed and executed with an exquisite touch purely to force Helena to do his bidding, would either Helena or Phillipe believe him? He hadn’t met Fabien for over half a decade, but he doubted men changed—not in that regard. He and Fabien had always shared the same tastes, which was in large part the cause of their rivalry.

It was also the reason Fabien had sent Helena—he’d known how to bait his trap. Unfortunately, in this case, the prey was going to bite the trapper; Sebastian did not feel the least bit sad.

However, quite aside from triumphing yet again over his old adversary, there was another, much more important, issue to consider. Unless Helena believed he could defeat Fabien, she would never, ever, feel totally sure, completely and absolutely free.

She might even remain, in the future, a prey for Fabien—and that he would not, could not, allow.

“No.” He belted his robe, cinched it tight. “I will not give you the dagger. That is not the way the game will be played.” He saw Helena’s face fall, sensed the dimming of her gaze. “We will go to Le Roc and rescue Ariele.”

The sudden reversal of her expression, the hope that flooded her face, made him smile.

“Vraiment?”She leaned forward, eagerly scanning his face, his eyes.

“You are in earnest?” Phillipe had started up at his refusal; now he stared at him with a painful intensity Sebastian didn’t like to see. Didn’t like to be reminded existed. Would he have looked the same if it had been Helena at Le Roc?

“Indeed.” Turning back to Helena, he continued, “If I give you the dagger and you take it back to Fabien, what will you gain?”

She frowned at him. “Ariele.”

He sat on the bed, leaned back against the corner post. Watched her. “But you would still be under Fabien’s rule—both of you.” He glanced at Phillipe. “All of you. Still his puppets, dancing to his tune.”

Phillipe frowned, sat down, then nodded. “What you say is true, yet . . .” He looked up. “What is the alternative? You do not know Fabien.”

Sebastian smiled his predator’s smile. “Actually, I do—in fact, I know him rather better than either of you. I know how he thinks, I know how he’ll react.” He looked at Helena. “As you so elegantly phrased it,mignonne, I know well the games powerful men play.”

She studied him, cocked her head. Waited.

Sebastian smiled again, this time indulgently. “Gather around,mes enfants . You are about to have an education in the games of powerful men.”

He glanced at Phillipe, confirmed he had his attention. “First rule: He who seizes the initiative has the advantage. We’re about to take it. Fabien believes Helena will return on Christmas Eve with the dagger. He won’t look for her before that.” He glanced at Helena. “Regardless of any feelings you may or may not have developed for me, he’ll expect you to defy him that much and dally to the last day. As Louis is with you, Fabien will feel certain that nothing unexpected will occur without his being informed of it—in good time to take any necessary measures.”

Sebastian glanced at Phillipe, wondered if he should tell him he’d been manipulated by a master, that his presence here was simply another of Fabien’s little touches—decided against it. He looked back at Helena. “So, at present, monsieur le comte is feeling rather smug, fully expecting that his plans are proceeding exactly as predicted and all will fall out as he wishes.”

She was watching him intently. He smiled. “Instead . . . let’s see. It’s the seventeenth today. We can be in France by tomorrow morning if the wind blows fair. Le Roc is—correct me if I err—less than a day’s fast travel from the coast, say, from Saint-Malo. We will arrive on Fabien’s doorstep long before he expects us. Who knows? He might not even be in residence.”

“What then?” Helena asked.

“Then we’ll discover some means of removing Ariele from the fortress—you really cannot expect me to give you a detailed plan before I see the fortifications—and then we leave at an even faster pace than that at which we arrived.”

Helena stared at him, then asked, “Do you truly think it’s possible?”

Looking into her eyes, he knew she wasn’t referring simply to the rescue of Ariele. Reaching out, he clasped her hand, gently squeezed. “Believe me,mignonne, it is.”

He would free her, and her sister, and Phillipe as well, from Fabien’s coils. He could understand that after all these years she would find that hard to imagine.

She eased back a little but left her hand in his.

The chiming of clocks throughout the house distracted them all. Three chimes—three o’clock. Sebastian stirred. “Bien,there is much we have to do if we wish to be in France by tomorrow morning.”

They both looked to him. Quickly, concisely, he outlined the specific points they needed to know. His tone was patient—blatantly paternalistic; for once Helena did not take umbrage. Along with Phillipe, she hung on his every word, followed where his mind led, saw the victory he painted.

“With Louis thus kept in ignorance, Phillipe and I will leave and drive to Newhaven—”

Helena jerked upright. “I am coming, too!”

Sebastian met her outraged gaze. “Mignonne,it will be better if you remain here.” Safe.

“No! Ariele ismy responsibility—and you do not know Le Roc as I do.”

“Phillipe, however, does . . .” Sebastian glanced at Phillipe to find the young man shaking his head.

“Non. I do not know the fortress well. Louis has spent years there, but I’ve only recently joined my uncle’s service.”

Sebastian grimaced.

“And,” Phillipe tentatively added, “there is a further problem. Ariele. She does not know what we know. I do not think, were I to appear to her in the dead of night, or any other time, that she would come with me. But Helena—she will always do exactly as Helena says.”

Helena pounced on the point. “Vraiment. He speaks the truth. Ariele is sweet but not stupid—she won’t leave the safety of Le Roc except for good reason. And she knows nothing of Fabien’s schemes.”

She considered Sebastian’s hard face, read his opposition very clearly. She leaned closer, curling her fingers, gripping his. “And it’s likely you will wish to leave without any fuss, any noise—and without too much baggage,n’est-ce pas? ”

His lips twisted briefly. He returned the pressure of her fingers. “You play hard,mignonne .” Then he sighed, “Very well. You will come, too. I’ll have to think how to ensure that Louis is delayed.”

Sebastian added that item to the list in his head. When he’d thought of Helena’s witnessing his defeat of Fabien, he had been thinking figuratively. His instincts argued she should be left behind in safety, but . . . perhaps, in the long run, it would be better if she accompanied them. This way she would share in Fabien’s defeat; looking to the future, for one of her temperament that might be important.

The clocks chimed the half hour. He stirred, rose. “There is much to do and not much time to do it.” Crossing the room, he tugged at the bellpull. He glanced at Phillipe. “I will have you shown to a bedchamber—ask for whatever you need.” He looked across at Helena. “You will both oblige me by remaining in your chambers until I send for you. Dress for traveling—we’ll leave at nine o’clock.” His gaze rested on Helena. “You will be able to pack only a small bag, nothing more.”

She nodded.

A tap sounded on the door. Sebastian crossed to it, opened it just a little way, blocking the doorway with his body. He instructed the sleepy footman to send Webster up, then shut the door.

He turned to Phillipe. “My butler, Webster, is entirely trustworthy. He’ll put you in a bedchamber and tend to you himself. The fewer who know of your presence here, the less likely Louis and his man are to learn of it.”

Phillipe nodded.

Sebastian paced before the dying fire until Webster arrived, then handed Phillipe into his care. Webster accepted the charge placed on him with his customary imperturbability; he led Phillipe away.

Helena watched the door close, watched Sebastian turn and pace back to the bed. Her mind was in turmoil; she couldn’t focus her thoughts. Her emotions held sway—immense relief, puzzlement, uncertainty. Guilt. Excitement. Disbelief.

He slowed, absentminded as he planned; his gaze was distant when he glanced at her, then he focused. “That declaration you extracted from your so-dear guardian,mignonne . May I see it?”

She blinked, surprised by the tack. She pointed to her trunk, sitting empty in the corner. “It’s behind the lining on the left side of the lid.”

He went to the trunk, opened it, felt in the lining. She heard the rip as he tore it free, the crackle as he extracted the parchment. Rising, he returned to the dressing table, unfolded the document, smoothed it out, then read it in the light of the lamp.

Watching his face in the mirror, she saw his lips quirk. Then he smiled and shook his head.

“What is it?”

He glanced at her, then waved the parchment. “Fabien—he never ceases to amaze me. You say he simply sat down when you asked and wrote this?”

She thought back, then nodded. “Oui.He considered for but a moment . . .” She frowned. “Why?”

“Because,mignonne, in writing this and giving it into your hands, he was risking very little.” He studied the document again, then glanced at her. “You did not tell me he’d used the words ‘more extensive than your own.’ “

“So?”

“So . . . your estates are in the Camargue, a wide, flat land. Of what size are your holdings?”

She named a figure; he smiled.

“Bon. We are free, then.”

“Why?”

“Because my estates are ‘more extensive than’ yours.”

She frowned, shook her head. “I still don’t see.”

He set down the document, reached for the lamp. “Consider this—England is a much smaller country than France.”

She watched the light dim, watched him turn to the bed. Thought furiously. “There are not many English lords whose estates are more extensive than mine?”

“Other than myself—and Fabien knew I’d declared I would not wed—the only possibilities I can think of would be the royal dukes, none of whom would meet with your approval, and two others, both of whom are already married and old enough to be your father.”

“Fabien would know this?”

“Assuredly. It’s the sort of information he keeps at his fingertips.”

“And you?”

He shook his head, intuitively answering the question she’d truly asked. “No,mignonne —I gave up playing the games Fabien indulges in years ago.” He stopped by the side of the bed, studied her face. “I still know the rules and can engage with the best of them but . . .” He shrugged. “Truth to tell, the activity palled. I found better things to do with my time.”

Seducing women—helping women. Helena watched as he unbelted his robe, let it slide to the floor. She sank back into the pillows as he lifted the covers and slid in beside her.

She remained still, wondering—hardly daring to do even that . . .

He reached for her. Dragged her down into the depths of the feather mattress, settling her half beneath him. She sucked in a breath, felt his fingers searching for the opening of her robe. Then he pushed the robe wide, lifted over her and lowered his body to hers—skin to skin, heat to heat.

The rush of warmth was a shock. Giddy, she found enough air to say, “So the document—you are saying it’s worthless?”

He looked into her face as he set his hands to her body. “Not in the least. To us it’s a prize.” He considered her eyes, then smiled, bent his head, and brushed his lips across her furrowed forehead. “Your document is an ace,mignonne, and we’re going to use it to trump Fabien in a most . . . satisfying way.”

That he still meant to marry her—even now, after learning all about her deception—could not have been clearer. Yet guilt still lay heavy on her heart.

His hands were roaming, seducing her senses, stealing her wits. It would be so easy to sink under his spell, to give herself to him and let the matter slide.

She couldn’t.

She caught his face, framed it in both hands, held it so that even in the dimness she could see every nuance. “You will really help me—you will help me rescue Ariele.” No question; she didn’t doubt he would. “Why?”

He met her gaze. “Mignonne,I have told you—often—that you are mine.Mine .” On the word, he nudged her thighs apart, settled between. “Of all the women in the world, there is none I’m more devoted to helping, to protecting, than you.”

She could see it in the blue of his eyes, see the fire and the feeling that supported it. “But me . . . I put another higher than you.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “If you’d acted as you did for Fabien, or any other man . . . yes, I would have felt betrayed. But you did as you did for your sister—out of love, out of responsibility. Out of caring. Of all men in the world, can you not see thatI would understand?”

She looked into his eyes and did see. At last, let herself believe. “I should have trusted you—told you.”

“You were afraid for your sister.”

He bent his head and kissed her—long and deep. Making it patently clear that, to him, the matter was closed.

It was minutes later before she caught her breath enough to murmur, “You forgive me?”

Above her he paused, then touched a gentle hand to her cheek. “Mignonne,there is nothing to forgive.”

In that moment she knew, not only that she loved him but why. Reaching up, she drew his head down, kissed him—delicately, tantalizingly, holding at bay the fire that was already raging between them. “I will be yours.” She whispered the words against his lips. “Always.”

No matter what was to come.

“Bon.”He took control of the kiss, plundered her mouth, then tilted her hips and entered her. Drank her gasp as the hot steel of him pressed inexorably in. All the way in.

Then he withdrew, and the dance began.

Helena gave herself up to it, up to him—surrendered completely. Opened her body to him, opened her heart. Offered him her soul.

In the dark cocoon of the bed, in their mingled breaths, the shattered sobs and low groans, as their heated bodies moved together, as the pace increased and the depth of his passion and need broke over her, buffeted her, pleasured her, a deeper understanding dawned.

While surrender was her gift to him, the most coveted element she brought to his bed, possession, in turn, was his gift to her. Yet as she sensed his control slip and his desire break free, take hold, and drive him relentlessly, while she sobbed and held him to her as he plundered her body, she had to wonder who was the possessed, who the posssessor.

Neither, she concluded as the wave broke and took them. Left them gasping. As they drifted, buoyed on fading glory, she recalled what he’d stated long before. They were made for this. For each other—him for her, her for him.

Two halves of the same coin, bonded by a power not even a powerful man could break.

Sebastian slipped from Helena’s side two hours later. Shrugging into his robe, belting it, he crossed to the dressing table, picked up Fabien’s declaration, read it again. He glanced at Helena; she remained sound asleep. He hesitated, then folded the document. Taking it with him, he quietly left the room.

Regaining his apartments, he summoned Webster, gave orders as he washed, shaved, and dressed. Leaving his valet, Gros, rushing hither and yon, packing the small bag he’d declared was all he would take, he quit the room and headed for his study.

There he started on the task of setting in place the foundations of his plan.

The first letter he wrote was a personal request to the Bishop of Lincoln, an old friend of his father’s. Once he and Helena returned from France with Ariele, he was not of a mind to delay their wedding further. Finishing his letter, he sanded it, then set it aside, together with Fabien’s declaration. Helena had secured that prize—he fully intended to use it.

He rang for a footman, dispatched him to find Webster. With his customary magisterial calm, Webster led the senior staff into the study. They sat. In swift order Sebastian outlined his requirements, then they discussed, suggested, and eventually decided on various ploys to delay both Louis and Villard.

“I would expect the valet to be the comte’s creature. Take care that while watching the larger fish you do not let the minnow slip through your net.”

“Indeed not, Your Grace. You may rely on us.”

“I will be. I reiterate—I do not wish you to do anything overt to delay de Se`vres and his man. I wish them to be mystified as to where mademoiselle la comtesse and I might be. If they realize they’re being deliberately delayed, they’ll guess where we’ve gone and follow swiftly.” Sebastian paused, then added, “The longer they remain uncertain, the safer I, your future mistress, her sister, and the gentleman who brought us word last night will be.”

He was rewarded by the sight of a slight curve in Webster’s lips, a gleam of triumph in the butler’s gray eyes. The man had been quietly prodding him for years—ever since Arthur had married—to do his duty and save them all.

Barely able to contain his pleasure while maintaining his imperturbable mask, Webster bowed deeply. “Might we extend our congratulations, Your Grace?”

“You may.” After an instant Sebastian added, “But only to me.”

Delighted, they all did so, then departed. Sebastian returned to his mental list of tasks.

After clearing his desk of all urgent business, he spoke briefly with his steward, then gave orders to have the Thierrys brought to him.

They appeared, confused, a little hopeful. Sebastian considered them as they sat in the chairs before his desk, then he leaned forward and told them all they needed to know—enough for them to realize their situation—that they had unwittingly been accessories to a plot to steal from him. They were as aghast as he’d expected; he cut short their horrified protestations to reassure them that he recognized their innocence.

He then gave them a choice. England or France.

England with his support; France as accessories in Fabien’s soon-to-be failure.

Given that they’d been genuine émigrés before Fabien had recruited them, it took them no time at all to opt for England.

He suggested they remain at Somersham until he and Helena returned and they could discuss arrangements for their future. Although at that point in ignorance of his plans, Gaston Thierry, to his credit, suggested that he and Marjorie could act to delay Louis.

Sebastian offered Thierry his hand and sent them to confer with Webster.

The last person with whom he needed to speak fluttered into the room five minutes later.

“You wished to speak with me, dear boy?”

Sebastian rose, smiled, and waved Clara to the chairs before the fire. She sat in an armchair; he stood by the hearth, one arm resting on the mantelshelf, and told her much more than he’d told the Thierrys.

“Well!I knew it all long, of course.” Eyes agleam, a smile of joy lighting her face, she rose and kissed his cheek. “She’s perfect—quite perfect. I’mso glad. And I can state without fear of contradiction that the family will be delighted. Positively delighted!”

“Indeed, but you understand that I wish just the usual Christmas crowd and those others I’ll list in my letter for Augusta—not the entire clan—here when we return?”

“Oh, indeed, indeed. Just a small crowd. We can invite all the others later, when the weather improves.” Clara patted his arm. “Now, you’d best be on your way if you’re to make Newhaven tonight. I’ll be here when you get back, and so will Augusta and the others. We’ll hold the fort here.”

With another pat and an admonition to take care, Clara swept out, still beaming.

Sebastian rang for Webster. “Louis de Se`vres?” he asked when that worthy arrived.

“In the breakfast parlor, Your Grace.”

“And his man?”

“In the servants’ hall.”

“Very well—fetch mademoiselle la comtesse to me here and have a footman take her bag to the coach. Send another footman to take Monsieur Phillipe to the stables by way of the side door.”

“At once, Your Grace.”

Sebastian was seated at his desk when Webster ushered Helena in, then retreated and shut the door.

“Mignonne.”Rising, Sebastian came out from behind the desk.

Dressed in a traveling gown with a heavy cloak over her arm, Helena came to him, her gaze alert and watchful. “Is it time to go?”

Halting before the desk, he smiled and took her hand. “Almost.” He kissed her gloved fingers, then turned to the two letters still lying open on his desk. “I took the declaration—I didn’t want to wake you.”

“I assumed you had.” Head tilted, she looked up at him, and waited.

“In this country, for us to marry, the fastest way is to procure a special license—a dispensation, if you will. I’ve written to a well- disposed bishop, but in support of my request, given you’re French and not your own mistress, I’ll need to enclose Fabien’s declaration.” He paused, then asked, “Have I your permission to do so?”

She smiled, slowly, glowingly. “Oui.Yes. Of course.”

He smiled.“Bon.” Releasing her, he reached for the candle and sealing wax. As she watched, he set his seal to the letter.

“It’s done.” He laid the letter on top of his missive for Augusta and another letter addressed to the Court of St. James. “Webster will send it by rider.”

He considered the second letter, wondered if he should mention it. He turned and met Helena’s peridot eyes—clear, free of clouds, although not yet of lingering worry.

“Come.” He took her hand. “Let’s be on our way.”