The promise in a kiss

Chapter Thirteen

HELENAforced herself to pause inside the door until her eyes adjusted. Then she rounded the curtained bed, knowing Ariele would be sleeping facing away from the door. Quietly parting the curtains, she looked in, saw the mound under the covers, saw the sheen of Ariele’s honey-brown hair splayed across the pillows, saw the pale sliver of one white cheek.

Smiling, tears threatening, Helena stepped closer.

“Ariele? Ariele—wake up,mon petit chou .”

Brown lashes flickered, lifted; eyes greener than Helena’s peeked out, then Ariele smiled sleepily. Her lids fell again.

Helena reached out and shook her gently.

Ariele’s eyes opened fully. She stared at Helena, surprised wonder in her face. Then, with a cry of joy, she threw herself into Helena’s arms. “Itis you!Mon Dieu! I thought you were a dream.”

“Sssh.” Helena hugged her fiercely, closed her eyes for one rapturous moment, and gave thanks. Then she pushed Ariele away, held her at arm’s length. “We have to leave.Vite . Phillipe and another—the Englishman I am to marry—are waiting beyond the door. But we must hurry. You must dress—dark clothes.”

Ariele had never been slow-witted. She’d scurried from the bed even before Helena had finished speaking. She ran to her armoire, searched, pulled out a brown gown, showed it to Helena.

“Yes—that’s perfect.”

“Where are we going?” Ariele scrambled into the gown.

“To England. Fabien . . . he is mad.”

“Mad?” Ariele cocked her head. “Disgustingly arrogant, true, but . . .” She shrugged. “So he does not know we are leaving?”

“No.” Helena came to help with her laces. “We must be very quiet. And we can take only a small bag—just your brushes and important things.”

“I didn’t bring much with me from Cameralle. I’d hoped to go home for Christmas.”

Helena tied off the laces, then hugged her. “Ma petite,we won’t see home for some time—”

“Yes, but think of the adventure!”

Reassured, Helena left Ariele brushing out her long hair while she hunted and found a small bag in the armoire, then piled all the little items from the dressing table into it, then hurried to the prie-dieu to collect prayer book and crucifix.

A tap on the door had them both looking up; Phillipe peered in. He saw Ariele and slipped in, crossed to her. Sebastian followed him into the room. Helena stared at him, drank in his strength, calmed her tense nerves. All would be well.

Sebastian returned Helena’s regard, then, satisfied that all was as she’d expected, switched his gaze to Phillipe and the young girl he assumed was Ariele. Phillipe was whispering earnestly, explaining his part in things. The girl was listening politely.

Ariele was taller than Helena, larger overall, yet not above average. Her hair lay like a curtain of old gold down her back. He could see her profile, as perfect as Helena’s. See her hands gesture, swift and delicate, reassuring Phillipe and hushing his apologies.

Then she sensed his presence and turned. Smiled shyly.

He walked forward, held out his hand.

She reacted instinctively and laid her fingers in his. He bowed over them. Ariele shook off her surprise and curtsied prettily.

Sebastian raised her. “I’m honored to meet you, my dear, but I think we should leave further pleasantries until later. We must leave immediately.” He looked into eyes that were darker than Helena’s, a different shade of green. “If all goes as we plan, we’ll have years to get to know each other better.”

Ariele tilted her head at that, looked at him almost challengingly. The same fire that burned so brightly in Helena had not missed Ariele.

Sebastian laughed softly; leaning closer, he dropped a light kiss on Ariele’s forehead. “Do not fence with me,ma petite . You are not—yet—in your sister’s league.”

Ariele made a sound that could only be described as a chortle. She shot a quick glance at Helena, her face alight with innocent query. No mystery why Phillipe had been smitten.

Releasing her hand, Sebastian stepped back. “Come. We dare not dally.”

Helena had remained rooted to the spot watching the interplay between her sister and him; now she bustled up, took the brush from Ariele’s hand, dropped it in the bag, and cinched the drawstring tight. She looked at him. “We are ready.”

He took her hand, kissed her tense fingers. “Good. This is what we’ll do.”

They left the room, four silent shadows slipping through the slumbering house. As before, Phillipe led the way; Ariele, in her cloak with the hood already up, followed at his heels, much as if he’d been sent to summon her and she was grumpily complying. They walked swiftly but quietly down the corridors. A few yards behind, Helena, also fully cloaked, followed with Sebastian, keeping to the shadows as much as they could.

Helena’s heart thumped. As she hurried along, she felt giddy. They were nearly free—all of them. And Ariele liked Sebastian. The two people she loved the most would get on. Relief mingled with anxiety; lingering trepidation weighed against her burgeoning joy.

They reached the gallery and started along it.

A single, confident footstep was all the warning they had before Fabien swung into the gallery from the other end. He’d taken three long strides before he halted, staring. The moonlight sheened his fair hair. Booted and spurred, dressed as always in unrelieved black, he was carrying his riding gloves in one hand. His rapier was at his side.

For one instant they all stood transfixed in the light of the moon.

Then Helena heard a soft curse, and Sebastian stepped past her. The sibilant hiss as his rapier left its scabbard shimmered, menacing in the tense quiet.

It was immediately answered by a smiliar hiss as Fabien’s rapier flashed into the night.

What followed, Helena later understood took but a few minutes, yet in her mind each action was ponderous, laden with meanings, subtle hints, and portents.

Like the smile that curved Fabien’s lips as he recognized Sebastian, the unholy light that flared in his dark eyes.

The fact that Fabien was considered a master swordsman flashed into her mind. She felt ill for one instant, then rallied. Remembered Sebastian’s confidence over younger men challenging him—remembered that indeed they didn’t.

The memory allowed her to grab back her wits, to hold panic at bay—to think. Phillipe had stepped back, shrinking against the windows. He’d pulled Ariele with him.

In the center of the gallery, bathed in moonlight, Sebastian and Fabien slowly circled, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

With a sudden rush, Fabien did—the clash of steel made Helena flinch, but she kept her eyes open, fixed on the scene, and saw Sebastian parry the attack without apparent effort.

Fabien was shorter by a few inches and slighter—faster on his feet. Sebastian was almost certainly the stronger and had a longer reach.

Again Fabien lunged; again Sebastian deflected his blade with ease.

Helena heard thumping, looked down at their feet. Realized . . .

Dragging in a breath, she eased along the wall, then slipped past them and fled to the gallery’s end. There she dragged the doors shut, turned the key. Swung around and looked back to see Phillipe and Ariele doing the same at the gallery’s other end. If the servants heard the thumps and came to investigate, the doors would buy them precious time.

Sebastian was aware of the problem—he saw the ends of Fabien’s lips lift mockingly and knew his old foe had seen it, too. The longer he and Fabien danced in the moonlight, the less likely they were to escape, regardless of the outcome of their play.

And play it was. Neither would kill; it was not in their natures. To triumph, yes, but what was the point of winning if one didn’t get to gloat over the vanquished? Besides, they were both noble born. Either one’s dying could prove difficult for the other to explain, especially as one was on foreign soil. Killing was not worth the effort. So they’d aim to disarm, to wound, to win.

But in the larger game—the more important game—the advantage was now Fabien’s. Sebastian flicked aside a probing thrust and set his mind to the task of wresting it from him.

Confident that, regardless, he was risking nothing more than his arm, Fabien was eager to engage. They were both past masters; for Fabien this meeting was long overdue. The Frenchman had speed, but Sebastian had strength and an agility he consistently disguised. He pushed Fabien back, turning parry into thrust, declining to follow Fabien’s answering feint in favor of another riposte that had his opponent quickly retreating.

Feinting, trying to lure him into opening his guard, relying on his quickness to keep him safe—that was Fabien’s style. Sebastian held back from any feints, projected his own style as straightforward, direct—undisguised. He needed to finish this quickly; against that, the only sure way past Fabien’s skill was to fool him, and that meant time.

Meant minutes of skirmishing, enough to establish his assumed style in Fabien’s mind. Meant backing Fabien toward one corner of the gallery—near where Helena watched, her back to the doors. He wished her elsewhere but couldn’t shift his attention from Fabien long enough to send her away.

The instant he had Fabien positioned where he wanted him, he launched a textbook series of thrust-counter-thrust, backing the Frenchman so he suddenly realized that being stuck in a corner with a stronger and larger opponent before him wasn’t the wisest place to be.

Fabien started looking for a way out.

Sebastian gave it to him.

Feinted to his left.

Fabien saw the opening, stepped left, lunged—

Sebastian heard a strangled scream. Already committed, he dropped, turned his wrist and sent his point flashing upward—in the same instant saw an explosion of brown coming in from his left.

With his weight behind his blade, his body extending into the lunge, he couldn’t stop her.

Could only watch in horror as she appeared between them, screening the space where his left chest had been, where she’d thought Fabien was aiming.

He glanced at Fabien—saw his own horror reflected in his face.

Too late—there was nothing Fabien could do to stop his lunge. His rapier took Helena in the shoulder.

Sebastian heard her cry as his own blade covered the last inches, couldn’t stop his guttural roar, couldn’t prevent his wrist rolling, deflecting the point three inches inward.

Fabien tried to spin away but couldn’t avoid the deadly thrust. The point pierced his coat, bit, and sank into flesh, slid along a rib—

Sebastian pulled back, released the rapier before he completed the killing stroke. Let the weapon clatter to the floor as he caught Helena.

Fabien staggered, then collapsed against the wall and slid down, one hand pressed to his side, his face paler than death. As he lowered Helena to the floor, then pulled Fabien’s blade free, Sebastian was aware of the Frenchman’s burning gaze. Knew he hadn’t meant to harm Helena.

Ariele and Phillipe reached them in a rush. Sebastian steeled himself to deal with hysterics—instead, Ariele checked the wound, then set about ripping the flounce from her petticoat, instructing Phillipe to fetch Fabien’s cravat.

Phillipe approached cautiously, but Fabien, moving weakly, gave up the cravat of his own accord, without comment.

Sebastian’s opinion of Helena’s sister increased by leaps and bounds. Cradling Helena, he watched as Ariele efficiently formed a pad, then bound it over the narrow wound. She looked into his face, a question in her eyes. He nodded. “She’ll live.”

As long as she was properly cared for.

She’d swooned from the shock and pain; she was still unconscious, but not deeply. Relinquishing his position to Ariele, Sebastian stood and walked to Fabien. He bent and picked up his rapier, flicked out a handkerchief and wiped the blade.

Fabien’s gaze had remained on Helena. Now he glanced up at Sebastian. “You will tell her I never meant that?”

Sebastian met his gaze. “If she doesn’t already know.”

Fabien closed his eyes and shuddered. “Sacre dieu!Women! What they do . . .” He grimaced with pain but continued, his voice weakening, “She was ever unpredictable.”

Sebastian hesitated, then murmured, “She’s too much like us—didn’t that ever occur to you?”

“Mais, oui—of course. She schemes and plots and thinks quickly, yet she is hardly up to our weight.”

Sebastian humphed. He looked down on his old foe, knew the wound he’d delivered would cause serious discomfort for weeks. Counseled himself that that, together with all that would come, was fair payment for all Helena had suffered—that he couldn’t, no matter what he wished, exact further physical retribution. “You and your games—I gave them up years ago. Why do you still play them?”

Fabien opened his eyes, looked up, then shrugged—grimaced again. “Ennui, I suppose. What else is there to do?”

Sebastian considered him, shook his head. “You’re a fool.”

“Fool?Me? ” Fabien tried to laugh, but pain cut off the sound. His eyes closed again, tight, but still he inclined his head to where Helena lay. “It is not I who has, it appears, been caught in the oldest trap of all.”

Sebastian looked down at Fabien’s white face and wondered if he should mention that he knew Fabien had been caught in the same trap many long years before. But in Fabien’s case there’d been no happy ending, only a prolonged, slowly deepening sorrow. His Marie had proved too weak to bear children, and now she was dying. At the thought, Sebastian’s lingering anger faded. Declining to touch on the matter or mention that he knew Fabien’s closely guarded truth, he slid his rapier back into its sheath. Looked at Helena. “Blood will tell, I suppose.”

Fabien frowned, then glanced up at him.

Sebastian didn’t deign to explain.

Fabien looked again at the others. “One thing I must know. Whose estates are larger—hers or yours?”

Sebastian grinned grimly. “Mine.”

Fabien sighed. “Well, you have won this round,mon ami. ” His voice faded; he closed his eyes. “But you have yet to win free.”

Sebastian saw Fabien’s muscles relax, saw him slip into unconsciousness. Hunkering down, he briefly checked Fabien’s wound—confirmed it was serious but not immediately life threatening. Standing, Sebastian beckoned Phillipe, pointed to a door off the gallery. “What’s through there?”

It was the library; they left Fabien laid out on the chaise before the cold hearth, hands and feet bound with curtain cords, gagged with his handkerchief. He’d be found soon enough.

They returned to Ariele and Helena, who was now conscious but clearly in pain. White-faced, Phillipe considered her, then turned to Sebastian. “How will we manage now?”

He told them, quickly, succinctly. From the silence beyond the doors, they assumed that no servants had heard the thuds and muffled screams. “But if they have, we can use it to strengthen our hand.”

“You”—he pointed at Phillipe—“and Helena have just arrived with Fabien. He summoned you posthaste and met you at Montsurs, but you were delayed, and so you have only just arrived. He has ordered you both to take Ariele to Paris. He’s retired, leaving you to it—but he wants her gone immediately. He said he is not to be disturbed, he has a headache.”

“A migraine.” Helena’s voice floated up, weak but distinct. “He is a prey to migraines—the staff know it is worth their heads to disturb him at such times.”

“Perfect. He has a migraine and has left you with specific orders to take Ariele and leave now. The ‘now,’ for reasons unknown to you, is vital—Fabien has made that clear.” Sebastian looked at Ariele. “You are not happy at being roused from your bed and marched off to Paris.” He looked down at her feet, at the pattens she’d put on. “You’re going to clump down the stairs and be difficult and scowl. Wail if you need to cover any sound. Helena will appear to be holding you—in reality you will be holding her.”

He looked down at Helena. “Can you walk,mignonne ?”

Lips tightly set, she nodded.

He paused, looking down at her, but accepted her word. He couldn’t think of any other way to get her safely out of the house.“Bon.” He looked at Phillipe. “So it’s time for you to summon the carriage. Clatter down the stairs in a rush and set everyone in a panic. Donot answer any questions as to how you arrived here—brush them aside. You must be totally focused on getting Ariele away at once as your uncle has ordered. If the staff balk, tell them Fabien is lying down in his chamber with a migraine—and suggest they check with him.” He paused, considered the young man. “When they question you, behave as Fabien would—or as I would. You’ve been helping get Ariele moving, but now Helena is bringing her along, and you want the carriage therenow, so there’ll be no further delay . . .”

Phillipe was nodding. “Yes, I see.”

Sebastian continued, outlining the last phase of his plan. Finally he clapped Phillipe on the shoulder. “Go, then—we’ll listen from here and come down as the carriage arrives. We don’t want Helena on her feet any longer than necessary.”

Phillipe nodded, opened the gallery doors, looked out—then looked back, nodded again, and went.

They listened to his footsteps, confident and definite as he strode along, fade. Sebastian hunkered down beside Helena. She gripped his sleeve, looked into his face. “And you? How will you join us?”

He caught her hand, raised it to his lips. “I don’t propose to let you out of my sight,mignonne . Once you’re in the coach, I’ll join you.”

Helena accepted his word, marshaled her strength for the battle to come. Although her wound had bled copiously and the blood had seeped into her thick cloak, the wool was dark enough to hide the stain.

They heard the furor as Phillipe sent up a shout and roused the servants. The butler balked at taking his orders, but Phillipe dealt with him with a high-handed arrogance that would have done Fabien proud.

He got the coach ordered. From the shadows of the upstairs foyer, Sebastian and Ariele, with Helena supported between them, watched Phillipe pace agitatedly—for all the world as if he expected Fabien to appear and quietly inquire why he was still there.

His apprehension was contagious. Ten minutes after a footman had been sent flying to the stables, the stamp of hooves heralded the coach. Sebastian pressed his lips to Helena’s temple, held her for an instant longer, then stepped back. “Go!”

Ariele glanced back at him. Then she scowled and muttered, scuffed her feet as if she were being dragged, all the time holding Helena, who clung to her.

From the hall below, Phillipe glanced up. “Where are they?” he inquired of no one in particular. “Come on—comeon !” With quick strides he started up the stairs, then Helena and Ariele appeared at the top. “There you are!” Phillipe continued up. He came to Ariele’s side but reached around her to surreptitiously help Helena.

“Into the coach, now. Don’t be difficult. You don’t want Uncle to come down, do you?”

Stepping down on the stairs, Helena gasped, swayed.

Ariele clutched and grouched louder. A trifle breathlessly.

Watching from the shadows above, Sebastian prayed. Saw Helena lift her head, nod all but imperceptibly. They continued on.

The butler was still fretting. He looked to Helena—she waved imperiously. “We must leave at once!”

Her voice was sharp, tight with pain, but they heard it as irritation.

It was enough. Everyone scurried out of their way, solicitously holding the door wide, then piling onto the steps to watch as the trio, clinging together, descended.

The clang of iron-shod hooves on the cobbles of the forecourt covered Sebastian’s footsteps. He descended the stairs quickly, then slid into the shadows alongside the staircase. Everyone was on the front porch. Craning his neck, he could just see the coach. The timing was going to be critical.

Helena entered the coach first; Ariele quickly followed. Phillipe put his foot on the step, then paused, turned to the groom clinging to his perch at the coach’s back, called him down, at the same time waving the footman to put up the steps and close the coach door. Mystified, the footman did as he was bid while Phillipe walked to the back of the coach to meet the groom.

Sebastian drew in a breath and started for the front door, striding confidently, his boot heels ringing on the marble floor. Startled, the butler and his minions, all still in their nightshirts, swung around, ready to bow and scrape to their master . . .

Their eyes widened. Jaws slackened.

Sebastian looked down his nose at them and walked straight through. They fell back, not daring to inconvenience him.

He strode on, descending the steps, his long stride effortless, eating the distance across the forecourt to the coach. He passed the befuddled footman returning to the house. Was conscious that the man turned and slowed, watching him. All the others were gathered on the porch, doing the same, totally bewildered as to what was going on, what they should do.

Sebastian glimpsed Helena’s white face at the coach window. Raised a hand in salute. They’d done it—they were away.

His stride unfaltering, he shot a glance at Phillipe—nodded. Phillipe turned back to the groom.

Sebastian reached the coach. In one fluid movement he climbed to the box seat. Surprised, the coachman turned to him. Sebastian grabbed the reins, dropped them, grabbed the man and tossed him onto the patch of lawn on the other side of the coach.

Seizing the reins, Sebastian yelled, slapped the horses’ rumps, then sat as the coach rocketed off. He glanced briefly back, saw the groom sprawled in the dust, saw Phillipe hanging on grimly in the groom’s place.

Facing forward, Sebastian whipped up the horses. There were shouts, confused jabbering from behind, but the sounds quickly faded as he took the curve toward the fortress gates at speed.

The gates stood open.

Another carriage was driving in.

A gig, its horse in a lather.

The moon sailed forth. Sebastian’s lips curved as he recognized the gig’s driver and the passenger clinging to the rail, pointing at the coach bearing down upon them.

The gig cleared the gates. The drive was wide enough for only one carriage. Beside the drive lay a duck pond.

Sebastian urged the coach’s four horses on. He drove the coach directly at the gig.

Louis yelled and hauled on the reins.

The gig slewed and careered down the bank into the pond.

Villard flew out and splashed down in the pond’s center.

The coach swept on, straight for the gates.

Inside the coach, Helena heard the shouts, forced her eyes open, ignored the waves of pain.

She looked through the window—saw Louis, white-faced, cursing as he jumped from the gig, only to land in the mud.

Then the gates of Le Roc flashed past—and she knew she was free. She and Ariele. Totally free.

Relief was like a drug, spreading through her veins.

Her lids sank, fell.

The coach hit a rut.

Pain lanced through her. Blackness rose like a wave and dragged her down.

She woke to warmth, to softness and comfort, to the distant smell of baking. Mince pies. Sweet pastries. Rich baked fruit.

The aromas wafted her back to childhood, to memories of Christmases long past. To the time when her parents had been alive and the long corridors of Cameralle had been filled with boundless joy, with laughter, good cheer, and a pervasive, golden peace.

For minutes she hung, suspended in time, a ghostly visitor returning to savor past joys, past loves. Then the visions slowly faded.

The peace remained.

Inexorably, the present drew her back, the smells reminding her she was ravenously hungry. She remembered what had happened, felt the ache in her shoulder, the stiffness and the restriction of bandages.

Opening her eyes, she saw a window. There was snow on the sill, snow between the panes, ice patterns on the glass. Her eyes adjusting to the gray light, she looked farther, into the shadows beyond the window—and saw Sebastian sitting on a chair.

He was watching her. When she said nothing, he asked, “How do you feel?”

She blinked, drew in a deep breath, let it slowly out, easing past the pain. “Better.”

“Your shoulder still hurts.”

Not a question. “Yes, but . . .” She eased onto her back. “Not as badly. It’s manageable, I think.” Then she frowned. “Where are we?” She lifted her head. “Ariele?”

His lips curved briefly. “She’s belowstairs with Phillipe. She’s well and safe.” He drew his chair closer to the bed.

Helena reached out a hand; he took it, clasped it between his. “So . . .” She was still puzzled but inexpressibly comforted by the warmth of his hands closing about hers. “We are still in France?”

“Oui. We couldn’t travel far, so I rejiggered our plans.”

“But . . .” She frowned at him. “You should have driven straight to Saint-Malo.”

The look he bent on her told her not to be stupid. “You were injured and unconscious. I sent a message to the yacht and came here.”

“But Fabien will follow.”

“He’ll undoubtedly try to, but he’ll send to Saint-Malo or Calais. He’ll search to the north, expecting us to run that way. Instead, we came south and away from the coast.”

“But . . . how will we return to England?” She wriggled higher against the pillows, ignored the stabbing pain. “You must get back for Christmas—for your family gathering. And if Fabien is searching, we cannot stay here. We must—”

“Mignonne,be quiet.”

When she fell silent, unsure, he continued, “All is arranged. My yacht will be waiting at Saint-Nazaire when we’re ready to depart. We’ll be home in good time for Christmas.” His eyes, very blue, held hers. “There is nothing for you to do but recuperate. Once you’re well enough to travel, we’ll leave. Is there anything more you need to know?”

She looked at him, considered the asperity coloring his tone. Treasured it. She sighed and squeezed his hand. “I am a sad trial, am I not?”

He snorted. “You took years off my life. And Fabien’s.”

She frowned, recalling. “He did not wish to injure me, did he?”

“No—he was horrified. As was I.” Sebastian considered her, then added, “He never intended to harm you. Or Ariele.”

“Ariele? But—” She broke off, searching his face, then her eyes cleared. “It was aruse ?”

“A heartless one perhaps, but yes—it was the surest way to get you to do as he wished.”

He could see her thinking back, remembering, reassessing. She shook her head. “He is a strange man.”

“He’s an unfulfilled man.” Looking down at her lying in the bed, Sebastian knew that was true. Understood what it took for men like him and Fabien to be fulfilled. Accepted it.

Helena stirred, glanced at him. “There is one thing I do not yet know—tell me how you got this dagger of his.”

He smiled. Looked down at her hand lying between his. Twining his fingers with hers, he lifted them to his lips, brushed a lingering kiss across them. “I won the dagger”—he lifted his gaze to her eyes—“on the night we first met.”

Her eyes widened. “Vraiment?That was the reason you were after Collette’s earring?”

“Oui. I won a large amount from Fabien’s younger brother, so Fabien sought me out, to put me in my place. We English were widely known for our wild wagers. Fabien manipulated the scene so I could not refuse—not without losing face. He didn’t, however, expect me to turn the tables and ask for the dagger to balance the scales. He’d brought half the glory of France with him—before them, he had to agree.”

“But he sent word to the convent.”

“Naturally. I knew he would. I pretended I was drunk and rolled off to my hotel—and from there straight to the convent.” He looked into her eyes. “To meet you in the moonlight.”

She smiled, not just with her lips but with her peridot eyes, now clear of all clouds and worries. There was more color in her cheeks than there had been when she woke. He squeezed her hand, then released it and stood. “Bon. So if you are now awake and reassured, I’ll fetch Ariele and tell the innkeeper’s wife you’re ready to eat.”

Her smile was all he’d hoped for. “Please.” She eased up to sit; he helped her. “I will eat, and then we can leave.”

“Tomorrow.”

She looked at him, looked at the window. “But—”

“You will eat and rest and gather your strength, andif you’re well in the morning, we’ll leave.”

She met his gaze, read his determination, then sighed and sank back on her pillows. “As you will, Your Grace.”

“Indeed,mignonne —it will be precisely as I will.”

Naturally, it was. Helena wondered if she would ever get used to the sensation of being swept up and along by a will more powerful than hers.

The rest of that day passed peacefully. In the afternoon she left her bed and dressed and ventured downstairs to view the tiny, family-run inn Sebastian had found tucked away in the valley of the Sarthe. There was no main road near; the family was truly grateful for their custom. She was sure they had no idea they were playing host to an English duke and a French comtesse.

They had the inn to themselves; a fresh snowfall had reduced all outdoor activities to the strictly necessary. The inn parlor was warm and cozy; it was pleasant to sit by the fire beside Sebastian and watch as he played chess with Phillipe.

There were only a few days remaining beforela nuit de Noël; the inn was already filled with a sense of calm, of peace—the expectation of joy. As she sat beside Sebastian, safe and warm, Helena found her heart free of worries, free of cares—for the first time in all the years since her parents had died, free to relax, to enjoy, free to let the calm, the peace, and the anticipation of joy assured flow in and fill her soul.

Closing her eyes, she felt the promise of the season pour in, overflow.

The next day she insisted she was well enough to travel. Sebastian viewed her critically but agreed. After a large breakfast they set out through the melting snow and found the way clearer the farther south they went. They reached Saint-Nazaire as evening approached. Sebastian’s yacht lay bobbing by the quay—they spotted it from the cliffs above the town, Helena with some relief.

Then they were aboard. The sails were set; they filled with the freshening breeze, and the sleek vessel turned and headed home.

It was an uneventful passage, much of which she spent in the main cabin with Sebastian. Whether it was some ploy of his to keep her resting or, as she increasingly suspected, a delayed reaction to her injury, the danger he’d seen her in, those hours were filled with a heated passion more possessive and undisguised than all that had gone before.

Her murmurs that Ariele was in the next cabin had little effect; when she met her sister on the deck, strolling in the calm of the evening, Ariele only smiled shyly, a little too knowingly, and hugged her.

That her sister went in no fear of Sebastian was apparent; he treated her with fraternal indulgence while she laughed and teased. Helena watched them and felt her heart fill until she thought it might burst.

After a day and another night, the yacht laid into Newhaven with the morning tide. The coach was waiting; after breakfast, with her and Ariele tucked up in furs and silk wraps, they set out on the last leg of their journey home.

Home.

As the miles vanished beneath the heavy hooves of Sebastian’s powerful horses, Helena considered that. Cameralle—in truth, she’d left her childhood home long ago. Le Roc? The fortress had never been home, not in the sense of a place of comfort, somewhere to return at journey’s end. A place of contentment.

Somersham?

Her heart said yes even though her mind still questioned, still hesitated. Not over him, but, as the houses of London rose and engulfed them, she could not ignore the fact that both he and she held positions that embodied, and affected, more than their individual selves.

Family. Society. Politics.

Power.

His world, and hers. She’d been wrong to imagine she could ever walk away; it was in her blood as well as in his.

The horses checked, turned. She glanced out as the coach clattered into a fashionable square. The horses slowed even more, then halted before the steps leading up to an imposing mansion.

She glanced at Sebastian.

He met her gaze. “St. Ives House. This is Grosvenor Square.”

She looked at the house. “Your town residence?”

“Ours. We’ll stop here for half an hour. There are matters I need to check into, then we’ll go on.”

Ariele had been sleeping; now she stretched and shook out her gown—grimaced at its state.

“No matter.” Sebastian laid his hand on her wrist briefly as he moved past her and descended to the pavement. He held out a commanding hand—helped Helena down, then Ariele. “My aunt Clara’s at Somersham, and my sister, Augusta, too—they’ll be thrilled to help organize gowns for you. But there’s no one here at present, so you needn’t worry.”

Helena was relieved on the same score; she felt just a little bedraggled. Sebastian led her up the steps. The day was dark and gloomy; lights burned in the hall and lit the fanlight.

A very correct butler opened the door; seeing them, he struggled to suppress a delighted smile. He bowed low. “Welcome home, Your Grace.”

Sebastian, leading Helena into the warmth and welcoming ambience of elegant luxury, raised a brow, directing a sharp glance his butler’s way. “Why, Doyle?”

“We’ve been entertaining guests, Your Grace.” With unimpaired calm, Doyle switched his gaze to Helena.

Sebastian sighed. “This is the comtesse d’Lisle—soon to be your mistress. Her sister, Mlle de Stansion, and M. de Sèvres.” He glanced around as the butler took his cloak, then moved to take Helena’s. “Where the devil are the footmen?”

“I regret that they’re currently required in the library, my lord.”

Sebastian turned to fix his gaze on the man. “Doyle—”

The door to their left opened. “Really,Doyle, what do you mean by it? Why haven’t you shown whoever it is in? . . .”

Lady Almira Cynster froze on the threshold of the drawing room and stared—stunned—at Sebastian. Then she colored. “Sebastian! Well! I thought you were in the country or . . .” Her words trailed off as she took in their party. She dismissed Phillipe and Ariele with a cursory glance; her gaze darkened as it fixed on Helena. Her face set in uncompromising lines.

“What are you doing here, Almira?”

Sebastian’s soft, almost menacing tones brought Almira’s gaze back to his face. Helena quelled a shiver; it had been weeks since she’d last heard such tones from him.

“I . . . ah, well . . .” Almira gestured vaguely, coloring even more.

After a brief, uncomfortable pause, Sebastian murmured, “Doyle, please show mademoiselle and M. de Sèvres to the library . . . ah, no, I forget—perhaps the parlor will be more to their taste—and serve them suitable refreshments. Mademoiselle la comtesse and I will join them shortly. We will be leaving within the hour for Somersham.”

“Indeed, Your Grace.” Doyle bowed, then ushered Ariele and Phillipe down the long hall and away.

“Now, Almira, perhaps we might continue in my drawing room, rather than the hall.”

She turned with a humph and flounced ungracefully back to plump down in the middle of a silk-covered sofa. Accepting that if she was to become Sebastian’s wife she would have to deal with the woman, Helena suppressed the urge to slink cravenly away with Ariele and Phillipe; instead she let Sebastian lead her into the drawing room.

A footman materialized and shut the door behind them. If it had been any other lady, Helena would have felt dismayed to be seen in her brown gown, washed and with the hole at the shoulder repaired by Ariele, but still crumpled and stained. Almira, however . . . she simply couldn’t consider the woman as one whose opinion should worry her.

As they neared the sofa, she saw that the table before it supported teapot, cups and saucers, and two plates with biscuits and cakes. There were four cups set out, all with tea in them, three untouched.

Sebastian regarded the display and faintly raised one brow. “I repeat—what are you doing here, Almira?”

His tone was softer, less frightening.

Almira humphed. “I’m practicing, aren’t I? I’ll have to do it someday—indeed, we should be living here now. Scandalous to have such a great house with no lady to run it.”

“I agree—at least with your last statement. So you’ll be pleased to hear that Mlle d’Lisle has consented to become my wife. My duchess.”

Reaching for her teacup, Almira stilled, then looked up. “Don’t be daft!” Her face filled with dismissive contempt. “They all said you were going to marry her, but you’ve just spent the better part of a week gadding about alone with her.” She snorted and picked up her cup. “You won’t catch me with that. You can’t marry her—not now. Think of the scandal.”

The thought of the scandal clearly heartened Almira; she smiled gloatingly as she lowered her cup.

Sebastian regarded her, then sighed. “Almira, I don’t know why you fail to perceive it, but as I’ve told you before, there’s a vast difference between the unwritten laws that govern the conduct of one such as I, or Mlle d’Lisle, and those that apply to the bourgeoisie.” His tone left little doubt as to the difference. “Hence, you will most definitely be required to attend our wedding, and that in the not overly distant future.”

The delicate cup cradled between her hands, Almira stared blankly at him. Then she suddenly set down the cup. “Charles! You must see him.”

She surged to her feet. Sebastian stayed her with an upraised hand. “You will bring him to Somersham as usual—I’ll see him there.”

Almira pouted. “There’ll be others there. He’s your heir—you must spend more time with him. Besides, he’s here.”

“Here?”The single word was loaded with foreboding. “Where? No—silly question. I take it he’s in the library?”

“Well, what of it? It’ll be his one day . . .”

Sebastian whirled and strode for the door.

“Well, itwill !” Almira hurried after him.

Towed along, her hand locked in Sebastian’s, Helena heard him mutter as he hauled open the drawing room door, “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

The library was two doors along; a footman saw them coming and flung the door wide. The scene they came upon would have been farcical if it hadn’t been so strange. Three footmen stood in a wide ring around a toddler, who was sitting on a rug some way before the hearth. The little boy simply sat, face glum, and stared woodenly at the dark shelves lining the long room.

The child was instantly recognizable as Almira’s—the same round face and receding chin, the same ruddy complexion.

She rushed past them and swept the boy up in her arms. To Helena’s surprise, the child showed no reaction, but simply turned his wooden gaze on Sebastian and her.

“See!”Almira all but thrust the boy at Sebastian. “You don’t have to marry her—there’s no need! You already have an heir—”

“Almira!”

The single word cracked; shocked, Almira blinked, shut her mouth.

Helena glanced at Sebastian, sensed him rein in his temper, cast quickly about for the best direction to take.

Then he released her hand; stepping between Almira and her, he took Almira by the elbow. “Come. It’s time you went home.” He led her up the long room toward the door. “Mlle d’Lisle and I will be married at Somersham; you will bring Charles there, and you will both attend the wedding. Helena will then be my duchess. After that it will not be appropriate for you to call here while we are not in residence. Do you understand?”

Almira paused; even across the width of the room, Helena could sense her frustrated puzzlement. “She will be your duchess.”

“Yes.” Sebastian paused, then added, “And her son will be my heir.”

Almira looked back at him; her face slowly leached to its previous wooden state. “Well, then.” Hoisting Charles in her arms, she turned to the door that a footman held open. “Of course, if she’s to be your duchess, then there’s no need for me to come and take charge of things here.”

“Indeed.”

“Well, good-bye, then.” Without a backward glance, Almira went out.

Sebastian gestured, and the footmen—all, Helena noticed, looking hugely relieved—quickly left. They shut the door behind them; his expression distant, Sebastian walked back to her. Then he shook his head, looked up, and met her gaze. “I regret that that is what you’ll have to deal with. But there’s no one more difficult, that I can promise.”

She smiled, wondering . . .

He looked at her, into her eyes, then sighed and took her hands. “Mignonne,we will get along a great deal better if you will simply tell me your thoughts, rather than leaving me to guess them.”

She frowned at him, uncertain.

His next sigh was less patient. “You’re worrying again—about what?”

She blinked, suppressed a smile, considered, then, drawing her hands from his, walked to the nearby window, a wide bay looking over a lawn. The shrubs surrounding the lawn were wet and gleaming, bejeweled by the misty rain.

She owed him so much—her freedom, Ariele’s as well. She was more than willing to give him the rest of her life in recompense—to put up with his dictatorial ways, to bow to the possessiveness that was so much a part of him. That would be the least of a fair exchange.

Yet . . . perhaps she owed him still more.

Something that only she could grant him.

Perhaps she owed him his freedom, too.

“You said—before, at Somersham—that you had a question you were waiting to ask me, once I was ready to give you an answer.” She lifted her head, drew in a breath, surprised to discover how tight her chest felt. “I wish you to know that I will understand if you no longer, truly, in your heart, wish to ask me that question.”

She held up a hand to stop him from speaking. “I realize you must marry, but there are many others who could be your duchess. Others to whom you would not be . . . bound, as you are to me. As I am to you.”

Looking across the garden, she forced herself to say, her voice quiet, clear, “You never wished to marry, perhaps because you never wished to be bound, as you will be if we wed. If we marry, you will never be free—the chains will always be there, holding us, linking us.”

“And what of you?” His voice was deep, low. “Will you not be equally bound, equally snared?”

Her lips curved fractionally. “You know the answer.” She glanced at him, met his blue gaze. “Regardless of whether we marry or not, I will always be yours. I will never be free of you.” After an instant she added, “And I do not wish to be.”

The declaration—and her offer of freedom—hung between them. She slowly drew breath and looked back at the lawns, at the glistening shrubs.

He watched her, unmoving; a long moment passed, then she sensed him draw near. His arms came around her, closed, then locked tight. He bent his head, held her close, leaned his chin against her temple.

Then he spoke, his voice low.

“No power on earth could make me give you up. The power that rules the heavens would never let me live without you. And that doesn’t mean as duke and mistress, but as day-to-day lovers—husband and wife.” Easing his hold, he turned her, met her gaze. “You are the only woman I have ever thought of marrying, the only woman I can imagine as my duchess. And yes, I feel chained, and no, I do not appreciate the sensation, but for you—for the prize of having you as my wife—I will bear those chains gladly.”

She studied his eyes; his emotions were for once unmasked, etched clearly in the burning blue. She read them, acknowledged their truth, accepted it. Still . . . “Almira mentioned scandal. Tell me truly—is she correct?”

His lips curved, his smile a trifle wry. “No scandal. In France it may be different, but here—it’s not actually considered possible to create a scandal through traveling with one’s betrothed.”

“But we’re not . . .” She tilted her head, considered his eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“I wasn’t sure how long we’d be away, so . . . I sent an announcement to the Clerk of the Court for inclusion in the Court Circular.”

She felt her eyes widen as realization dawned. “Beforewe left Somersham?”

“Before you take umbrage, pray consider this point.” Capturing her hands, he raised them to his lips, captured her gaze with his eyes. “If you now refuse me, you’ll expose me to the ridicule of the entire ton. I’ve laid my heart and my honor at your feet, publicly—they’re yours to trample if you choose.”

He was manipulating her again—she knew it. Trample his heart? All she wanted was to cherish it. “Humph!” It was hard to frown when her heart was soaring. Lifting her chin, she nodded. “Very well—you may ask me your question now.”

He smiled, not triumphant but wistfully grateful, and her heart turned over.

“Mignonne,will you be mine? Will you marry me and be my duchess—my partner in all my enterprises . . . my wife for the rest of my days?”

Yes seemed far too simple. “You already know my answer.”

He shook his head, his smile deepening. “I would never be so foolish as to take you for granted. You must tell me.”

She couldn’t not laugh. “Yes.”

He arched a brow. “Just yes?”

She smiled gloriously, reached up and twined her arms about his neck. “Yes with all my heart. Yes with all my soul.”

* * *

There was nothing more to say.

In perfect accord they traveled on to Somersham as Sebastian had decreed, but when they arrived, he discovered that, powerful though he might be, there were yet some things beyond his control.

The huge house was full, filled to the rafters with family and friends, all waiting to hear their news.

“Isaid just the usual crowd.” He bent a narrow-eyed look on Augusta as, beaming and bright, she kissed his cheek. “You’ve assembled half the ton!”

Augusta pulled a face at him. “It wasn’t me who sent a notice to the Clerk. After that, what would you? You can hardly expect the tonnot to be interested in your nuptials.”

“Indeed, dear boy.” Clara was in alt. “Such amomentous occasion! Of course everyone wanted to be here. We could hardly turn them away.”

Augusta embraced Helena warmly. “I’m so pleased, as is everyone here! And I hope you won’t think us too busy, but Clara and I knew how it would be—my brother would never let a little thing like a wedding gown stand in his way—so we’ve had a gown, my mother’s old gown, remade. It should fit—we used the gowns you left here to match, and Marjorie’s been so helpful. I do hope you like it.”

“I’m sure . . .” Helena’s head was whirling, but she couldn’t keep the smile from her face. She introduced Ariele, who Augusta greeted with glee.

“Sixteen? Oh, my dear, you’ll do wonderfully well!”

Phillipe, understandably, frowned when he was introduced, but Augusta didn’t notice. Ariele flashed him a quick smile, and he brightened. Before Helena could pay more attention herself, Augusta gathered her and Ariele and waved her fingers at her brother. “You’ll have to fend for yourself, Your Grace. The ladies have been waiting to meet Helena, and she’ll want to change first.” She glanced over her shoulder as she urged Helena and Ariele to the stairs. “You might want to check in the library. Last time I looked in, they’d broached your best brandy. You know, that French stuff you had brought in by water . . .”

Sebastian cursed beneath his breath. He frowned at his sister, who paid not the slightest heed. With a muttered imprecation, he set off for the library.

The front hall and all the major rooms were bedecked with holly wreaths and evergreens, the bustle and cheer of the season augmented and heightened by the excitement of their wedding. Huge logs burned in every grate; the smell of yuletide baking and mulled wine spiced the air.

Christmas was upon them; a time to trust, a time to give. A time to share.

Everyone gathered in the great house felt the inexorable rise of the tide, experienced the welling joy.

So it was on the morning of Christmas Eve, with snow covering the grass, crisped by a hard frost and scattered with diamonds, a gift from the sun that shone in the clear sky, Helena stood in the chapel in the grounds of Somersham Place and took the vows that would bind her to Sebastian, to his home, to his family, for all time. Heard him take the corresponding vows to protect and cherish her, now and forever.

In the atmosphere of blessed peace, of joy in love, in the time of the year when those emotions held sway and touched every heart, they were married.

She turned to him, set back the delicate veil that had been his mother’s, noting the jeweled lights playing over them as the sun shone in benediction through the rose window. She went into his arms, felt them close around her. Knew she was safe.

Knew she was free—free to live her life under the protection of a loving tyrant.

She lifted her face, and they kissed.

And the bells rang out, joyously pealing in salute to the day, in salute to the season—in salute to the love that bound their hearts.

Frost etched the glass in myriad patterns in the window beside which Sebastian sat writing. It was the next morning, and the huge house lay still, slumbering lazily, the guests too worn out by the revelry of the day before to bestir themselves so soon.

In the large, luxuriously appointed ducal bedchamber with its massive four-poster bed, the only sounds to break the silence were the scritch-scratch of his pen, crossing and recrossing the parchment, and an occasional crackle from the fire. Despite the freeze that had laid siege beyond the glass, the temperature in the room was comfortable enough for him to sit and write in just his robe.

On the desk, beside his hand, lay a dagger, old and worn, sheathed in leather. The hilt was gold, ornate, supporting a large, pigeon’s-egg-size star ruby. Although worth a small fortune by weight alone, the dagger’s true value could not be measured in any scale.

Reaching the end of his missive, Sebastian laid down his pen, then glanced at the bed. Helena hadn’t stirred; he could see the tangle of her black curls lying on his pillow, just as he’d left them when he’d slipped from her side half an hour before.

She’d been welcomed into the Cynster clan with a joy that had transcended even the joy of the season. During their wedding breakfast, which had lasted all day, he’d seen her blossom—shackling Martin and George with her eyes, with her laughter and her smiles, making them forever her slaves, exchanging glances with Augusta, conspirator and companion, already firm friends. He’d seen her deal calmly and graciously with Almira, with an understanding he lacked. Watched her charm Arthur, the most reserved of them all.

As for the rest—the wider family, friends, and connections gathered to witness and pass judgment—as Therese Osbaldestone had baldly informed him, they all thought him a lucky dog.

Little did they know—much less did they see, except perhaps for Therese. Helena, after all, was too much like him.

He’d never be able to take her love for granted, to expect her love as his due. Powerful he might be, noble and wealthy, yet there remained one thing he could not command. So he would always be there, watching, always ready to protect her, to ensure that she remained forever his.

Such was the vulnerability of a conqueror.

Therese would doubtless say he’d got all he deserved.

Lips curving, he looked back at his letter. Read it through.

I am returning with this an item to which I believe you are entitled. You will recall the circumstances in which it came into my hands, seven years ago. What you never knew was that in sending me to the Convent des Jardinières de Marie, you set me in the path of your ward, then staying there.

That, my friend, was the one piece of information you lacked. We had met before you sent her to retrieve your item, met and exchanged a promise. In sending her to me to secure that item, you gave us the chance to revisit that earlier promise, to explore it as we had not had a chance to do before.

We have now explored the potential fully and have reached our own agreement. I am now in possession of something worth inexpressibly more than your item—and for that I must thank you. Our future, hers and mine, we owe to you.

Pray accept the enclosed item—yours once again—as a token of our thanks.

You will be interested to know that your ward was not seriously inconvenienced by the accident that unfortunately marred our recent visit. Her energy and inventiveness are undimmed—to that I can personally attest.

And yes,mon ami,she is now the Duchess of St. Ives.

Bonne chance—until next we cross swords.

Sebastian smiled, imagining Fabien reading it. He signed the letter, then sanded it; as he replaced the shaker, a rustling had him turning to the bed.

Brushing back her mane of hair, Helena smiled, languid and sultry, and sank back on the pillows. “What are you doing?”

Sebastian grinned. “Writing to your guardian.”

“Ah.” She nodded, then lifted one hand and beckoned. The gold band he’d placed on her finger the day before glinted. “I think now that it is I you should deal with first, Your Grace.”

His title on her lips, the Rs heavily rolled, was a blatant invitation.

Sebastian left the letter and rose, returned to the bed.

To her.

To the warmth of her arms.

To the promise in her kiss.