The Promise in a Kiss (18 page)

Louis's surly tone nearly made her laugh. Hysterically. He was sulking because Fabien was using her talents, not his.

But why? Her mind fixed on the point, turned it over—then she saw. Because she was a woman—a woman Sebastian wanted. He'd apparently been too strong for Fabien's persuasions, so Fabien, with his usual vindictive touch, had chosen as his thief one who would not only succeed in retrieving the dagger but who, in doing so, would also dent Sebastian's pride.

Fabien would do what he could to hurt Sebastian; that it would hurt her, too, would neither occur to him nor perturb him if it did. Indeed, he would probably view any hurt she suffered as due punishment for her temerity in forcing that letter from him.

Louis scowled at her. “If you require any assistance, I'm to help you. But I would strongly suggest that until we leave, you keep St. Ives at arm's length—
if you take my meaning
.”

Helena stared at him. How did he know? She tipped up her chin and looked down her nose at him. “I will retrieve your uncle's property as I see fit—you need not let my methods concern you.”

With a dismissive nod, she swept past him to her door, opened it, and went in.

Louis stood still, staring after her. When the door clicked shut, he turned and headed for his room.

Villard was waiting. “Well?”

Louis shut his room door, ran his hands through his hair. “She says she will do it.”

“
Bon!
Then all is progressing, and there is no reason you cannot write and tell monsieur le comte—”

“No!” Agitated, Louis paced before the hearth. Then he flung up his hands. “
Marriage!
Whoever would have
imagined
? Fabien said St. Ives had publicly decreed he would not wed, and that was years ago! Now suddenly the talk is of a wedding!”

By the bed folding shirts, Villard looked down. After a moment he murmured, “From what you said, it seems unlikely marriage was on monsieur le duc's mind, not until you directed those others into the library . . .”

Louis missed the malicious glance Villard slanted his way. “Precisely!” He continued to pace. “But what could I do? He would have had her there and then—and then what? Retired merrily to his estate for Christmas, without her. No. I had to stop him—and better those others than me. He would have been alerted had I gone in.”

Villard's lip curled; he looked down at the shirts.

“I tell you, I had palpitations when I heard what everyone was whispering. No one cared about the masquerade anymore—all the talk was of St. Ives marrying!”

“I believe it is something of a coup, which is why, perhaps, a word to monsieur le comte—”

“No, I tell you!
No!
Things are back on track now. Helena knows what she must do—and she is not a fool, that one. She will not risk monsieur le comte's displeasure. She will not give herself to St. Ives.”

“From your description, I thought she had.”

“No. I am sure . . . He must have overwhelmed her. His reputation is
formidable
. Although I would have thought . . .” Louis frowned, then waved his tangled thoughts aside. “No matter. It is settled. She will not fail, nor will she give in to St. Ives—not now.”

Villard studied the neat pile of shirts and let the silence grow. Then he said, “What if—purely a supposition—what if she accepts him?”

“She hasn't. I would have heard of it. But even if she needs to do so, to lead him to believe all is progressing as it should, then weddings for such as they are take months to arrange. And they'd have to get Fabien's permission.
Huh!
”

The thought cheered Louis. He actually smiled.

Villard drew breath, lifted his head. “Do you not think it might be wise to warn monsieur le comte?”

Louis shook his head. “No need to start hares. All is proceeding as Fabien wished. The matter of this marriage is incidental.” Louis gestured contemptuously. “There is no need to fuss, and Fabien won't care. As long as he gets his dagger back—that is all he cares about.”

Villard silently exhaled, picked up the pile of shirts, and carried them to the wardrobe.

H
elena sat at Sebastian's right at the breakfast table the next morning. As she buttered a piece of toast, she mentally recited what she had to do.

She had to hold Sebastian off, keep him at arm's length; Louis had been right about that. She had to find and take Fabien's dagger. And then she had to flee. Fast. Because nothing was surer than that Sebastian would come after her.

There would be no point taking the dagger, then trying to brazen it out. A dagger he'd taken from a French nobleman goes missing while a French noblewoman was visiting? Half a second, she estimated, would be all it would take for him to figure that out.

She would have to leave him and run.

He would be furious. He would see her act as a betrayal.

He'd assume she'd been part of Fabien's plot all along . . .

The realization had her raising her head, then she blocked off her thoughts—reached for the jam. Set her jaw.

Nothing else mattered but saving Ariele. She had no choice; she couldn't afford to let any other consideration sway her.

The Thierrys and Clara were discussing a walk in the gardens; Louis had yet to appear.

She nearly jumped when Sebastian ran a finger along the back of her hand. Eyes wide, she met his gaze.

His lips lifted lightly, but his gaze was sharp. “I wondered,
mignonne,
if you were sufficiently recovered to risk a ride. You might find the fresh air more invigorating than a slow stroll around the gardens.”

Her heart leaped at the thought of a ride. And on horseback they wouldn't be that close—she wouldn't be risking any contact that might give her away, that might test the walls she was trying to erect around her heart.

Letting her lips curve, letting her eagerness show, she nodded. “I would like that very much.”

He waved negligently. “As soon as you're ready.”

They met in the hall half an hour later, she in her riding habit, he in long boots and a riding jacket. With a wave he ushered her on. They left the house by a side door and crossed the lawns, strolling under the bare branches of towering oaks to a stable block beyond.

He'd sent word ahead; their mounts stood waiting. A huge gray hunter for him, a frisky bay mare for her. He lifted her to the mare's saddle, then gathered the gray's reins and mounted. The beast shifted, snorted, eager to be away; the mare danced.

“Shall we?” Sebastian raised a brow.

Helena laughed—her first spontaneous reaction since reading Fabien's letter—and wheeled the mare.

They left the stable yard side by side, stride for stride. Sebastian held the gray in. The horse shook his head once, then settled, accepting the edict, accepting the masterful hand on his reins. Inwardly smiling, Helena looked ahead.

Despite the month, it was clear, but the morning chill had yet to leave the air. Soft clouds filled the skies, blocking out the weak sun, yet it was pleasant riding through the quiet fields, empty and brown, already touched by winter's hand. There was peace here, too. Helena felt it touch her, soothe her.

She'd ridden since she could stand, the stocky ponies of the Camargue her steeds. The activity required no conscious effort, leaving her free to look around, to appreciate, to enjoy. The mare was responsive, easy to manage; they rode without any need for words, she wheeling as Sebastian did, following him across his lands.

They topped a rise. To her surprise, the land beyond lay flat, rolling before them to the horizon. She'd never seen such a sight before, but Sebastian didn't pause; he led her down the gentle slope into that seemingly infinite expanse.

A raised path led between two fields. They followed it, then Sebastian angled down into the pasture and set the gray to a canter. Helena followed—and suddenly realized the pasture was wet, waterlogged, yet not marshy. Sebastian let the gray stretch his legs; she matched him, fearlessly keeping pace, feeling the wind rush to meet them, then racing away through her hair.

Despite all, she felt the heavy cloud that lay over her heart lift, ease. Blow away.

They rode on through the morning, stride for stride, the sky wide and windswept above. The call of larks and waterbirds was the only sound to counterpoint the rhythm of the horses' hooves.

Then another path—a dike—appeared. The horses took the slope easily, then Sebastian wheeled and reined in. He glanced at her.

She met his gaze, a smile on her lips, a laugh bubbling up. “Oh!” She dragged in a breath. “It's just like home!”

“Home?”

“Cameralle is in the Camargue. It's”—she looked around—“not the same but similar.” Gazing up, she lifted her arms to the sky. “Like here, the sky is wide and open.” Lowering her arms, she stretched them to either side. “And the marsh runs forever.”

She grinned and set the mare ambling beside the gray. “Many think it too wild a place.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw him smile.

“And the occupants too wild for decency?”

She laughed and didn't answer.

It wasn't hard to keep her worries in check for the rest of that magical morning. In the wilds of the Camargue she had always been free; she felt the same sense of freedom, of being unfettered, here. Of being allowed to be free.

Even after, when, tired but refreshed, they cantered back to the stable, she managed, by dint of will, to keep her mind free of Fabien's contagion. She was still smiling when they reached the house. Sebastian led her to a side door, held it open, and ushered her in.

She entered, then stopped. The door gave directly into a small parlor, not a corridor as she'd supposed. The door clicked shut as she turned. Then Sebastian was there, and she was in his arms.

Lightly held, not seized. Cradled like something precious, something he wished to own.

She looked into his face, into those blue eyes, and saw that truth etched in the blue.

His hand was beneath her chin, tipping up her face.

Her lids fell as he lowered his head.

Practice made perfect. A self-evident fact, at least in this case. Their lips seemed to know each other's—touched, brushed, then fused with the confidence of familiarity.

The pressure increased. She hesitated, for one instant held back—realized in the same moment that she couldn't, couldn't hide from him in this, for he would know and grow suspicious. Realized she couldn't bear to let Fabien triumph in denying her even this.

Just this was all he'd left her—whatever experience she was brave enough to grasp, to seize. To take for herself—now.

Deliberately, she parted her lips, lured Sebastian in, tasted him and gloried—deliberately seized.

Just a kiss. Neither pushed for more, yet there was a flagrant promise in the melding of their mouths, in the hot tangle of their tongues. In the way their bodies came together, soft to hard, hips to thighs, breast to chest.

She took and he gave; he made demands and she met them gladly. Passion awakened, rose, stretched; desire watched from the wings. Heat, deep pleasure, and that sweet, aching yearning—they were there, hovering, yet held back by a knowing hand. A tantalizing promise.

How powerful could a kiss be?

Enough to leave them both panting, both urgently wanting more, yet conscious through the pounding that filled their ears of the luncheon gong echoing through the house.

Their eyes met, glances touching in sure recognition, then sliding away. Breaths merged, then they kissed again, came together again, a last caress before easing apart.

He held her until she nodded, once more sure on her feet. He released her but reluctantly, sliding his hands down her arms as she turned to the door. His fingers tangled with hers, twined, then slid away.

“Until later,
mignonne
.”

She heard the deep murmur as she reached the door. Heard the promise in the words. She hesitated but could think of nothing to say. Opening the door, she led the way through. Sebastian followed.

I
F
Fabien was to deny her all chance of a life—the life that should by rights have been hers—then she would take what she could, experience all she could along the way.

Along the way to perdition.

Despite her defiant stance, Helena felt plagued by doubts, racked by guilt. By the sense that, while plotting to thieve from Sebastian, in taking pleasure from him, no matter how much she gave back, she was committing some heinous sin.

She should find the dagger quickly. Then go.

The house lay silent about her even though it was only just eleven. She'd heard a clock somewhere strike the hour as she'd slipped from her room. She'd considered waiting until after twelve, but by then she was sure all the lamps would be extinguished. Most had already been put out, but enough were still burning for her to see her way.

The house was too huge and as yet too unfamiliar for her to risk blundering about in the full dark. And she felt certain that Sebastian, the only one she feared meeting, would keep late hours. He was probably in his study, looking over some papers. So she devoutly hoped.

An ornate dagger of not-inconsiderable worth—where would he keep it?

Not in any of the rooms she'd thus far seen. A whispered conference had elicited the information that Louis, likewise, hadn't spotted it. Neither he nor that weasely man of his had any idea where it was. So much for Louis's help.

Reaching the gallery, she turned in the direction she'd seen Sebastian take when heading to change for dinner. She doubted he would keep such an object in his bedchamber, but his suite would doubtless include a private room—a room in which he kept his most precious things, the things that meant something to him.

Whether the dagger featured in that category, she didn't know, but . . . given the propensities of powerful men, she suspected it might. Fabien had not mentioned how Sebastian had come to possess a de Mordaunt family heirloom. Louis hadn't known that either. Helena wished she did—aside from anything else, knowing how Sebastian viewed the dagger would aid her in searching for it and in knowing how hard she would need to run once she found it.

Locating Sebastian's apartments wasn't difficult. The opulence of the hangings, furniture, and vases told her she had the right corridor; the coat of arms carved into the solid oak of the double doors at the end confirmed it.

No light showed below the double doors or beneath the single door along the corridor to the right. Ladies to the left, gentlemen to the right—she prayed the English followed the same convention. Holding her breath, she eased open the single door. It opened noiselessly. She peeked in.

Moonlight poured through uncurtained windows, illuminating a large sitting room luxuriously furnished yet distinctly masculine.

The room was empty.

Helena whisked through the door, then carefully shut it. She scanned the room again and saw what she'd hoped to see. A trophy case. She crossed to it, stood before it, and examined all the items. A whip with a silver handle. An engraved cup. A gold plate with some inscription. Various other items, ribbons, decorations, but no dagger.

She looked around, then started circling the room, checking the tops of the small tables and sideboards, investigating all drawers. Reaching the desk, she glanced over the top, hesitated, then tried the drawers. None were locked; none contained any dagger.

“Peste!”
Straightening, she glanced around one last time—and noticed that what she'd taken for a domed clock standing on a pedestal by one window now seen from this more revealing angle was not a clock at all.

She crossed quickly to the pedestal, slowing as she neared. The object that lay beneath the glass dome was not a dagger. It was . . .

Curious, she drew close, peered.

The silvery light lay like gilding on the slim leaves of a dried sprig of mistletoe.

She'd seen that sprig before. Knew the tree on which it had grown.

Remembered—too well—the night it had been taken, snapped off, placed in Sebastian's pocket.

One part of her mind scoffed—how could she be sure it was the same sprig? How nonsensical . . . and yet . . .

I had never forgotten you
.

His words to her two nights ago. If she was to believe the evidence of her eyes, he'd been speaking the truth.

Which meant . . . he might well have been intending to marry her all along. Just as he'd claimed.

Fingertips touching the cold glass, Helena stared at the slim leaves, the slender twigs, while inside something swelled, welled, poured over . . .

While the veils shifted, lifted, and she saw the truth, tasted its aching sweetness.

And recognized, fully and finally, all she would lose in saving Ariele.

The deep bong of a clock made her start. It was echoed by others throughout the house. She blinked, stepped back. She was tempting fate.

With one last, lingering look at the sprig of mistletoe lying preserved forever under the glass, she turned to the door.

She reached her bedchamber without incident, but her heart was pounding. Slipping inside, she closed the door, then paused with one palm on the panels, giving her pulse a chance to slow.

Drawing in a tight breath, she turned into the room—

Sebastian was sitting in the armchair by the hearth. Watching her.

She halted, froze—her wits seized.

He rose, languidly graceful, and crossed the thick carpet toward her. “I've been waiting,
mignonne
. For you.”

She felt her eyes widen as he halted before her. She clung to her surprise. “I . . . didn't expect you.”

An understatement. She fought not to glance at the letters she'd left folded on the dressing table.

He raised one hand; long fingers framed her face. “I did warn you.”

Until later.
She remembered his words, remembered their tone. “Later,” it appeared, had arrived. “But . . .”

He said nothing, simply studied her face, watched . . . waited. She swallowed, gestured weakly to the door. “I went for a walk.” Her voice wavered; she forced a smile, let her nervousness show. Disguised the cause. “Your house is so large and in the dark . . . a little unnerving.” She shrugged lightly; her heart was racing. She let her gaze fall to his lips. Remembered the mistletoe. “I couldn't sleep.”

His lips curved, yet his features remained hard, unyielding. “Sleep?” The deep murmur reached her as he released her face. She felt his hands slide about her waist. “I have to admit,
mignonne
”—he drew her to him, bent his head—“that sleep is the furthest thing from my mind.”

Her head tipped back of its own accord; her lips met his—and she couldn't have stopped, didn't try to stop herself from sinking into his embrace.

Desire flared, and she clung. Held to him as if he were her only salvation.

Knew it wasn't so, knew that for her there could be no savior, no release. No happy ending.

But she couldn't pull back, couldn't deny him what he wanted. Couldn't deny herself her only chance for this.

If she tried, he would suspect, but it wasn't any fear of revealing Fabien's scheme that drove her to agree. To slide her fingers into his hair and hold him to her. She met his demands, pressed her own—their tongues tangled, caressed, hinted boldly at what was to come, what they both sought, desired. It wasn't thoughts of Ariele that warmed her, that supported her through the moment when their lips parted and she felt his fingers on her laces.

She caught her breath on a hiccup. His lips brushed her temple in a soothing caress, but his fingers never paused.

The force that swept through her, that swamped her mind and directed her movements, that gave her the strength to follow his murmured directions, to stand, albeit swaying slightly, as he stripped first her bodice, then her skirts, petticoats, and lastly her chemise from her—that wasn't even desire. Not hers, not his.

Something more.

When she stood naked before him, her skin pearlescent in the moonlight, it was that transcendent power that opened her eyes, that had her glorying in the naked desire in his face, in the passion that burned in his eyes. She could feel his gaze like a flame as it swept from her face to her toes, then returned.

His eyes burned, held hers, and then he took her hands, held them wide, then raised one, then the other, to his lips.

“Come,
mignonne
—be mine.”

His tone—dark, gravelly, dangerous—sent a shiver racing through her. He drew her hands to his shoulders, released them, reached for her. She drew breath, felt her chest swell, felt her heart lift. She went to him, into his arms, eagerly, gladly.

She'd been made for this; she felt it in her bones, in her marrow, in her soul. He drew her close, kissed her deeply, then set his hands to her bare skin.

An innocent, she didn't know the ways, but she knew he did, trusted implicitly in what he would do, how he would treat her, take her, how he would make her his. She couldn't fight the power that drove her—never thought to do so—it was simply too powerful, too overwhelmingly sure. She gave herself up to it, surrendered completely to the moment, to all that she was, that he was, to all that would be.

His touch was exquisite; his hands moved on her so slowly, so languidly, yet there was heat in every caress, a blatant sensuality that burned. Passion and desire were twin flames, his to command, yet possessiveness was his rule, his guide, his driving need.

She could see it in the hard planes of his face; she touched them wonderingly, traced the edges, so harsh, so unyielding. Could sense it in the tension thrumming through his body, in the steely sinews caging her, in the reined strength in his hands as they held her. Could feel it in the rampant hardness of his erection, pressed to her soft stomach. Saw it flare in his eyes.

His gaze touched hers, swept her face, then he bent his head and took her mouth, ravaged, ravished her senses. His hands closed about her breasts, his fingers briefly tightened about the pebbled peaks, then he released them, released her lips, swept her up in his arms.

He carried her to the bed, knelt on it, laid her down on the silk coverlet. Shrugged off his coat, kicked off his shoes. She expected him to undress, but he didn't. In his fine linen shirt and lace, in his silk breeches, he sprawled beside her, half atop her, and took her mouth again. Set her wits whirling as he shifted her, arranged her, settled her half beneath him, then set his wicked fingers to her naked skin to strip all resistance away.

She didn't resist, had no intention of wasting that much effort, yet she was dimly conscious of his purpose, very aware of how she reacted to each sensual tactile taunt, each caress, each teasing glide. His lips played on hers; his long fingers played on her skin, played her nerves, her very senses, tracing her breasts until they ached, sliding away to outline her ribs, her waist, then gliding over her stomach until it contracted. Then he pressed. Knowingly.

He released her lips, listened to her gasp; she did, too. Her hips tilted; he kneaded gently, then his lips returned to hers and his fingers drifted away, trailing down her thighs. Up and down; down the outer faces, up the sensitive inner faces until she stirred and restlessly parted them, invited him to touch her there, where she throbbed. He didn't, not immediately, distracted by the soft curls at the base of her stomach, threading his fingers through them, touching her delicately, until she sank her fingers into his arm, kissed him madly, and moved her thighs farther apart.

The air touched her, cool against her fevered flesh, then his hand cupped her. Desire, illicit pleasure, jolted through her. Her spine tensed. She waited, tight with expectation, with sensual anticipation . . .

His hand shifted; his fingers traced. Over each and every fold, over and over again, until at last he parted them, opened her. Touched the entrance to her body.

She tensed again, but he didn't press further. Instead, that questing fingertip slid away, settled to tracing, caressing her softness. Teasing her nerves. Tantalizing her senses. He played, but deliberately, focused on her gasps, attuned to every quiver, every restless shift. He stripped away every last vestige of modesty with a ruthlessly gentle touch, until she was panting, wanting, aching—desperate for more.

She heard it in her breathing, felt need expand inside until she was awash with it, driven by it. She reached for him with her hands, with her body, with her lips. He kissed her—deeply, commandingly. He shifted over her, his body pressing her back into the bed.

She tried to tug him down to her, but he didn't move, propped on one elbow above her, his other hand still tracing the wet flesh between her thighs. His hips lay below hers, between her spread thighs; she tangled her legs with his, her skin sliding over the satin of his breeches as she clamped her calves to his flanks. She tried to tempt him to her—he kissed her again, so deeply she couldn't think, couldn't plan, could do nothing but lie back and let him have his way.