The Promise in a Kiss (25 page)

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 that
I
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.

S
ebastian 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'm
so
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.”

T
HE
coach was pulled by four powerful horses. It raced south through the countryside silent and still, frozen in winter's icy grip.

Cushioned in the comfort of leather upholstery, cocooned in the warmth of soft furs and silk wraps with hot, flannel-wrapped bricks beneath her feet, Helena watched the chill world flash by. She tried, initially, to sit upright, to keep her spine erect and eschew the temptation to lean against Sebastian, solid and immovable beside her. But the hours passed and she nodded, then dozed as the carriage rocketed along; she woke to find her cheek cushioned on Sebastian's chest, his arm heavy and reassuring around her, keeping her from falling to the floor.

Cracking open her lids, she glanced across the coach. Phillipe, sitting opposite, was asleep in one corner.

Letting her lids fall once more, she sank against Sebastian and slipped back into sleep.

And dreamed. A confusion of images that made no sense but were pervaded by desperation, by burgeoning hope, by a sense of fate and a nebulous fear.

She woke to the clatter of hooves on cobbles. Straightening, she glanced out the window, saw a jumble of shops and houses.

“London.”

She turned to meet Sebastian's gaze. Phillipe, she noted, was peering interestedly at the streets. “We have to go through it?”

“Unfortunately. Newhaven's near Brighton, which lies directly south.”

Her lips forming an “Oh,” she looked at the houses and tried to suppress her impatience.

Tried to push aside the belief that now they'd set out on this journey, they had to hurry, hurry, or else they'd fail. That speed was of the essence.

Sebastian's hand closed about hers, tightened reassuringly. “There's no way Louis will be able to warn Fabien in time.”

She glanced at him, searched his eyes, then nodded. She looked back at the houses.

A few minutes later Sebastian spoke to Phillipe, inquiring about a certain French noble family. From there the conversation expanded to the foibles of the French court. Phillipe appealed to Helena. Soon they were embroiled in an animated, far-from-felicitous dissection of the current political climate and the shortcomings of those supposedly at the country's helm. Only when she noticed the houses thinning and glimpsed open country again did Helena remember the passage of time.

She glanced at Sebastian, saw his blue eyes glint from under his heavy lids. Returning to the scenery, letting the conversation taper off of its own accord, she inwardly shook her head. He might no longer play the games Fabien did, but of his skill she entertained little doubt.

Or that, now that she was his, now that he deemed her to be so, she would have to grow accustomed to such nudges of manipulation—to the gentle tensing of her strings—all for her own good, of course.

It was a price she'd never believed she would be willing to pay, yet for freedom, for him . . .

To be his—safe, secure, and allowed to be free. Allowed to live her own life as she wished. To fulfill her destiny as a lady of position, as the wife of a powerful man.

What price such a dream?

She dozed again as the coach raced on. It was evening, the shadows fading to night, when the coach drew up outside an inn facing a quay. Sebastian stirred, then descended; Helena watched him speak with a sailor who'd hurried up. The steady splash of waves and the smell of brine carried clearly on the evening air. The sailor appeared to be in Sebastian's employ; having received his orders, he tugged his forelock and departed.

Sebastian returned to the coach. Opening the door, he beckoned. “Come, we have time to dine before the tide turns.”

He handed her down; Phillipe followed. They crossed the cobbled yard to the inn door. Inside, all was cozy. The innkeeper beamed and bowed them into a private parlor. The table was set for three. The instant they sat, two maids arrived with steaming platters.

Helena glanced at Sebastian.

He caught her gaze, then flicked out his napkin. “I sent a rider down at dawn. Everything's in readiness. We can sail in good time.”

Despite her relief, despite his planning, she could summon little appetite, a prey to unnameable worries. Sebastian insisted she consume at least the soup and a morsel or two of chicken. While she complied, he and Phillipe demolished everything else.

Then they were done, and Sebastian led her across the inn yard and onto the quay. His yacht, a sleek sloop that looked ready to slice through the water, stood bobbing, waiting, ropes straining as if it were a horse longing to race. All was in readiness, or so the captain informed him as he helped her down from the gangplank.

Sebastian gave the order to sail, then led her below.

She'd just stepped off the short ladder into the narrow corridor when the boat lifted on the swell, then surged. The sense of power, of being propelled forward—toward France, toward Ariele—was inexpressibly comforting. For one instant she paused, felt hope flare, let it grip her.

Realizing that Sebastian had stopped and was looking back at her, that Phillipe was still waiting to descend, she smiled and stepped forward, let Sebastian lead her to the stateroom at the corridor's end.

The cabin was small yet spacious, uncluttered. It bore the stamp of his wealth in the luxury of its fittings, in the wide bed anchored against the wall, in the sheen of the oak paneling, the quality of the linens.

He'd stepped back into the corridor; she heard him directing Phillipe to another cabin. Heard them discussing the likely time of arrival. Sometime in the morning, Sebastian said. Phillipe was impressed; he asked about the boat, about its design. Helena stopped listening.

She put back the deep hood of her cloak, set her fingers to the strings at her throat. There was only one bed. That Sebastian would expect her to share it she doubted not at all. Yet how she would manage to sleep . . .

In her mind the gray walls of Le Roc rose, cold and forbidding. Not even the orchards and park surrounding it could soften its harsh, despotic lines.

What was Ariele doing, thinking? Was she sleeping, soundly with a small smile curving her lips? The sleep of the innocent—trusting, naive . . .

A noise in the corridor jerked her to attention. She glanced down, tugging at her laces as the door behind her opened, then closed. She heard a clunk, realized Sebastian had set the sword belt and sword he'd worn on a chair. Then she sensed his presence behind her, felt her pulse leap as it always did when he drew close. He hesitated, then closed the gap so that his chest met her shoulders, his thighs her bottom. So that the ridge of his erection nudged into the small of her back.

She hadn't thought. “I'm . . . worried.”

“I know.”

His hands closed about her waist. He bent his head, ran the tip of his tongue about the rim of one ear; when she shuddered and tipped her head back, he trailed his lips to the pulse point at the base of her throat.

Laved as his hands shifted, rising to close possessively about her breasts. Sucking as he languidly kneaded, then lazily squeezed the ruched peaks.

She struggled to hold back the tide but couldn't. Her breasts swelled, firmed, heated . . . her thoughts splintered.

“It's too cold for you to be naked.”

His deep purr told her he preferred her that way.

She managed to draw breath but couldn't break free of the drugging sensuality in his voice, in his touch. Couldn't pull free of his spell. “What, then?”

“Lift the front of your skirts and petticoats. To above your knees.”

She summoned sufficient wit to comply. His hands fell to her waist, gripped. She gasped when he lifted her, then set her on her knees on the edge of the bed.

“Sssh.” His lips returned to her throat, to the sensitive spot beneath her ear. “Phillipe's in the next room.”

One of his hands had returned to pleasure her breasts. She could feel the other behind her, sifting through their clothes. Then she felt his staff press more definitely against her. Felt him start to raise the back of her skirts.

“I don't know if I can . . .”

His hand made contact with her bare bottom, caressed; she moaned.

Knew she could.

Knew she would.

He lifted her skirts and slid into her softness—and the world fell away. His rhythm was slow, easy; desire rose like a gentle tide and swept her up to a place that existed only in the here and now, in the moment of heat and passion. A sensation-filled plane where pleasure built, stage by stage, step by step, inexorably, until at the end the towering wave broke and washed through her, leaving her shattered, exhausted . . . too exhausted to think.

She was only dimly aware of him drawing her dress from her, then laying her in the bed. He stripped and joined her; she curled instinctively into his warmth, into his strength.

His arm came around her; he held her close.

She sighed and drifted into sleep.

A
sudden jerk woke her.

Helena looked about, remembered where she was—realized she was alone and that faint light tinged the circle of sky visible through the porthole.

France!

She went to throw back the covers—and couldn't.

The next second the yacht listed dramatically, held motionless for a second, then, with a slap, slammed back into the sea.

That
was what had woken her. Pulling at the blanket, she realized that Sebastian had tucked her in securely so she wouldn't roll out of the bed. The yacht pitched again as she struggled free—she had to grab the side of the bed to stop herself from being hurled across the cabin.

Wrestling her way into her dress, then relacing it—by herself while teetering about the cabin fighting to keep her feet—had her swearing. Under her breath. In French.

But when she left the cabin and climbed the short ladder and looked out at the sky and sea, words failed her.

Dark gray, nearly black, the sky churned; beneath it the waves ran in long, white-plumed rolls, breaking over the prow of the yacht before raging past. Through the spume thrown up by the boiling waves, whipped high by the tearing wind, she could see low cliffs; she squinted and could just make out a cluster of buildings at the head of an inlet some way across the water.

“Sacre dieu,”
she eventually managed. She would have crossed herself if she'd dared to risk releasing the rail she was clinging to.

She was facing the prow; the bridge and wheel were aft. Gradually, the buffeting of the waves subsided, eased to just a rocking. Dragging in a breath, she stepped up onto the deck. Shakily, she walked past the hatch housing, started to turn—and glimpsed the sea beyond the prow.

Saw the next set of roiling waves rush in.

The first hit; the deck tilted. She clutched a bollard and clung.

The deck was wet; the second wave hit, and her feet slipped, slid.

Frightened, she glanced around—and saw she was small enough to slip easily under the deck railing. She clung to the wet bollard for dear life.

The third wave hit, and she lost her footing. She shrieked—felt her fingers slip on the smooth, wet surface. Heard a shout, then an oath.

Seconds later, just as the next wave hit and her fingers lost their grip, she was plucked up, snatched up against Sebastian's hard chest. His arm tightened about her waist, locking her to him, her back to his chest as he held tight to a rope while the yacht rode out the wave.

The instant it did, he lunged for the hatch, reached the ladder, and bundled her down it.

She didn't understand that many English swear words, but his tone left little doubt that he was cursing her.

“I'm sorry.” She turned to him as he set her on her feet in the narrow corridor.

His eyes were burning blue, his lips thin, set, as he stood halfway down the ladder, blocking it. “You will henceforth bear one point firmly in mind. I agreed to rescue your sister, and I will. I agreed to let you accompany me, against my better judgment. If you do not have a care to yourself and your safety, I'm liable to change my mind.”

She read the truth of that in his eyes, in the granite determination in his face. Placatingly, she held out her hands, palms up. “I have said I am sorry, and I am—I didn't realize . . .” Her gesture encompassed the tempest outside. “But can we not put into the harbor?”

He hesitated, then his features eased. He started to step down—the wind gusted a spray of water through the hatch onto his head. He growled, turned, climbed back up the ladder, and slammed the hatch shut, then came down again. He shook his head; droplets flew. He gestured her back. “In the cabin.”

She retreated. He followed. She crossed to a small dresser bolted to the wall, pulled a towel from a rail, and walked back to hand it to him.

He took it—the next wave hit and pitched her into him. He caught her, held her to him. And she felt the rigid tension, the reined temper that gripped him. Then he sighed. The tension seeped, then flowed away. He bent his head, set his face to her curls. Breathed deeply. “Don't do anything that foolish again.”