Helena had guarded Ariele for many years; her reaction to any threat to her sister was instinctive, deeply ingrained. Fabien, as always, had chosen well.
Unfortunately for him, a higher power had been dealt into the hand.
Quickly, with the facility that had been his from birth, honed to excellence by the world in which he’d played for so many years, he assembled the basics of a plan. Noted the important facts, the essential elements.
Absentmindedly refolding the letters, he put them back by Helena’s jewel case, then turned and walked to the bed. Picked up his robe from the floor beside it and shrugged into it.
Met Helena’s gaze.
After a moment she asked, “Will you give me the dagger?”
He hesitated, wondered how much to tell her. If he declared that Ariele was safe, that Fabien’s threat was all bluff, designed and executed with an exquisite touch purely to force Helena to do his bidding, would either Helena or Phillipe believe him? He hadn’t met Fabien for over half a decade, but he doubted men changed—not in that regard. He and Fabien had always shared the same tastes, which was in large part the cause of their rivalry.
It was also the reason Fabien had sent Helena—he’d known how to bait his trap. Unfortunately, in this case, the prey was going to bite the trapper; Sebastian did not feel the least bit sad.
However, quite aside from triumphing yet again over his old adversary, there was another, much more important, issue to consider. Unless Helena believed he could defeat Fabien, she would never, ever, feel totally sure, completely and absolutely free.
She might even remain, in the future, a prey for Fabien—and that he would not, could not, allow.
“No.” He belted his robe, cinched it tight. “I will not give you the dagger. That is not the way the game will be played.” He saw Helena’s face fall, sensed the dimming of her gaze. “We will go to Le Roc and rescue Ariele.”
The sudden reversal of her expression, the hope that flooded her face, made him smile.
“Vraiment?” She leaned forward, eagerly scanning his face, his eyes.
“You are in earnest?” Phillipe had started up at his refusal; now he stared at him with a painful intensity Sebastian didn’t like to see. Didn’t like to be reminded existed. Would he have looked the same if it had been Helena at Le Roc?
“Indeed.” Turning back to Helena, he continued, “If I give you the dagger and you take it back to Fabien, what will you gain?”
She frowned at him. “Ariele.”
He sat on the bed, leaned back against the corner post. Watched her. “But you would still be under Fabien’s rule—both of you.” He glanced at Phillipe. “All of you. Still his puppets, dancing to his tune.”
Phillipe frowned, sat down, then nodded. “What you say is true, yet . . .” He looked up. “What is the alternative? You do not know Fabien.”
Sebastian smiled his predator’s smile. “Actually, I do—in fact, I know him rather better than either of you. I know how he thinks, I know how he’ll react.” He looked at Helena. “As you so elegantly phrased it, mignonne, I know well the games powerful men play.”
She studied him, cocked her head. Waited.
Sebastian smiled again, this time indulgently. “Gather around, mes enfants. You are about to have an education in the games of powerful men.”
He glanced at Phillipe, confirmed he had his attention. “First rule: He who seizes the initiative has the advantage. We’re about to take it. Fabien believes Helena will return on Christmas Eve with the dagger. He won’t look for her before that.” He glanced at Helena. “Regardless of any feelings you may or may not have developed for me, he’ll expect you to defy him that much and dally to the last day. As Louis is with you, Fabien will feel certain that nothing unexpected will occur without his being informed of it—in good time to take any necessary measures.”
Sebastian glanced at Phillipe, wondered if he should tell him he’d been manipulated by a master, that his presence here was simply another of Fabien’s little touches—decided against it. He looked back at Helena. “So, at present, monsieur le comte is feeling rather smug, fully expecting that his plans are proceeding exactly as predicted and all will fall out as he wishes.”
She was watching him intently. He smiled. “Instead . . . let’s see. It’s the seventeenth today. We can be in France by tomorrow morning if the wind blows fair. Le Roc is—correct me if I err—less than a day’s fast travel from the coast, say, from Saint-Malo. We will arrive on Fabien’s doorstep long before he expects us. Who knows? He might not even be in residence.”
“What then?” Helena asked.
“Then we’ll discover some means of removing Ariele from the fortress—you really cannot expect me to give you a detailed plan before I see the fortifications—and then we leave at an even faster pace than that at which we arrived.”
Helena stared at him, then asked, “Do you truly think it’s possible?”
Looking into her eyes, he knew she wasn’t referring simply to the rescue of Ariele. Reaching out, he clasped her hand, gently squeezed. “Believe me, mignonne, it is.”
He would free her, and her sister, and Phillipe as well, from Fabien’s coils. He could understand that after all these years she would find that hard to imagine.
She eased back a little but left her hand in his.
The chiming of clocks throughout the house distracted them all. Three chimes—three o’clock. Sebastian stirred. “Bien, there is much we have to do if we wish to be in France by tomorrow morning.”
They both looked to him. Quickly, concisely, he outlined the specific points they needed to know. His tone was patient—blatantly paternalistic; for once Helena did not take umbrage. Along with Phillipe, she hung on his every word, followed where his mind led, saw the victory he painted.
“With Louis thus kept in ignorance, Phillipe and I will leave and drive to Newhaven—”
Helena jerked upright. “I am coming, too!”
Sebastian met her outraged gaze. “Mignonne, it will be better if you remain here.” Safe.
“No! Ariele is my responsibility—and you do not know Le Roc as I do.”
“Phillipe, however, does . . .” Sebastian glanced at Phillipe to find the young man shaking his head.
“Non. I do not know the fortress well. Louis has spent years there, but I’ve only recently joined my uncle’s service.”
Sebastian grimaced.
“And,” Phillipe tentatively added, “there is a further problem. Ariele. She does not know what we know. I do not think, were I to appear to her in the dead of night, or any other time, that she would come with me. But Helena—she will always do exactly as Helena says.”
Helena pounced on the point. “Vraiment. He speaks the truth. Ariele is sweet but not stupid—she won’t leave the safety of Le Roc except for good reason. And she knows nothing of Fabien’s schemes.”
She considered Sebastian’s hard face, read his opposition very clearly. She leaned closer, curling her fingers, gripping his. “And it’s likely you will wish to leave without any fuss, any noise—and without too much baggage, n’est-ce pas?”
His lips twisted briefly. He returned the pressure of her fingers. “You play hard, mignonne.” Then he sighed, “Very well. You will come, too. I’ll have to think how to ensure that Louis is delayed.”
Sebastian added that item to the list in his head. When he’d thought of Helena’s witnessing his defeat of Fabien, he had been thinking figuratively. His instincts argued she should be left behind in safety, but . . . perhaps, in the long run, it would be better if she accompanied them. This way she would share in Fabien’s defeat; looking to the future, for one of her temperament that might be important.
The clocks chimed the half hour. He stirred, rose. “There is much to do and not much time to do it.” Crossing the room, he tugged at the bellpull. He glanced at Phillipe. “I will have you shown to a bedchamber—ask for whatever you need.” He looked across at Helena. “You will both oblige me by re
maining in your chambers until I send for you. Dress for traveling—we’ll leave at nine o’clock.” His gaze rested on Helena. “You will be able to pack only a small bag, nothing more.”
She nodded.
A tap sounded on the door. Sebastian crossed to it, opened it just a little way, blocking the doorway with his body. He instructed the sleepy footman to send Webster up, then shut the door.
He turned to Phillipe. “My butler, Webster, is entirely trustworthy. He’ll put you in a bedchamber and tend to you himself. The fewer who know of your presence here, the less likely Louis and his man are to learn of it.”
Phillipe nodded.
Sebastian paced before the dying fire until Webster arrived, then handed Phillipe into his care. Webster accepted the charge placed on him with his customary imperturbability; he led Phillipe away.
Helena watched the door close, watched Sebastian turn and pace back to the bed. Her mind was in turmoil; she couldn’t focus her thoughts. Her emotions held sway—immense relief, puzzlement, uncertainty. Guilt. Excitement. Disbelief.
He slowed, absentminded as he planned; his gaze was distant when he glanced at her, then he focused. “That declaration you extracted from your so-dear guardian, mignonne. May I see it?”
She blinked, surprised by the tack. She pointed to her trunk, sitting empty in the corner. “It’s behind the lining on the left side of the lid.”
He went to the trunk, opened it, felt in the lining. She heard the rip as he tore it free, the crackle as he extracted the parchment. Rising, he returned to the dressing table, unfolded the document, smoothed it out, then read it in the light of the lamp.
Watching his face in the mirror, she saw his lips quirk. Then he smiled and shook his head.
“What is it?”
He glanced at her, then waved the parchment. “Fabien—he never ceases to amaze me. You say he simply sat down when you asked and wrote this?”
She thought back, then nodded. “Oui. He considered for but a moment . . .” She frowned. “Why?”
“Because, mignonne, in writing this and giving it into your hands, he was risking very little.” He studied the document again, then glanced at her. “You did not tell me he’d used the words ‘more extensive than your own.’ “
“So?”
“So . . . your estates are in the Camargue, a wide, flat land. Of what size are your holdings?”
She named a figure; he smiled.
“Bon. We are free, then.”
“Why?”
“Because my estates are ‘more extensive than’ yours.”
She frowned, shook her head. “I still don’t see.”
He set down the document, reached for the lamp. “Consider this—England is a much smaller country than France.”
She watched the light dim, watched him turn to the bed. Thought furiously. “There are not many English lords whose estates are more extensive than mine?”
“Other than myself—and Fabien knew I’d declared I would not wed—the only possibilities I can think of would be the royal dukes, none of whom would meet with your approval, and two others, both of whom are already married and old enough to be your father.”
“Fabien would know this?”
“Assuredly. It’s the sort of information he keeps at his fingertips.”
“And you?”
He shook his head, intuitively answering the question she’d truly asked. “No, mignonne—I gave up playing the games Fabien indulges in years ago.” He stopped by the side of the bed, studied her face. “I still know the rules and can engage with the best of them but . . .” He shrugged. “Truth to tell, the activity palled. I found better things to do with my time.”
Seducing women—helping women. Helena watched as he unbelted his robe, let it slide to the floor. She sank back into the pillows as he lifted the covers and slid in beside her.
She remained still, wondering—hardly daring to do even that . . .
He reached for her. Dragged her down into the depths of the feather mattress, settling her half beneath him. She sucked in a breath, felt his fingers searching for the opening of her robe. Then he pushed the robe wide, lifted over her and lowered his body to hers—skin to skin, heat to heat.
The rush of warmth was a shock. Giddy, she found enough air to say, “So the document—you are saying it’s worthless?”
He looked into her face as he set his hands to her body. “Not in the least. To us it’s a prize.” He considered her eyes, then smiled, bent his head, and brushed his lips across her furrowed forehead. “Your document is an ace, mignonne, and we’re going to use it to trump Fabien in a most . . . satisfying way.”
That he still meant to marry her—even now, after learning all about her deception—could not have been clearer. Yet guilt still lay heavy on her heart.
His hands were roaming, seducing her senses, stealing her wits. It would be so easy to sink under his spell, to give herself to him and let the matter slide.
She couldn’t.
She caught his face, framed it in both hands, held it so that even in the dimness she could see every nuance. “You will really help me—you will help me rescue Ariele.” No question; she didn’t doubt he would. “Why?”
He met her gaze. “Mignonne, I have told you—often—that you are mine. Mine.” On the word, he nudged her thighs apart, settled between. “Of all the women in the world, there is none I’m more devoted to helping, to protecting, than you.”
She could see it in the blue of his eyes, see the fire and the feeling that supported it. “But me . . . I put another higher than you.”
His gaze didn’t waver. “If you’d acted as you did for Fabien, or any other man . . . yes, I would have felt betrayed. But you did as you did for your sister—out of love, out of responsibility. Out of caring. Of all men in the world, can you not see 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.
Sebastian slipped from Helena’s side two hours later. Shrugging into his robe,
belting it, he crossed to the dressing table, picked up Fabien’s declaration, read it again. He glanced at Helena; she remained sound asleep. He hesitated, then folded the document. Taking it with him, he quietly left the room.
Regaining his apartments, he summoned Webster, gave orders as he washed, shaved, and dressed. Leaving his valet, Gros, rushing hither and yon, packing the small bag he’d declared was all he would take, he quit the room and headed for his study.
There he started on the task of setting in place the foundations of his plan.
The first letter he wrote was a personal request to the Bishop of Lincoln, an old friend of his father’s. Once he and Helena returned from France with Ariele, he was not of a mind to delay their wedding further. Finishing his letter, he sanded it, then set it aside, together with Fabien’s declaration. Helena had secured that prize—he fully intended to use it.
He rang for a footman, dispatched him to find Webster. With his customary magisterial calm, Webster led the senior staff into the study. They sat. In swift order Sebastian outlined his requirements, then they discussed, suggested, and eventually decided on various ploys to delay both Louis and Villard.
“I would expect the valet to be the comte’s creature. Take care that while watching the larger fish you do not let the minnow slip through your net.”
“Indeed not, Your Grace. You may rely on us.”
“I will be. I reiterate—I do not wish you to do anything overt to delay de Se`vres and his man. I wish them to be mystified as to where mademoiselle la comtesse and I might be. If they realize they’re being deliberately delayed, they’ll guess where we’ve gone and follow swiftly.” Sebastian paused, then added, “The longer they remain uncertain, the safer I, your future mistress, her sister, and the gentleman who brought us word last night will be.”
He was rewarded by the sight of a slight curve in Webster’s lips, a gleam of triumph in the butler’s gray eyes. The man had been quietly prodding him for years—ever since Arthur had married—to do his duty and save them all.
Barely able to contain his pleasure while maintaining his imperturbable mask, Webster bowed deeply. “Might we extend our congratulations, Your Grace?”