“It’s locked, but there’s a key. It hangs on a peg on the other side of the wall from here.” Releasing him, she pointed to a spot on the wall about a foot from the base, nearly two feet from the frame of the gate. Then she pressed close again. “Can you reach it?”
Sebastian looked at her, looked at the spot she’d indicated. “Keep your hand there.” He turned to the gate. Kneeling by its side, he put his right arm through the last gap, rested the side of his head against the iron rail, then, his gaze on Helena’s hand, directed his fingers to the opposing spot. If he didn’t lift the key cleanly but dropped it . . .
His fingertips touched metal, and he stopped. Froze. Then, very delicately, he reached farther, tracing the outline of the key, following the cord up to the nail from which it hung. He stretched and slipped his fingers through the cord, crooked them, lifted.
Withdrew his arm and looked down at the heavy key in his palm.
Before he could react, Helena swiped it up. He caught her as she moved past him to the lock and hauled her down.
“The guards?”
She turned her face to him, whispered back, “These are the kitchen gardens—they check here only once early, then once again close to dawn.”
He nodded, released her. Stood and dusted his knee while she carefully slid the cumbersome key into the old lock, then turned. Phillipe helped her; together they wrestled the tumblers over. Tentatively, clearly worried about the possibility of squeaks, Phillipe eased the gate open. The hinges grated, but the sound was low and wouldn’t carry.
Visibly sagging with relief, Helena followed Phillipe into the garden, onto the beaten path leading to the house. Sebastian followed, paused, watched his two collaborators sneak quietly and eagerly up the path. Then he sighed, shook his head, carefully closed the gate, locked it, and removed the key.
Helena glanced back and saw him tuck the key into his coat pocket. They’d all worn dull colors. Under her dark cloak, her gown was dark brown, plain and unadorned now she’d removed all the braid; Phillipe had worn black. Sebastian was wearing a coat and breeches of a brownish gray with soft, thigh-high boots of a similar hue. The color suited him in daylight, but in night’s faint light he appeared a phantom of the shadows, unreal—surely a figment of a young woman’s imagination as he walked softly toward her, his prowling gait never more pronounced, the grace that invested his large body a symphony to her senses.
He joined her, and she had to force herself to breathe. She nodded to the archway where Phillipe waited. “We must avoid the servants’ quarters. We can reach the rose garden through there. Only Marie, Fabien’s wife, has rooms in that wing. As she is ill”—she shrugged—“it will most likely be the safest place to get in.”
They saw no guards as they circled the stone house with three floors and more of windows looking out on them. Despite the fact that it was long after midnight, Sebastian’s nape prickled. He could see the distant wing Helena was making for; while following in her wake, he scanned the nearer ground-floor rooms.
They were flitting past a stand of rhododendrons when he reached out and caught her arm. “What’s through there?”
He pointed at a pair of narrow doors opening to a small paved area. Helena leaned back to whisper, “A small parlor.”
Sebastian slid his fingers to her hand and gripped, then signaled with his head to Phillipe. Drawing Helena with him, he cut through the intervening garden and slid into the shadows close by the house.
She’d followed without protest, but now she asked, “Why this?”
Sebastian studied the narrow doors. “Watch.” He bent his knees, set his shoulder to the place where the two halves came together at the lock, braced his upper arm along the join. Then he gave a sharp shove.
With a click, the lock popped. The doors swung ajar.
Helena stared. “How . . . simple.”
Sebastian pushed the door wide, bowed her in, then followed. Phillipe joined them; Sebastian shut the door, then looked around. The room was small, neat, and quietly elegant. He joined Helena by the main door, put a hand on her wrist to stop her from opening it. “How far to your sister’s chamber?”
“Not as far as it would have been—the chamber she usually has is in the central wing.”
He considered, then looked at Phillipe. “You go first, but go slowly. We’ll follow. Stroll along; don’t skulk. If any servants should appear, they’ll think you’ve just returned.”
Phillipe nodded. Sebastian let Helena open the door. Phillipe led the way as directed; they flitted in his wake like ghosts.
They had to climb the main stairs; Helena breathed easier when they reached the top and entered the long gallery. The moon had at last risen. Silver light poured through the many long windows, mercilously illuminating the long room. She and Sebastian hugged the inner wall as they followed Phillipe, who at Sebastian’s wave hurried through the gallery.
They slowed again as they entered the maze of corridors beyond. Helena’s tension eased as panic left her and eagerness and anticipation took hold. In minutes she would see Ariele again, know she was safe. See that she was.
Sebastian tugged on her hand, then lowered his head to whisper, “Where are Fabien’s apartments?”
“That way.” She waved back. “At the end of the gallery, he goes the other way.”
Ahead, Phillipe stopped before a door. He looked back and waited until they joined him. “Is this it?”
Helena nodded.
Sebastian closed his hand on her arm. “You go in. We’ll wait here until you’re sure she won’t take fright.” He tightened his grip briefly, then released her. “Make sure she understands the need for silence.”
Helena nodded. She held his gaze, then closed her hand briefly over his. Turning to the door, she eased up the latch and slipped in.
Chapter Thirteen
HELENA forced 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. “It is 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—t
here 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.”