The Promise in a Kiss

  Helena lifted her lids enough to see the bed rapidly approaching. She relaxed, set aside the protest she’d been about to make. She didn’t want him leaving her—didn’t want him leaving until she’d had the indescribable pleasure of knowing she’d pleasured him fully.

  He stopped by the bed, dragged the coverlets down, then placed her in the middle of the soft mattress. He stripped off her chemise, then straightened, his gaze roaming her body, desire etched in his face. Then he reached for the covers and joined her in a crawling sprawl, his body caging hers as he wrestled the bedclothes into a cocoon about them, close, almost tight. Then he looked down at her, lowered his body to lie upon her, gripped her thighs and parted them, settled between. Joined with her in a single powerful thrust. Then he settled himself fully upon her and thrust again.

  Letting go of all restraint, Helena lay back, put her arms around him, let her body ease beneath him, shifted her legs to clasp him more definitely as he rocked deeply into her.

  The cocoon of the covers transformed to a cave, a place of primitive needs, primal wants—unquestioned desire. Driven, he loved her; captured, she loved him back.

  Broken breaths, sobs, moans, guttural groans became their language, the powerful, insistent merging of their bodies their only reality. He wanted, demanded, took; unstintingly, she gave, opened her heart and gave him the key, gave him her body as the heat whirled and fused them. Gave him her soul as rapture caught them and lifted them from this world.

  Chapter Eleven

  THE creak of a floorboard pierced the deep slumber that had enfolded Helena in its warmth. She blinked into darkness. Realized from the deep silence that it was nowhere near dawn. Realized that she was not at Cameralle, that Ariele was not in the next room.

  Realized that the warmth that surrounded her emanated from Sebastian, slumped heavily asleep by her side.

  Another creak, nearer and too tentative to be natural, reached her. Sebastian had drawn the bed curtains. Easing from his side, sliding from under the heavy arm he’d draped over her, she searched for the gap in the curtains, carefully parted them, and peeked out.

  For one instant she thought it was Louis creeping into her room. She nearly panicked, then her eyes adjusted, and the man, his hand on the latch of the open door, glanced around the room. The weak light revealed the truth.

  Phillipe. Louis’s younger brother. He who had fetched Ariele from Cameralle and taken her to Fabien.

  Panic was the least of the emotions that rocked Helena. Phillipe entered, then eased the door closed. He glanced around the room again; his gaze came to rest on the curtained bed. He took a step toward it.

  Helena clamped her hand to her lips, smothering her instinctive “No!” She glanced at Sebastian; he was still fast asleep, the deep rhythm of his breathing undisturbed.

  But she was naked. Casting around, she spied her robe draped over the bottom corner of the bed, pushed back by the violence of their mating and now jumbled with the covers. Beyond the curtains, she could hear Phillipe cautiously approaching.

  She stretched—and just managed to snag the edge of the robe and drag it to her. Frantically, she shrugged into it, fervently praying that Sebastian wouldn’t wake, that Phillipe wouldn’t draw back the curtains—that he’d realize the rings would rattle. Reminded herself of the same fact.

  With the robe covering the top half of her, she held it closed, then, with an even more fervent prayer, eased from the bed.

  She heard a whispered curse from Phillipe—he’d seen the curtains shift. As carefully as she could, she slipped from the bed, wriggling the robe down, then slid through the gap in the curtains.

  The instant she emerged and saw Phillipe—face pale, eyes wide—she waved him back, then put a finger to her lips. With her other hand she held the robe closed, tugging it free of the covers until, at last, she stood barefoot on the floor, the robe falling to conceal her limbs, the curtains falling almost fully shut behind her.

  She noticed the gap, glanced up at the rings, wondered if she dared risk closing the curtains fully. Sebastian hadn’t stirred—yet . . . She couldn’t reach the curtain rod to ease the rings along.

  Leaving the gap, she turned to Phillipe, to the source of her most urgent worry. Her heart thudded painfully as she padded across the floor, waving him back, all the way back to where the shadows hung heaviest by the door. It was as far from the bed as they could get. She glanced briefly back at the sliver of darkness that was the gap in the curtains. She had to weigh her options carefully—for Ariele’s sake, she didn’t dare do otherwise. Outside in the corridor would be safer on the one hand, but how much trust could she place in Phillipe, knowing him to be one of Fabien’s creatures?

  “What are you doing here?” She kept the hiss barely above a whisper, yet her panic, and her accusation and distrust, rang clearly.

  To her surprise, Phillipe flinched. “It’s not what you think.”

  Even though he’d whispered, she frowned and waved at him to lower his voice. “I do not know what to think! Tell me of Ariele.”

  Phillipe paled even more; Helena’s heart lurched.

  “She is . . . well. For the moment.”

  “What do you mean?” Helena seized his arm, shook it. “Has Fabien changed his mind?”

  Phillipe frowned. “Changed? No. He still intends . . .”

  The disgust and heartache in his face were too familiar for Helena to mistake them. “But he hasn’t changed his mind about Christmas—about me having until Christmas Eve to bring the dagger to him?”

  Phillipe blinked. “Dagger? Is that what you have to get?”

  Helena gritted her teeth. “Yes! But for pity’s sake, tell me—has he changed his schedule?” She shook Phillipe’s arm again. “Is that why you’re here?”

  Phillipe focused, seemed finally to grasp her question. He shook his dark head. “No—no. It’s still to be Christmas, the blackguard.”

  Helena released him, watched his face closely. “Blackguard?” When Phillipe looked away, jaw setting, she prompted, “He’s your uncle.”

  “He’s no uncle of mine!” Phillipe spat the words, drenched with an equal mixture of fury and revulsion. He looked at her; even in the poor light she could see the anger burn in his dark eyes. “He’s a monster—an unfeeling tyrant who would take a young girl and”—he gestured violently—“use her to force you to steal for him.”

  “On that we’re agreed,” Helena murmured. “But what has brought you here?”

  “I came to help.” Through the shadows Phillipe met her gaze. Desperation colored his voice. “I want to save Ariele. I didn’t know, when he sent me to fetch her, what he wanted her for. I thought he was just concerned for her safety, alone with only the servants at Cameralle.” He laughed bitterly. “More fool me. But my eyes have been opened—I’ve seen what he’s truly like, I learned of his real plans.”

  Phillipe caught Helena’s hand, holding it beseechingly between his. “You are Ariele’s only hope. If there were any other way”—again he gestured, searching for the word—“of freeing her from his hold, anything I could do to draw her safely away, I would do it. But there is nothing. The law is the law—she is in his power. And she’s currently at grave risk.”

  Another horror rose in Helena’s mind; she clutched his hand. “Does she know?”

  To her relief, Phillipe shook his head. “No. I do not believe she even imagines . . . She is such a sweet soul, so pure and untouched.”

  If she hadn’t already realized what emotion was driving Phillipe, the look on his face as he spoke of Ariele would have confirmed the matter beyond doubt. One thing Fabien in his coldly calculating cleverness had not foreseen and could not control. The irony did not escape Helena. “Then things are as they were before. I must steal this dagger and take it to him by Christmas Eve.”

  “I only knew he had set you some task, and that if you failed . . .” Phillipe frowned at her. “Fabien thought the likelihood of your succeeding was slight.”

  Helena fro
wned back. “I do not think the thing impossible.” She couldn’t believe it—wouldn’t believe it.

  “Then why have you not brought this thing—this dagger—to him? When you didn’t return soon . . . That is why I came. I thought there must be some problem.”

  “As to that . . .” Helena grimaced. There was a problem, but she would do it anyway. Had to, for Ariele. “Fabien says the dagger is here, somewhere in this great house, and in that I think him correct. But neither Louis nor Villard has found it—between us, we’ve searched all the obvious places bar one. It must be there. I was going to search there tonight, but . . .”

  Phillipe seized her hand. “Come—let us go there now. We can look while the house is asleep, find it, take it, and flee before any wake. I have a horse—”

  “No.” Helena tried to tug her hand free, but Phillipe clung. “We need more of a start than that, or monsieur le duc will catch us—and Ariele will not be saved.”

  Puzzled, Phillipe stared into her face, then said, “You are frightened of this duke. I had not thought it of you.” Straightening, he looked censoriously down his nose at her. “But that is no matter. Now I am here, you can tell me where this dagger is and I will seize it, take it back, and free Ariele.”

  Only his patent sincerity saved him from her temper. “No! You don’t understand.” She bit her tongue against the urge to tell him he was yet a boy—a naive boy trying to influence the games of powerful men. “Do you not think Louis would have taken the dagger and gone long since to claim kudos from your uncle if it were that simple? Fabien has decreed I must be the one to take it. Me and no one else.”

  “Why? If he wants it, what matter the courier?”

  Helena sighed. “He will have his reasons. Some I can see, others I can but guess at.” The thought that hurting—wounding—Sebastian was almost certainly high on Fabien’s list weighed on her heart.

  Her deep reluctance must have reached Phillipe; he caught her hand again. “But you will take this dagger soon, yes?” He stared into her face, his whole expression one of earnest entreaty, then he relaxed, smiled, the gesture heartbreaking in its simplicity. “But yes, of course you will. You are good and loyal, brave and generous—you will not leave your sister to suffer at my uncle’s hands.” He pressed her hand, then released it, his smile gaining in confidence. “So you will take the dagger this coming night—you will, won’t you?”

  Helena took in the calm, solid confidence with which Phillipe regarded her and was distantly grateful that Ariele had found such a steadfast cavalier. Would that she herself had one similiar, who would come to rescue her. Patiently, Phillipe waited for her answer; she knew what it had to be.

  Yet still she hesitated. Tried not to remember the warmth, the sharing, the glory—the powerful love of the hours just past. Tried to shut her mind to its beauty. Failed. Tried to oust Sebastian from her mind, from her heart—knew she never could. She felt as if her heart were slowly tearing in two.

  Feeling tears gathering, she stiffened her spine, parted her lips, started to nod.

  A deep sigh rolled across the room.

  “Mignonne, you should have told me.”

  Helena gasped, whirled—hand to her lips, she stared at the bed. One white, long-fingered hand grasped the curtain. The scrape as it was pulled back echoed through the room.

  Sebastian lay in her bed, propped on one elbow. The covers had fallen to his waist, exposing the heavy musculature of his chest. His gaze rested on her for a moment, then shifted to Phillipe. “You are related to the comte de Vichesse?”

  His tone was even; a subtle menace growled beneath.

  Phillipe swallowed, then, head high, stepped forward and bowed stiffly. “He is my uncle. Louis—who I believe is staying here—is my brother. To my shame. I am Phillipe de Sèvres.”

  Helena heard the words but didn’t glance at Phillipe—wasn’t sure she could meet his eyes. What must he be thinking, finding Sebastian, patently naked, in her bed?

  The least of her worries. Her gaze was fixed on Sebastian—she could barely get her mind to function. His sigh, his words . . . what did they mean? He had found her out. She knew better than to hope he hadn’t heard all. They’d spoken in French, but he was fluent in the language. He knew everything now. He would think the worst of her, yet . . . he’d still called her “mignonne.”

  His eyes had left Phillipe to return to her. Seconds ticked past. She could feel his gaze, sensed he was waiting, but for what she couldn’t guess. Sensed he was willing her to understand, to read his mind—as if she could.

  When she simply remained, literally struck speechless, rooted to the spot, he sighed again, then threw back the covers and rolled from the bed.

  Rounding it, he crossed the room toward her.

  Helena felt her eyes grow wide, then wider. She opened her mouth to protest. Couldn’t find words. Her breath caught and stuck in her throat.

  He was naked! And . . .

  Did the man have no shame?

  Transparently not. He walked toward her as if he were gowned in purple and gold—as if he were in truth the emperor he’d once pretended to be.

  He ignored Phillipe completely.

  When he was close enough for her to see his eyes, she opened her mouth to explain, to say something . . .

  Nothing came.

  She raised her hands to ward him off, weakly let them fall.

  He halted directly before her. As always, his face remained inscrutable; his eyes were too shadowed for her to read.

  Defeated, her heart in her throat, she flung up her hands and turned away. She could never explain.

  He lifted one hand, turned her face back to him. He studied her face, briefly searched her eyes.

  Then he bent his head and touched his lips to hers.

  Made her lips cling with the gentlest caress. Lingered just long enough to reassure.

  Then he lifted his head. Looked into her face. “Get back into bed, mignonne, before you take a chill.”

  She stared at him.

  After a moment he lifted his head, looked at her dressing table, at the two letters wedged between the mirror and her jewel case. He looked back at her. Arched a brow. “With your permission?”

  She hesitated, searched his face, then inclined her head. How did he know? What was he thinking?

  Sebastian left her and walked to the dressing table.

  Her wits were whirling; her head was reeling. She’d stopped breathing too long ago. The bed wasn’t such a bad idea. Without looking at Phillipe, she recrossed the room. Hugging the robe to her, she climbed into the bed, still warm with Sebastian’s heat.

  A sudden shiver racked her; dispensing with all pretense, she gathered the covers close about her. Felt a little of the paralyzing ice that had frozen her start to melt.

  She watched Sebastian pick up the letters.

  “You had better sit down, de Sèvres.” Without looking up, Sebastian gestured with the first of the letters he’d opened, the obviously less-read of the two, to a chair by the wall. “This matter is clearly going to require more than two minutes to sort through.”

  He was aware of Phillipe’s hesitation, of the quick glance the boy shot at Helena, but then Phillipe moved to the chair and sank down. One glance at Phillipe’s face as he looked again at Helena confirmed that the boy was utterly at sea. He didn’t know what to think, much less what to do. In gross features he was like his older brother—dark-haired, handsome enough, a younger version by two or so years—yet there was something much more open, honest, and straightforward about Phillipe.

  Having heard his story, Sebastian saw no reason not to trust him. In setting himself to overturn Fabien’s scheme, Phillipe had declared his hand with somewhat touching, if impulsive, naïveté.

  The letter in Sebastian’s hand was inscribed with a fine girlish script. He laid it down, lit the lamp, turned the wick high, then picked up the second letter.

  He recognized Fabien’s heavy hand even though it had been years since he’d last
seen it—since the last offer for the ceremonial dagger. From memory, that had been the tenth such offer, each grudgingly increased over the years. Each had made him smile. He’d taken great delight in exceedingly politely refusing them all.

  So Fabien had devised another scheme to make him pay for his temerity. He supposed he should have expected it.

  He hadn’t expected the guise, yet perhaps he should have anticipated that, too.

  Fabien had a nice feel for irony, as did he.

  He set down Fabien’s letter and picked up the other. “You received these letters after you arrived here.” It wasn’t a question. “From whom?”

  Helena hesitated, then replied, “Louis.”

  The confusion in her tone made him smile, even though he knew she couldn’t see. She still didn’t believe, still did not understand.

  No matter—eventually she would.

  He read through the letter from her sister—read every word. It was important he glean every bit of information; anything could be important in what was to come.

  Finishing the first letter, he opened the second. The threat from Fabien. Even knowing what it would contain, even having guessed from the note Ariele had added at Fabien’s request what the nature of the threat would be, he still saw red. His hands shook. He had to look away—stare into the lamp flame until he had his rage under control again. Fabien wasn’t here for him to take apart with his bare hands. That could come later.

  When he’d regained control, regained the ability to deal with his reaction to what Helena had been put through—all for a ridiculous dagger!—he finished the letter, then laid it down.

  Paused for an instant to get all the facts straight in his mind. To see the whys behind her reactions, to draw comfort, reassurance, from her internal strife—from the fact that she’d dragged her heels, put off the moment of betrayal, clung to him for as long as she could. Even though it had been her sister, the one person she held most dear in her life, whose well-being had been set so deliberately on the other half of the scale.