The Promise in a Kiss

  “Not easily. The wind will more likely blow us onto the rocks.” He glanced at her. “Besides”—he nodded to the porthole—“that’s Saint-Malo. It’s the closest, most convenient port to Le Roc. Once we land, it’ll take a day, perhaps a little more, to reach Montsurs.” He glanced at her. “Le Roc is close to there, I understand?”

  “Half an hour, no more.”

  “So . . . these storms never last long. It’s nearly midday—”

  “Midday?” She stared at him. “I thought it was just dawn.”

  He shook his head. “We were still north of the islands at dawn and sailing free. This blew up only after we’d entered the gulf.” He dropped the towel on the bed, then came to sit beside her. “So we have to weigh our chances. To get free of this wind, we’d have to either run north and pray the wind dies farther up the coast—which it may not—or go west and potentially have to round Brittany entirely to lay in to Saint-Nazaire. Either option leaves us farther from Le Roc than Saint-Malo.”

  She considered, drew in a breath, felt the tightness in her chest. “So you’re saying it would be best to stay and wait for the storm to pass.”

  He nodded. After a moment, he added, “I know you’re worried, but we have to weigh each hour carefully.”

  “Because of Louis?”

  He nodded again, this time more curtly. “Once he realizes we’ve gone and he leaves Somersham, his route will be clear. He’ll go to Dover and cross to Calais. It’s unlikely this storm will affect him.”

  She slid her hand into his. “But then he’ll have to drive down to Le Roc—that will slow him.”

  “Yes, and that’s why I think we should sit tight through today. Louis could have left Somersham only this morning—a few hours ago at best. He won’t have succeeded in leaving before that, not with so many set on delaying him.”

  She thought, considered, then sighed. Nodded. “So we have time.” She glanced at Sebastian. “You are right—we should wait.”

  He caught her gaze, searched her eyes, then raised a hand to frame her face. Bent his head to brush her lips with his. “Trust me, mignonne. Ariele will be safe.”

  She did trust him—completely. And, deep in her heart, she felt that Ariele would indeed be safe. With him and her acting together, determined on that outcome, she couldn’t imagine that the rescue wouldn’t come to pass.

  Yet while they waited and the hours rolled by, another worry surfaced. Here Sebastian was, an Englishman preparing to slip into the heart of France and steal a young French noblewoman away from beneath her legal guardian’s nose—all for her. What if he were caught?

  Would his rank protect him?

  Could anything protect him from Fabien, were he to fall into his hands?

  The discussion on what guise they would adopt to travel through the countryside to Le Roc did nothing to quiet such nascent fears.

  Phillipe had joined them for lunch at the table in the stateroom. The cabin boy served them; at a signal from Sebastian, he left and closed the door.

  “I think it would be best if, once we leave the yacht, we have some overt reason for our journey. I suggest that you”—with his head, Sebastian indicated Phillipe—“should be the youthful scion of a noble house.”

  Phillipe was listening intently. “Which house?”

  “I would suggest the de Villandrys. If any should ask, you are Hubert de Villandry. Your parents’ estate lies in—”

  “The Garonne.” Phillipe grinned. “I have visited there.”

  “Bon. Then you can be convincing should the need arise.” Glancing at Helena, Sebastian waved languidly. “Not that I expect any difficulties. I’m merely making contingency plans.”

  She held his gaze, then nodded. “And who am I to be?”

  “You’re Hubert’s sister, of course.” Sebastian tilted his head, studied her, then pronounced, “Adèle. Yes, that will pass. You’re Adèle de Villandry, and the reason you’re traveling with us is that, after traveling briefly in England over these past months, Phillipe and I passed through London, where, having spent some months with relatives in the English capital, you joined us so we could escort you back to . . .” He trailed off, considering.

  “To the convent at Montsurs.” Helena took up their fictitious tale. “I’ve decided to take the veil and was sent to London in a last effort to get me to change my mind.”

  Sebastian grinned; reaching out, he squeezed her hand. “Bon. That will do very nicely.”

  “But who are you?” she asked.

  “Me?” A devilish light danced in his eyes as he laid his hand over his heart and mock-bowed. “I’m Sylvester Ffoliott, an English scholar, the scion of a noble but sadly impoverished family reduced to having to make my way in the world. I was hired to conduct Monsieur Hubert on his travels through England and see him back to the de Villandry estate in the Garonne. That is where we—Hubert and I—are heading after we deposit you with the good sisters at Montsurs.”

  Both Helena and Phillipe fell silent, imagining, then Helena nodded. “It is possible. It will serve.”

  “Indeed. Furthermore, it will explain our hiring of a fast carriage to convey you to Montsurs and then the subsequent return of the carriage while we—Hubert and I—hire horses, the better to see the country as we travel south.”

  Phillipe frowned. “Why let the carriage go and switch to horses?”

  “Because,” Sebastian replied, “horses will be faster and more useful in fleeing.” He considered Phillipe. “I presume you do ride.”

  “Naturellement.”

  “Good. Because I don’t expect your uncle to let Ariele—and Helena—slip from his clutches without trying to snatch them back.”

  * * *

  None of them had expected Fabien to let them go gracefully, yet hearing the fact stated so bluntly established the likelihood more firmly in Helena’s mind.

  How would Fabien react—and how would Sebastian defeat him?

  Later she stood at the railing looking toward the coast and watched the westering sun edge the storm clouds with fire. As the captain had predicted, the storm had blown itself out, leaving tattered remnants of clouds streaming across the sky. The wind whistled shrilly in the rigging. The sun sank and, with one last fiery flare, drowned in the sea.

  The whistling gradually faded as the shadows closed in. Then, with one last, soft exhalation, the wind died.

  Helena heard a footstep. Sebastian neared, drew closer to stand just behind her, to one side.

  “Soon, mignonne, soon. As soon as the wind picks up again.”

  “Perhaps it won’t—not tonight.”

  She didn’t see his smile—even if she looked, his face would probably not show it—but she heard it in his voice, in his indulgent tone. “It will. Trust me. These waters are rarely calm.”

  He stepped closer; without looking, she leaned back, into his strength, into his warmth. Let herself feel his support and the hope it brought. He reached around her to lock his hands on the railing, caging her before him. Comfortably, securely.

  For long moments they simply stood, thoughts and worries both abandoned to the silent beauty of the encroaching night.

  “If we do get in this night, what then?”

  “We’ll hire rooms at a good inn and arrange for a carriage. We’ll leave as early as possible in the morning.”

  She felt his chest expand as he drew in a breath. “Why not leave tonight?”

  “Too much risk for too little gain.”

  She frowned.

  She felt him glance down at her face. Then he continued, “Driving fast over country roads at night is too dangerous, and not just because of the state of the roads. It’ll draw attention to us, and that may not be helpful. As for the gain—if we leave here tonight, we’ll arrive there by midday tomorrow. That’s dangerous, too. Arriving so close to Le Roc in daylight, we run the risk of someone’s recognizing you and mentioning your presence to Fabien. I need hardly point out that that will not do.”

  Helena grimaced. Lean
ed more heavily back against him. “Very well, monsieur le duc. We will rest tonight.”

  Again she sensed his indulgent smile. “Bon, mignonne.” He bent his head and pressed a kiss to her temple. “We’ll be away at first light.”

  As if some celestial being had heard his decree and felt moved to comply, the rigging creaked, gently at first, then increasingly loudly, and then a puff of wind came from nowhere.

  Sebastian lifted his head. Immediately shouts and calls erupted as the crew sprang to action. The heavy anchor chain rattled and clunked as the anchor was hauled up. Ropes rushed through pulleys; the sails rose, eagerly snapping in the freshening breeze.

  Helena stood at the railing as the sails filled and the sleek yacht tacked and set course for Saint-Malo. With Sebastian at her back, she watched the coast of France draw near.

  Everything went as Sebastian had predicted. The yacht slid in to a berth on the quay at Saint-Malo, unremarkable amid the many sloops and boats of all kinds that crowded the stone quays. They left the yacht as if they’d merely been passengers, consigning their bags to a porter who followed behind as they walked the short distance to the Pigeon, one of the better, yet not the best, of the many inns the busy port boasted. There they found comfortable rooms.

  Despite the quality of the bed, Helena slept little. She hadn’t missed the fact that Sebastian had once again donned his sword. In common with every other gentleman, he frequently wore such a weapon, but it was usually an ornate one, more decoration than serious armory. The sword he had with him now was not like that. It was old, well worn, not overly ornate. It looked comfortable—if swords could ever be that—as if it was something he’d used often, a favorite. She hadn’t missed the way his hand dropped unconsciously to the hilt, resting there, long fingers absentmindedly curling about the worked metal.

  That sword seemed almost a part of him—an extension of him. It was not a toy but a tool, one he knew how to use. The fact he’d chosen to wear it . . . it was impossible not to realize the implications.

  Inwardly sighing, she admitted the folly of thinking she could protect him—he who was here protecting her. There was even less point worrying . . . yet she did.

  Every time she shut her eyes, her mind raced away, envisioning all manner of difficulties, hurdles that would spring up in their path and engage them, deflect them, somehow prevent them from reaching Ariele until the day after Christmas . . .

  Helena woke with a start, her pulse racing, her stomach tense and tight—then she slumped back into the pillows. Shut her eyes, tried to sleep.

  She was dressed and waiting when Phillipe tapped on her door in the chill of predawn. A cup of chocolate—only at Sebastian’s insistence—and then they were away before the sun had even begun to rise.

  When they’d left the inn yard, Sebastian had waved Helena and Phillipe into the coach, murmuring to Phillipe to sit beside her. He had taken the seat opposite, but once they’d left the town behind and were bowling along the open roads, he signaled to Phillipe to change places.

  Settling beside Helena, Sebastian noted the dark circles under her eyes, the pallor of her face. He lifted an arm, placed it about her, juggling her so she fitted snugly against his side. She frowned at him; he smiled, touched his lips to her hair. “Rest, mignonne. You will be no use to your sister tonight if you are not wide awake and alert.”

  The mention of saving her sister and the part she would need to play gave her pause—gave her the excuse to yield to her tiredness and rest her head on his chest. Close her eyes.

  Soon she was asleep. He held her safe against him, a warm, soft womanly weight, and watched the countryside flash past. He’d spent half the night searching out the best driver; the man was worth the price he’d paid. They rattled on throughout the day, stopping only for a half hour in the early afternoon.

  Dusk was falling when the walls of the old town of Montsurs rose before them. Trading places once more with Phillipe, Sebastian directed the coachman to take them to a livery stable. When the coach rocked to a halt beside a not-too-prosperous-looking establishment, Sebastian grinned. “Perfect.” He glanced at Helena and Phillipe. “Wait here and make sure no locals see you.”

  They nodded, and he left. The minutes ticked by, but they remained silent, watchful . . . increasingly fearful. But then they heard the clop of hooves—Sebastian returned leading four mounts, all saddled. The stable’s owner trotted alongside, a huge smile wreathing his face.

  Sebastian led the horses to the rear of the coach. Helena and Phillipe strained to hear. The stable master was giving directions, embellished with description. Helena recognized the way to the convent; she had to smile. Sebastian had thought of even that; if any asked after the unknowns who had bought horses that night, the trail would lead only to the convent.

  He reappeared at that moment, thanking the garrulous stablemaster, then opening the door and entering, shutting it swiftly behind him.

  Helena had shrunk back into the shadows; the stable master would very likely recognize her. But as he waved them off, the beaming man’s gaze remained on Sebastian—in the gloom, he didn’t see her.

  “Where now?” she whispered once they were away.

  Sebastian arched a brow at her. “The convent, of course.”

  It wasn’t far, but at that hour the gates were shut and no one was around to see the coach pull up, see them climb down with their bags and untie the horses, see Sebastian pay off the coachman while she and Phillipe waited, reins in their hands. The man took the coins with a grin, turned his horses, and left them. They stood in the lane and watched the coach disappear, waited until they could no longer hear the clop of hooves on the packed earth.

  As one, they turned and scanned the convent wall; then Sebastian walked to the stout gate and looked through the grate.

  He turned to them, smiling. “No one.” Returning, he took the reins Helena held. “Let’s go.”

  He lifted her to her saddle, held the horse while she settled her feet. Then he mounted; with Phillipe leading the fourth horse, they rode down the lane and turned for Le Roc.

  Half an hour later they rounded a hill, and the fortress of Le Roc came into view. Rising above a small valley, Fabien’s fortress sat atop a finger of upthrust rock, like an extension of that intruding presence, a foreign overlord brooding over the fertile fields.

  “Stop.” Sebastian drew rein, glanced at Helena as she halted beside him. With his head he indicated the fortress. “That’s it?”

  She nodded. “From this side it’s impregnable, but on the other face there are paths leading up through the gardens.”

  “Just as well.” He studied the building, the way it had been set into the stone. As fortresses went, it was impressive. “If we go much farther along this road, we’ll risk being seen.”

  Helena nodded. “Because of the strife, there are guards, even at night.”

  He glanced at her; she felt his gaze and looked up, through the gloom searched his face. “I know the guards’ routine—it never varies.”

  Phillipe snorted. “That’s true. There are guards, but they don’t really expect to be challenged.”

  “All the better if they’re overconfident.” Sebastian scanned the surrounding fields. “Is there some way we can circle and approach from the other side?”

  “Yes.” Helena nudged her mount into a walk. “There’s a lane that joins this one just a little way along—it’s the one the carts use to carry the apples away from the orchards.”

  With Phillipe bringing up the rear, Sebastian followed her. One hundred yards farther, she turned down a narrow lane just wide enough for a cart, deeply furrowed but overgrown. Unless you knew it was there, you’d never suspect; following Helena in single file, Sebastian didn’t, however, doubt that Fabien knew. If they had to leave fast . . .

  He was deep in plans for all manner of contingencies when Helena drew rein and glanced back. “We should leave the horses here. There are gates farther on, but if we take the horses into the orchards”
—with her head she indicated the land that rose above them—“the guards might hear them.”

  Squinting through the shifting shadows, Sebastian studied the terraces that sloped ever upward, eventually meeting what appeared to be a garden wall. While well protected from the road and any force that arrived from that direction, the fortress was much more vulnerable from this angle.

  “Très bien,” he murmured, eyes searching the night. “We’ll leave the nags here and go on on foot.”

  The orchard wall was eight feet high but roughly built of stone blocks. It was easy to climb, even for Helena in her skirts. Tucking the hems into her boots, she scaled the wall under Sebastian’s watchful eye, then sat atop it while with a few quick steps he joined her. Swinging his legs over, he dropped to the ground. She looked down, then sniffed, turned, and descended more carefully.

  Sebastian plucked her from the wall when she was only halfway down and set her on her feet. With a regal nod in thanks, she dusted her hands, gestured up the sloping orchard, then set off.

  He prowled by her side as they ducked from deep shade, through open spaces into the skeletal shadows thrown by the next tree. The moon had yet to rise; they only had the faint light of the stars to hide from.

  They reached the top of the orchard and slipped into the dense shadows in the lee of the next wall. This one was more of a deterrent; it stood over eight feet high, and its construction was excellent, each block flush with the next, leaving the surface smooth, free of hand- or footholds. Sebastian studied it, then looked at Helena. She waved him to wait while she and Phillipe conferred in low whispers, then she gestured to their left. She pushed past him and led the way along the wall.

  Sebastian followed. She scurried along, hugging the wall’s shadow until he estimated they must be almost directly opposite the main gates. She stopped, glanced back at him, held a finger to her lips, then turned and went on—a few steps more took her to the other side of a wrought-iron gate.

  He stopped, as did she, and looked up at the gate. It was as high as the wall and topped with very long spikes. There was no way to climb over it. He glanced at Helena and saw her beckoning. He joined her beyond the gate; she reached up and pulled his head down so she could whisper.