Curious, she drew close, peered.
The silvery light lay like gilding on the slim leaves of a dried sprig of mistletoe.
She’d seen that sprig before. Knew the tree on which it had grown.
Remembered—too well—the night it had been taken, snapped off, placed in Sebastian’s pocket.
One part of her mind scoffed—how could she be sure it was the same sprig? How nonsensical . . . and yet . . .
I had never forgotten you.
His words to her two nights ago. If she was to believe the evidence of her eyes, he’d been speaking the truth.
Which meant . . . he might well have been intending to marry her all along. Just as he’d claimed.
Fingertips touching the cold glass, Helena stared at the slim leaves, the slender twigs, while inside something swelled, welled, poured over . . .
While the veils shifted, lifted, and she saw the truth, tasted its aching sweetness.
And recognized, fully and finally, all she would lose in saving Ariele.
The deep bong of a clock made her start. It was echoed by others throughout the house. She blinked, stepped back. She was tempting fate.
With one last, lingering look at the sprig of mistletoe lying preserved forever under the glass, she turned to the door.
She reached her bedchamber without incident, but her heart was pounding. Slipping inside, she closed the door, then paused with one palm on the panels, giving her pulse a chance to slow.
Drawing in a tight breath, she turned into the room—
Sebastian was sitting in the armchair by the hearth. Watching her.
She halted, froze—her wits seized.
He rose, languidly graceful, and crossed the thick carpet toward her. “I’ve been waiting,mignonne . For you.”
She felt her eyes widen as he halted before her. She clung to her surprise. “I . . . didn’t expect you.”
An understatement. She fought not to glance at the letters she’d left folded on the dressing table.
He raised one hand; long fingers framed her face. “I did warn you.”
Until later.She remembered his words, remembered their tone. “Later,” it appeared, had arrived. “But . . .”
He said nothing, simply studied her face, watched . . . waited. She swallowed, gestured weakly to the door. “I went for a walk.” Her voice wavered; she forced a smile, let her nervousness show. Disguised the cause. “Your house is so large and in the dark . . . a little unnerving.” She shrugged lightly; her heart was racing. She let her gaze fall to his lips. Remembered the mistletoe. “I couldn’t sleep.”
His lips curved, yet his features remained hard, unyielding. “Sleep?” The deep murmur reached her as he released her face. She felt his hands slide about her waist. “I have to admit,mignonne ”—he drew her to him, bent his head—“that sleep is the furthest thing from my mind.”
Her head tipped back of its own accord; her lips met his—and she couldn’t have stopped, didn’t try to stop herself from sinking into his embrace.
Desire flared, and she clung. Held to him as if he were her only salvation.
Knew it wasn’t so, knew that for her there could be no savior, no release. No happy ending.
But she couldn’t pull back, couldn’t deny him what he wanted. Couldn’t deny herself her only chance for this.
If she tried, he would suspect, but it wasn’t any fear of revealing Fabien’s scheme that drove her to agree. To slide her fingers into his hair and hold him to her. She met his demands, pressed her own—their tongues tangled, caressed, hinted boldly at what was to come, what they both sought, desired. It wasn’t thoughts of Ariele that warmed her, that supported her through the moment when their lips parted and she felt his fingers on her laces.
She caught her breath on a hiccup. His lips brushed her temple in a soothing caress, but his fingers never paused.
The force that swept through her, that swamped her mind and directed her movements, that gave her the strength to follow his murmured directions, to stand, albeit swaying slightly, as he stripped first her bodice, then her skirts, petticoats, and lastly her chemise from her—that wasn’t even desire. Not hers, not his.
Something more.
When she stood naked before him, her skin pearlescent in the moonlight, it was that transcendent power that opened her eyes, that had her glorying in the naked desire in his face, in the passion that burned in his eyes. She could feel his gaze like a flame as it swept from her face to her toes, then returned.
His eyes burned, held hers, and then he took her hands, held them wide, then raised one, then the other, to his lips.
“Come,mignonne —be mine.”
His tone—dark, gravelly, dangerous—sent a shiver racing through her. He drew her hands to his shoulders, released them, reached for her. She drew breath, felt her chest swell, felt her heart lift. She went to him, into his arms, eagerly, gladly.
She’d been made for this; she felt it in her bones, in her marrow, in her soul. He drew her close, kissed her deeply, then set his hands to her bare skin.
An innocent, she didn’t know the ways, but she knew he did, trusted implicitly in what he would do, how he would treat her, take her, how he would make her his. She couldn’t fight the power that drove her—never thought to do so—it was simply too powerful, too overwhelmingly sure. She gave herself up to it, surrendered completely to the moment, to all that she was, that he was, to all that would be.
His touch was exquisite; his hands moved on her so slowly, so languidly, yet there was heat in every caress, a blatant sensuality that burned. Passion and desire were twin flames, his to command, yet possessiveness was his rule, his guide, his driving need.
She could see it in the hard planes of his face; she touched them wonderingly, traced the edges, so harsh, so unyielding. Could sense it in the tension thrumming through his body, in the steely sinews caging her, in the reined strength in his hands as they held her. Could feel it in the rampant hardness of his erection, pressed to her soft stomach. Saw it flare in his eyes.
His gaze touched hers, swept her face, then he bent his head and took her mouth, ravaged, ravished her senses. His hands closed about her breasts, his fingers briefly tightened about the pebbled peaks, then he released them, released her lips, swept her up in his arms.
He carried her to the bed, knelt on it, laid her down on the silk coverlet. Shrugged off his coat, kicked off his shoes. She expected him to undress, but he didn’t. In his fine linen shirt and lace, in his silk breeches, he sprawled beside her, half atop her, and took her mouth again. Set her wits whirling as he shifted her, arranged her, settled her half beneath him, then set his wicked fingers to her naked skin to strip all resistance away.
She didn’t resist, had no intention of wasting that much effort, yet she was dimly conscious of his purpose, very aware of how she reacted to each sensual tactile taunt, each caress, each teasing glide. His lips played on hers; his long fingers played on her skin, played her nerves, her very senses, tracing her breasts until they ached, sliding away to outline her ribs, her waist, then gliding over her stomach until it contracted. Then he pressed. Knowingly.
He released her lips, listened to her gasp; she did, too. Her hips tilted; he kneaded gently, then his lips returned to hers and his fingers drifted away, trailing down her thighs. Up and down; down the outer faces, up the sensitive inner faces until she stirred and restlessly parted them, invited him to touch her there, where she throbbed. He didn’t, not immediately, distracted by the soft curls at the base of her stomach, threading his fingers through them, touching her delicately, until she sank her fingers into his arm, kissed him madly, and moved her thighs farther apart.
The air touched her, cool against her fevered flesh, then his hand cupped her. Desire, illicit pleasure, jolted through her. Her spine tensed. She waited, tight with expectation, with sensual anticipation . . .