“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 thatI 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.
ebastian 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.”