Saw the next set of roiling waves rush in.
The first hit; the deck tilted. She clutched a bollard and clung.
The deck was wet; the second wave hit, and her feet slipped, slid.
Frightened, she glanced around—and saw she was small enough to slip easily under the deck railing. She clung to the wet bollard for dear life.
The third wave hit, and she lost her footing. She shrieked—felt her fingers slip on the smooth, wet surface. Heard a shout, then an oath.
Seconds later, just as the next wave hit and her fingers lost their grip, she was plucked up, snatched up against Sebastian’s hard chest. His arm tightened about her waist, locking her to him, her back to his chest as he held tight to a rope while the yacht rode out the wave.
The instant it did, he lunged for the hatch, reached the ladder, and bundled her down it.
She didn’t understand that many English swear words, but his tone left little doubt that he was cursing her.
“I’m sorry.” She turned to him as he set her on her feet in the narrow corridor.
His eyes were burning blue, his lips thin, set, as he stood halfway down the ladder, blocking it. “You will henceforth bear one point firmly in mind. I agreed to rescue your sister, and I will. I agreed to let you accompany me, against my better judgment. If you do not have a care to yourself and your safety, I’m liable to change my mind.”
She read the truth of that in his eyes, in the granite determination in his face. Placatingly, she held out her hands, palms up. “I have said I am sorry, and I am—I didn’t realize . . .” Her gesture encompassed the tempest outside. “But can we not put into the harbor?”
He hesitated, then his features eased. He started to step down—the wind gusted a spray of water through the hatch onto his head. He growled, turned, climbed back up the ladder, and slammed the hatch shut, then came down again. He shook his head; droplets flew. He gestured her back. “In the cabin.”
She retreated. He followed. She crossed to a small dresser bolted to the wall, pulled a towel from a rail, and walked back to hand it to him.
He took it—the next wave hit and pitched her into him. He caught her, held her to him. And she felt the rigid tension, the reined temper that gripped him. Then he sighed. The tension seeped, then flowed away. He bent his head, set his face to her curls. Breathed deeply. “Don’t do anything that foolish again.”
She lifted her head. Met his gaze. Saw, clearly, because he allowed her to see, the vulnerability behind the words. Raising a hand, wonderingly, she touched his lean cheek. “I won’t.”
Stretching up, she touched her lips to his—invited the kiss, gave it back.
For one instant that sweet power welled between them, then he lifted his head. They parted; he handed her to the bed, and she wriggled up to sit. He went past the bed to the porthole and looked out, toweling his hair dry.
She didn’t repeat her question, just waited.
“We can’t put in, not with the seas running like this. Not against the wind.”
She’d guessed as much. Her heart sank, just a little, but she was determined. “Can we not run with the wind and put in somewhere else?”
“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.”
he 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.”