Sebastian hesitated, then murmured, “She’s too much like us—didn’t that ever occur to you?”
“Mais, oui—of course. She schemes and plots and thinks quickly, yet she is hardly up to our weight.”
Sebastian humphed. He looked down on his old foe, knew the wound he’d delivered would cause serious discomfort for weeks. Counseled himself that that, together with all that would come, was fair payment for all Helena had suffered—that he couldn’t, no matter what he wished, exact further physical retribution. “You and your games—I gave them up years ago. Why do you still play them?”
Fabien opened his eyes, looked up, then shrugged—grimaced again. “Ennui, I suppose. What else is there to do?”
Sebastian considered him, shook his head. “You’re a fool.”
“Fool? Me?” Fabien tried to laugh, but pain cut off the sound. His eyes closed again, tight, but still he inclined his head to where Helena lay. “It is not I who has, it appears, been caught in the oldest trap of all.”
Sebastian looked down at Fabien’s white face and wondered if he should mention that he knew Fabien had been caught in the same trap many long years before. But in Fabien’s case there’d been no happy ending, only a prolonged, slowly deepening sorrow. His Marie had proved too weak to bear children, and now she was dying. At the thought, Sebastian’s lingering anger faded. Declining to touch on the matter or mention that he knew Fabien’s closely guarded truth, he slid his rapier back into its sheath. Looked at Helena. “Blood will tell, I suppose.”
Fabien frowned, then glanced up at him.
Sebastian didn’t deign to explain.
Fabien looked again at the others. “One thing I must know. Whose estates are larger—hers or yours?”
Sebastian grinned grimly. “Mine.”
Fabien sighed. “Well, you have won this round, mon ami.” His voice faded; he closed his eyes. “But you have yet to win free.”
Sebastian saw Fabien’s muscles relax, saw him slip into unconsciousness. Hunkering down, he briefly checked Fabien’s wound—confirmed it was serious but not immediately life threatening. Standing, Sebastian beckoned Phillipe, pointed to a door off the gallery. “What’s through there?”
It was the library; they left Fabien laid out on the chaise before the cold hearth, hands and feet bound with curtain cords, gagged with his handkerchief. He’d be found soon enough.
They returned to Ariele and Helena, who was now conscious but clearly in pain. White-faced, Phillipe considered her, then turned to Sebastian. “How will we manage now?”
He told them, quickly, succinctly. From the silence beyond the doors, they assumed that no servants had heard the thuds and muffled screams. “But if they have, we can use it to strengthen our hand.”
“You”—he pointed at Phillipe—“and Helena have just arrived with Fabien. He summoned you posthaste and met you at Montsurs, but you were delayed, and so you have only just arrived. He has ordered you both to take Ariele to Paris. He’s retired, leaving you to it—but he wants her gone immediately. He said he is not to be disturbed, he has a headache.”
“A migraine.” Helena’s voice floated up, weak but distinct. “He is a prey to migraines—the staff know it is worth their heads to disturb him at such times.”
“Perfect. He has a migraine and has left you with specific orders to take Ariele and leave now. The ‘now,’ for reasons unknown to you, is vital—Fabien has made that clear.” Sebastian looked at Ariele. “You are not happy at being roused from your bed and marched off to Paris.” He looked down at her feet, at the pattens she’d put on. “You’re going to clump down the stairs and be difficult and scowl. Wail if you need to cover any sound. Helena will appear to be holding you—in reality you will be holding her.”
He looked down at Helena. “Can you walk, mignonne?”
Lips tightly set, she nodded.
He paused, looking down at her, but accepted her word. He couldn’t think of any other way to get her safely out of the house. “Bon.” He looked at Phillipe. “So it’s time for you to summon the carriage. Clatter down the stairs in a rush and set everyone in a panic. Do not answer any questions as to how you arrived here—brush them aside. You must be totally focused on getting Ariele away at once as your uncle has ordered. If the staff balk, tell them Fabien is lying down in his chamber with a migraine—and suggest they check with him.” He paused, considered the young man. “When they question you, behave as Fabien would—or as I would. You’ve been helping get Ariele moving, but now Helena is bringing her along, and you want the carriage there now, so there’ll be no further delay . . .”
Phillipe was nodding. “Yes, I see.”
Sebastian continued, outlining the last phase of his plan. Finally he clapped Phillipe on the shoulder. “Go, then—we’ll listen from here and come down as the carriage arrives. We don’t want Helena on her feet any longer than necessary.”
Phillipe nodded, opened the gallery doors, looked out—then looked back, nodded again, and went.
They listened to his footsteps, confident and definite as he strode along, fade. Sebastian hunkered down beside Helena. She gripped his sleeve, looked into his face. “And you? How will you join us?”
He caught her hand, raised it to his lips. “I don’t propose to let you out of my sight, mignonne. Once you’re in the coach, I’ll join you.”
Helena accepted his word, marshaled her strength for the battle to come. Although her wound had bled copiously and the blood had seeped into her thick cloak, the wool was dark enough to hide the stain.
They heard the furor as Phillipe sent up a shout and roused the servants. The butler balked at taking his orders, but Phillipe dealt with him with a high-handed arrogance that would have done Fabien proud.
He got the coach ordered. From the shadows of the upstairs foyer, Sebastian and Ariele, with Helena supported between them, watched Phillipe pace agitatedly—for all the world as if he expected Fabien to appear and quietly inquire why he was still there.
His apprehension was contagious. Ten minutes after a footman had been sent flying to the stables, the stamp of hooves heralded the coach. Sebastian pressed his lips to Helena’s temple, held her for an instant longer, then stepped back. “Go!”
Ariele glanced back at him. Then she scowled and muttered, scuffed her feet as if she were being dragged, all the time holding Helena, who clung to her.
From the hall below, Phillipe glanced up. “Where are they?” he inquired of no one in particular. “Come on—come on!” With quick strides he started up the stairs, then Helena and Ariele appeared at the top. “There you are!” Phillipe continued up. He came to Ariele’s side but reached around her to surreptitiously help Helena.
“Into the coach, now. Don’t be difficult. You don’t want Uncle to come down, do you?”
Stepping down on the stairs, Helena gasped, swayed.
Ariele clutched and grouched louder. A trifle breathlessly.
Watching from the shadows above, Sebastian prayed. Saw Helena lift her head, nod all but imperceptibly. They continued on.
The butler was still fretting. He looked to Helena—she waved imperiously. “We must leave at once!”
Her voice was sharp, tight with pain, but they heard it as irritation.
It was enough. Everyone scurried out of their way, solicitously holding the door wide, then piling onto the steps to watch as the trio, clinging together, descended.
The clang of iron-shod hooves on the cobbles of the forecourt covered Sebastian’s footsteps. He descended the stairs quickly, then slid into the shadows alongside the staircase. Everyone was on the front porch. Craning his neck, he could just see the coach. The timing was going to be critical.
Helena entered the coach first; Ariele quickly followed. Phillipe put his foot on the step, then paused, turned to the groom clinging to his perch at the coach’s back, called him down, at the same time waving the footman to put up the steps and close the coach door. Mystified, the footman did as he was bid while Philli
pe walked to the back of the coach to meet the groom.
Sebastian drew in a breath and started for the front door, striding confidently, his boot heels ringing on the marble floor. Startled, the butler and his minions, all still in their nightshirts, swung around, ready to bow and scrape to their master . . .
Their eyes widened. Jaws slackened.
Sebastian looked down his nose at them and walked straight through. They fell back, not daring to inconvenience him.
He strode on, descending the steps, his long stride effortless, eating the distance across the forecourt to the coach. He passed the befuddled footman returning to the house. Was conscious that the man turned and slowed, watching him. All the others were gathered on the porch, doing the same, totally bewildered as to what was going on, what they should do.
Sebastian glimpsed Helena’s white face at the coach window. Raised a hand in salute. They’d done it—they were away.
His stride unfaltering, he shot a glance at Phillipe—nodded. Phillipe turned back to the groom.
Sebastian reached the coach. In one fluid movement he climbed to the box seat. Surprised, the coachman turned to him. Sebastian grabbed the reins, dropped them, grabbed the man and tossed him onto the patch of lawn on the other side of the coach.
Seizing the reins, Sebastian yelled, slapped the horses’ rumps, then sat as the coach rocketed off. He glanced briefly back, saw the groom sprawled in the dust, saw Phillipe hanging on grimly in the groom’s place.
Facing forward, Sebastian whipped up the horses. There were shouts, confused jabbering from behind, but the sounds quickly faded as he took the curve toward the fortress gates at speed.
The gates stood open.
Another carriage was driving in.
A gig, its horse in a lather.
The moon sailed forth. Sebastian’s lips curved as he recognized the gig’s driver and the passenger clinging to the rail, pointing at the coach bearing down upon them.
The gig cleared the gates. The drive was wide enough for only one carriage. Beside the drive lay a duck pond.
Sebastian urged the coach’s four horses on. He drove the coach directly at the gig.
Louis yelled and hauled on the reins.
The gig slewed and careered down the bank into the pond.
Villard flew out and splashed down in the pond’s center.
The coach swept on, straight for the gates.
Inside the coach, Helena heard the shouts, forced her eyes open, ignored the waves of pain.
She looked through the window—saw Louis, white-faced, cursing as he jumped from the gig, only to land in the mud.
Then the gates of Le Roc flashed past—and she knew she was free. She and Ariele. Totally free.
Relief was like a drug, spreading through her veins.
Her lids sank, fell.
The coach hit a rut.
Pain lanced through her. Blackness rose like a wave and dragged her down.
She woke to warmth, to softness and comfort, to the distant smell of baking. Mince pies. Sweet pastries. Rich baked fruit.
The aromas wafted her back to childhood, to memories of Christmases long past. To the time when her parents had been alive and the long corridors of Cameralle had been filled with boundless joy, with laughter, good cheer, and a pervasive, golden peace.
For minutes she hung, suspended in time, a ghostly visitor returning to savor past joys, past loves. Then the visions slowly faded.
The peace remained.
Inexorably, the present drew her back, the smells reminding her she was ravenously hungry. She remembered what had happened, felt the ache in her shoulder, the stiffness and the restriction of bandages.
Opening her eyes, she saw a window. There was snow on the sill, snow between the panes, ice patterns on the glass. Her eyes adjusting to the gray light, she looked farther, into the shadows beyond the window—and saw Sebastian sitting on a chair.
He was watching her. When she said nothing, he asked, “How do you feel?”
She blinked, drew in a deep breath, let it slowly out, easing past the pain. “Better.”
“Your shoulder still hurts.”
Not a question. “Yes, but . . .” She eased onto her back. “Not as badly. It’s manageable, I think.” Then she frowned. “Where are we?” She lifted her head. “Ariele?”
His lips curved briefly. “She’s belowstairs with Phillipe. She’s well and safe.” He drew his chair closer to the bed.
Helena reached out a hand; he took it, clasped it between his. “So . . .” She was still puzzled but inexpressibly comforted by the warmth of his hands closing about hers. “We are still in France?”
“Oui. We couldn’t travel far, so I rejiggered our plans.”
“But . . .” She frowned at him. “You should have driven straight to Saint-Malo.”
The look he bent on her told her not to be stupid. “You were injured and unconscious. I sent a message to the yacht and came here.”
“But Fabien will follow.”
“He’ll undoubtedly try to, but he’ll send to Saint-Malo or Calais. He’ll search to the north, expecting us to run that way. Instead, we came south and away from the coast.”
“But . . . how will we return to England?” She wriggled higher against the pillows, ignored the stabbing pain. “You must get back for Christmas—for your family gathering. And if Fabien is searching, we cannot stay here. We must—”
“Mignonne, be quiet.”
When she fell silent, unsure, he continued, “All is arranged. My yacht will be waiting at Saint-Nazaire when we’re ready to depart. We’ll be home in good time for Christmas.” His eyes, very blue, held hers. “There is nothing for you to do but recuperate. Once you’re well enough to travel, we’ll leave. Is there anything more you need to know?”
She looked at him, considered the asperity coloring his tone. Treasured it. She sighed and squeezed his hand. “I am a sad trial, am I not?”
He snorted. “You took years off my life. And Fabien’s.”
She frowned, recalling. “He did not wish to injure me, did he?”
“No—he was horrified. As was I.” Sebastian considered her, then added, “He never intended to harm you. Or Ariele.”
“Ariele? But—” She broke off, searching his face, then her eyes cleared. “It was a ruse?”
“A heartless one perhaps, but yes—it was the surest way to get you to do as he wished.”
He could see her thinking back, remembering, reassessing. She shook her head. “He is a strange man.”
“He’s an unfulfilled man.” Looking down at her lying in the bed, Sebastian knew that was true. Understood what it took for men like him and Fabien to be fulfilled. Accepted it.
Helena stirred, glanced at him. “There is one thing I do not yet know—tell me how you got this dagger of his.”
He smiled. Looked down at her hand lying between his. Twining his fingers with hers, he lifted them to his lips, brushed a lingering kiss across them. “I won the dagger”—he lifted his gaze to her eyes—“on the night we first met.”
Her eyes widened. “Vraiment? That was the reason you were after Collette’s earring?”
“Oui. I won a large amount from Fabien’s younger brother, so Fabien sought me out, to put me in my place. We English were widely known for our wild wagers. Fabien manipulated the scene so I could not refuse—not without losing face. He didn’t, however, expect me to turn the tables and ask for the dagger to balance the scales. He’d brought half the glory of France with him—before them, he had to agree.”
“But he sent word to the convent.”
“Naturally. I knew he would. I pretended I was drunk and rolled off to my hotel—and from there straight to the convent.” He looked into her eyes. “To meet you in the moonlight.”
She smiled, not just with her lips but with her peridot eyes, now clear of all clouds and worries. There was more color in her cheeks than there had been when she woke. He squeezed her hand, then released it and stood. “B
on. So if you are now awake and reassured, I’ll fetch Ariele and tell the innkeeper’s wife you’re ready to eat.”
Her smile was all he’d hoped for. “Please.” She eased up to sit; he helped her. “I will eat, and then we can leave.”
“Tomorrow.”
She looked at him, looked at the window. “But—”
“You will eat and rest and gather your strength, and if you’re well in the morning, we’ll leave.”
She met his gaze, read his determination, then sighed and sank back on her pillows. “As you will, Your Grace.”
“Indeed, mignonne—it will be precisely as I will.”
Naturally, it was. Helena wondered if she would ever get used to the sensation of being swept up and along by a will more powerful than hers.
The rest of that day passed peacefully. In the afternoon she left her bed and dressed and ventured downstairs to view the tiny, family-run inn Sebastian had found tucked away in the valley of the Sarthe. There was no main road near; the family was truly grateful for their custom. She was sure they had no idea they were playing host to an English duke and a French comtesse.
They had the inn to themselves; a fresh snowfall had reduced all outdoor activities to the strictly necessary. The inn parlor was warm and cozy; it was pleasant to sit by the fire beside Sebastian and watch as he played chess with Phillipe.
There were only a few days remaining before la nuit de Noël; the inn was already filled with a sense of calm, of peace—the expectation of joy. As she sat beside Sebastian, safe and warm, Helena found her heart free of worries, free of cares—for the first time in all the years since her parents had died, free to relax, to enjoy, free to let the calm, the peace, and the anticipation of joy assured flow in and fill her soul.
Closing her eyes, she felt the promise of the season pour in, overflow.
The next day she insisted she was well enough to travel. Sebastian viewed her critically but agreed. After a large breakfast they set out through the melting snow and found the way clearer the farther south they went. They reached Saint-Nazaire as evening approached. Sebastian’s yacht lay bobbing by the quay—they spotted it from the cliffs above the town, Helena with some relief.
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