“My husband—the one I choose—will not summon my guardian.”
“But if your guardian doesn’t wait to be summoned . . . what then?”
He gave her time to think, to venture on her own down the lane of thought he’d pointed out. To see the possibilities, to come of her own volition to the realization he desired.
Even now he was too much the consummate manipulator to speak too soon, to push too hard.
Especially not with her.
Helena frowned—at him, at his hard face, the pale, austere features limned but not softened by the lamplight. Reluctantly, already sensing what she would see, she let her mind turn—almost as if she were mentally turning around and looking at something behind her, something she’d failed to see.
He was right. Fabien would not be deterred from using her by the protestations of a weak husband. Look what he’d done with Geoffre Daurent, her uncle, her initial and natural guardian. Although not a particularly weak man, Geoffre was weaker than Fabien. Because controlling her fortune and marriage conferred considerable political power, Fabien had “discussed” matters with Geoffre, a distant kinsmen, and an agreement had been reached that had seen Fabien legally installed as her guardian.
How Fabien might use her once she was married she did not know, but his intrigues were manifold—power flowed from many sources, from the control of myriad subjects, in their world. And power was Fabien’s drug.
“You are right.” The words fell from her lips as she refocused; she frowned. “I will need to think again.”
“There are not that many options to consider,
She met his eyes, narrowed her own. “I will not—” She broke off, an image of Fabien rising in her mind. In truth, there was very little she wouldn’t do to escape his web.
Sebastian searched her eyes; then his gaze steadied, holding hers. “How alike are we, your guardian and I?”
His words were soft, wondering, inviting her to make the comparison. She recognized the ploy, enough to acknowledge it as a bold and brave stroke. He didn’t, after all, know Fabien.
“In nature you are much alike.” Honesty forced her to added, “In some respects.”
He was infinitely kinder. Indeed, many of his actions, albeit executed with typical arrogance and high- handedness, were prompted by a detached, quite selfless wish to help, something she found immensely endearing. Kindness was not a quality Fabien possessed; it was her considered opinion that in all his years Fabien had never once thought of anyone but himself.
Where St. Ives arranged for his sister to return to the country for her own good, Fabien would do the same for his own purposes, irrespective of whether that benefited or indeed even harmed his pawn.
She continued to study Sebastian’s face. He raised one brown brow. “Which would you rather, if you could choose—your guardian, or me?”
And that, she knew, was the question he’d sought this interview to ask. A single, simple question that, as he’d correctly seen, was the central, crucial issue in deciding what she did next.
“Neither would be my first choice.”
His lips lifted lightly. He inclined his head. “That I accept. However, as you’ve now realized, that choice will not free you of powerful men. If not your guardian, if not me, then it will be some other like us.”
He hesitated, then lifted a hand and traced her face, his fingertips lightly touching. “You are extremely beautiful,
“That combination is not something I can change.” She stated it flatly, knowing it as a truth—one she disliked but had long ago accepted.
“No.” His gaze held hers. “All you can do is choose the best of the options it leaves you.”
She blinked, drew in a breath, allowed herself to imagine, to speculate. “You are saying that if I accept you, you will become my champion, that you will protect me from others, even my guardian.”
His eyes were very blue. “
That was no idle statement, not from him.
She studied him, aware that all he’d said was true. And wondering, now that she’d been brought to face the choice, whether there truly were no other options.
“The only freedom you will ever know,
He had, once again, read her mind, her eyes, her soul. “How do I know that you won’t seek to use me as he has—to play with my future, my life, as if they are your possessions to dispose of as it suits your whim?”
Her words had flowed without thought or hesitation; his answer was just as swift.
“I can promise that I won’t—and I do. But you can never know absolutely; you can only trust, and trust that your trust will be honored. But on that matter there’s little point denying that, at some level at least, you already trust me.” He held her gaze. “You wouldn’t be here now if you didn’t.”
That also was true. She trusted him, while she trusted Fabien not at all. Perched on his knees, face-to-face, gaze to gaze, Helena knew she was being managed by a master. Every minute of their interaction thus far had been staged and played to foster not just her trust but her belief in his sincerity.
And beneath all else was her awareness of him, of the blatantly sexual connection that had from the first moment they’d met each other all those years ago flared between them.
He hadn’t sought to hide it, to pretend it didn’t exist, to draw a veil over that part of their interaction.
“If I agreed to . . .” She paused, searched his eyes, then lifted her chin. “Accept your protection, what would you ask in return?”
His gaze didn’t waver. “You know what I would ask—what I wish.”
“Tell me.”
He studied her eyes, her face, then murmured, “I think,
A shiver skittered up her spine, but when he arched a brow at her, she haughtily arched one back. She had to know if she could do this—if becoming his, placing herself under his protection, was an option for her. If she could withstand the fire of his touch, if she could become his and still be herself.
She said nothing, simply waited, coolly expectant. He read the determination in her eyes, then his gaze lowered. Washed over her bare shoulders, drifted lower, rose again—she felt it like a physical sensation, the brush of an ephemeral touch. Then his gaze fixed on the gold clasp at her shoulder.
With his habitual languor, he raised one hand; extending one finger, he nudged, then pushed the clasp sideways until it and the gathered silk it held slipped over the arc of her shoulder. His finger followed the upper curve of her arm, trailing down the smooth skin. Just a few inches.
She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t shift as he slowly leaned forward, bent his head and set his lips like a brand to her shoulder.
To the very spot he’d uncovered—the only spot on her shoulders that had been concealed, the only place where she felt vulnerable, now it had been exposed. Bared. To him. By him.
She closed her eyes, concentrated, caught by the shift of his lips on her skin, seduced by the hot sweep of his tongue. Opening her eyes, she watched, fascinated, as he pressed his lips again to the sensitized spot; she felt her spine shake, quake, felt his hand close about her waist, fingers pressing in response.
Driven by an inner force she didn’t recognize, she lifted her hand to his nape, slid and spread her fingers into his silky hair. His lips firmed on her skin. She turned her head as he lifted his. Their lips met.
That balancing power she’d experienced before still operated between them. As they kissed—taking, giving, pausing to savor, to entice, to indulge—she felt it like a constraint, some limit on a tipping scale that prevented him, or her, from taking too much without giving, from conquering without first surrendering.
Again and again that power tipped the scales. He took her mouth in a hot, heated rush, a primitive ravishment that left her senses reeling. Then she gathered herself and boldly pressed her own demands, and he was the one giving way, laying himself open to her conquest. Shuddering when she pressed deep. Following when she retreated.
The wave washed back and forth; the hot tide steadily rose be-tween them.
