She woke to the clatter of hooves on cobbles. Straightening, she glanced out the window, saw a jumble of shops and houses.
“London.”
She turned to meet Sebastian’s gaze. Phillipe, she noted, was peering interestedly at the streets. “We have to go through it?”
“Unfortunately. Newhaven’s near Brighton, which lies directly south.”
Her lips forming an “Oh,” she looked at the houses and tried to suppress her impatience.
Tried to push aside the belief that now they’d set out on this journey, they had to hurry, hurry, or else they’d fail. That speed was of the essence.
Sebastian’s hand closed about hers, tightened reassuringly. “There’s no way Louis will be able to warn Fabien in time.”
She glanced at him, searched his eyes, then nodded. She looked back at the houses.
A few minutes later Sebastian spoke to Phillipe, inquiring about a certain French noble family. From there the conversation expanded to the foibles of the French court. Phillipe appealed to Helena. Soon they were embroiled in an animated, far-from-felicitous dissection of the current political climate and the shortcomings of those supposedly at the country’s helm. Only when she noticed the houses thinning and glimpsed open country again did Helena remember the passage of time.
She glanced at Sebastian, saw his blue eyes glint from under his heavy lids. Returning to the scenery, letting the conversation taper off of its own accord, she inwardly shook her head. He might no longer play the games Fabien did, but of his skill she entertained little doubt.
Or that, now that she was his, now that he deemed her to be so, she would have to grow accustomed to such nudges of manipulation—to the gentle tensing of her strings—all for her own good, of course.
It was a price she’d never believed she would be willing to pay, yet for freedom, for him . . .
To be his—safe, secure, and allowed to be free. Allowed to live her own life as she wished. To fulfill her destiny as a lady of position, as the wife of a powerful man.
What price such a dream?
She dozed again as the coach raced on. It was evening, the shadows fading to night, when the coach drew up outside an inn facing a quay. Sebastian stirred, then descended; Helena watched him speak with a sailor who’d hurried up. The steady splash of waves and the smell of brine carried clearly on the evening air. The sailor appeared to be in Sebastian’s employ; having received his orders, he tugged his forelock and departed.
Sebastian returned to the coach. Opening the door, he beckoned. “Come, we have time to dine before the tide turns.”
He handed her down; Phillipe followed. They crossed the cobbled yard to the inn door. Inside, all was cozy. The innkeeper beamed and bowed them into a private parlor. The table was set for three. The instant they sat, two maids arrived with steaming platters.
Helena glanced at Sebastian.
He caught her gaze, then flicked out his napkin. “I sent a rider down at dawn. Everything’s in readiness. We can sail in good time.”
Despite her relief, despite his planning, she could summon little appetite, a prey to unnameable worries. Sebastian insisted she consume at least the soup and a morsel or two of chicken. While she complied, he and Phillipe demolished everything else.
Then they were done, and Sebastian led her across the inn yard and onto the quay. His yacht, a sleek sloop that looked ready to slice through the water, stood bobbing, waiting, ropes straining as if it were a horse longing to race. All was in readiness, or so the captain informed him as he helped her down from the gangplank.
Sebastian gave the order to sail, then led her below.
She’d just stepped off the short ladder into the narrow corridor when the boat lifted on the swell, then surged. The sense of power, of being propelled forward—toward France, toward Ariele—was inexpressibly comforting. For one instant she paused, felt hope flare, let it grip her.
Realizing that Sebastian had stopped and was looking back at her, that Phillipe was still waiting to descend, she smiled and stepped forward, let Sebastian lead her to the stateroom at the corridor’s end.
The cabin was small yet spacious, uncluttered. It bore the stamp of his wealth in the luxury of its fittings, in the wide bed anchored against the wall, in the sheen of the oak paneling, the quality of the linens.
He’d stepped back into the corridor; she heard him directing Phillipe to another cabin. Heard them discussing the likely time of arrival. Sometime in the morning, Sebastian said. Phillipe was impressed; he asked about the boat, about its design. Helena stopped listening.
She put back the deep hood of her cloak, set her fingers to the strings at her throat. There was only one bed. That Sebastian would expect her to share it she doubted not at all. Yet how she would manage to sleep . . .
In her mind the gray walls of Le Roc rose, cold and forbidding. Not even the orchards and park surrounding it could soften its harsh, despotic lines.
What was Ariele doing, thinking? Was she sleeping, soundly with a small smile curving her lips? The sleep of the innocent—trusting, naive . . .
A noise in the corridor jerked her to attention. She glanced down, tugging at her laces as the door behind her opened, then closed. She heard a clunk, realized Sebastian had set the sword belt and sword he’d worn on a chair. Then she sensed his presence behind her, felt her pulse leap as it always did when he drew close. He hesitated, then closed the gap so that his chest met her shoulders, his thighs her bottom. So that the ridge of his erection nudged into the small of her back.
She hadn’t thought. “I’m . . . worried.”
“I know.”
His hands closed about her waist. He bent his head, ran the tip of his tongue about the rim of one ear; when she shuddered and tipped her head back, he trailed his lips to the pulse point at the base of her throat.
Laved as his hands shifted, rising to close possessively about her breasts. Sucking as he languidly kneaded, then lazily squeezed the ruched peaks.
She struggled to hold back the tide but couldn’t. Her breasts swelled, firmed, heated . . . her thoughts splintered.
“It’s too cold for you to be naked.”
His deep purr told her he preferred her that way.
She managed to draw breath but couldn’t break free of the drugging sensuality in his voice, in his touch. Couldn’t pull free of his spell. “What, then?”
“Lift the front of your skirts and petticoats. To above your knees.”
She summoned sufficient wit to comply. His hands fell to her waist, gripped. She gasped when he lifted her, then set her on her knees on the edge of the bed.
“Sssh.” His lips returned to her throat, to the sensitive spot beneath her ear. “Phillipe’s in the next room.”
One of his hands had returned to pleasure her breasts. She could feel the other behind her, sifting through their clothes. Then she felt his staff press more definitely against her. Felt him start to raise the back of her skirts.
“I don’t know if I can . . .”
His hand made contact with her bare bottom, caressed; she moaned.
Knew she could.
Knew she would.
He lifted her skirts and slid into her softness—and the world fell away. His rhythm was slow, easy; desire rose like a gentle tide and swept her up to a place that existed only in the here and now, in the moment of heat and passion. A sensation-filled plane where pleasure built, stage by stage, step by step, inexorably, until at the end the towering wave broke and washed through her, leaving her shattered, exhausted . . . too exhausted to think.
She was only dimly aware of him drawing her dress from her, then laying her in the bed. He stripped and joined her; she curled instinctively into his warmth, into his strength.
His arm came around her; he held her close.
She sighed and drifted into sleep.
