Ariele was taller than Helena, larger overall, yet not above average. Her hair lay like a curtain of old gold down her back. He could see her profile, as perfect as Helena’s. See her hands gesture, swift and delicate, reassuring Phillipe and hushing his apologies.
Then she sensed his presence and turned. Smiled shyly.
He walked forward, held out his hand.
She reacted instinctively and laid her fingers in his. He bowed over them. Ariele shook off her surprise and curtsied prettily.
Sebastian raised her. “I’m honored to meet you, my dear, but I think we should leave further pleasantries until later. We must leave immediately.” He looked into eyes that were darker than Helena’s, a different shade of green. “If all goes as we plan, we’ll have years to get to know each other better.”
Ariele tilted her head at that, looked at him almost challengingly. The same fire that burned so brightly in Helena had not missed Ariele.
Sebastian laughed softly; leaning closer, he dropped a light kiss on Ariele’s forehead. “Do not fence with me,
Ariele made a sound that could only be described as a chortle. She shot a quick glance at Helena, her face alight with innocent query. No mystery why Phillipe had been smitten.
Releasing her hand, Sebastian stepped back. “Come. We dare not dally.”
Helena had remained rooted to the spot watching the interplay between her sister and him; now she bustled up, took the brush from Ariele’s hand, dropped it in the bag, and cinched the drawstring tight. She looked at him. “We are ready.”
He took her hand, kissed her tense fingers. “Good. This is what we’ll do.”
They left the room, four silent shadows slipping through the slumbering house. As before, Phillipe led the way; Ariele, in her cloak with the hood already up, followed at his heels, much as if he’d been sent to summon her and she was grumpily complying. They walked swiftly but quietly down the corridors. A few yards behind, Helena, also fully cloaked, followed with Sebastian, keeping to the shadows as much as they could.
Helena’s heart thumped. As she hurried along, she felt giddy. They were nearly free—all of them. And Ariele liked Sebastian. The two people she loved the most would get on. Relief mingled with anxiety; lingering trepidation weighed against her burgeoning joy.
They reached the gallery and started along it.
A single, confident footstep was all the warning they had before Fabien swung into the gallery from the other end. He’d taken three long strides before he halted, staring. The moonlight sheened his fair hair. Booted and spurred, dressed as always in unrelieved black, he was carrying his riding gloves in one hand. His rapier was at his side.
For one instant they all stood transfixed in the light of the moon.
Then Helena heard a soft curse, and Sebastian stepped past her. The sibilant hiss as his rapier left its scabbard shimmered, menacing in the tense quiet.
It was immediately answered by a smiliar hiss as Fabien’s rapier flashed into the night.
What followed, Helena later understood took but a few minutes, yet in her mind each action was ponderous, laden with meanings, subtle hints, and portents.
Like the smile that curved Fabien’s lips as he recognized Sebastian, the unholy light that flared in his dark eyes.
The fact that Fabien was considered a master swordsman flashed into her mind. She felt ill for one instant, then rallied. Remembered Sebastian’s confidence over younger men challenging him—remembered that indeed they didn’t.
The memory allowed her to grab back her wits, to hold panic at bay—to think. Phillipe had stepped back, shrinking against the windows. He’d pulled Ariele with him.
In the center of the gallery, bathed in moonlight, Sebastian and Fabien slowly circled, each waiting for the other to make the first move.
With a sudden rush, Fabien did—the clash of steel made Helena flinch, but she kept her eyes open, fixed on the scene, and saw Sebastian parry the attack without apparent effort.
Fabien was shorter by a few inches and slighter—faster on his feet. Sebastian was almost certainly the stronger and had a longer reach.
Again Fabien lunged; again Sebastian deflected his blade with ease.
Helena heard thumping, looked down at their feet. Realized . . .
Dragging in a breath, she eased along the wall, then slipped past them and fled to the gallery’s end. There she dragged the doors shut, turned the key. Swung around and looked back to see Phillipe and Ariele doing the same at the gallery’s other end. If the servants heard the thumps and came to investigate, the doors would buy them precious time.
Sebastian was aware of the problem—he saw the ends of Fabien’s lips lift mockingly and knew his old foe had seen it, too. The longer he and Fabien danced in the moonlight, the less likely they were to escape, regardless of the outcome of their play.
And play it was. Neither would kill; it was not in their natures. To triumph, yes, but what was the point of winning if one didn’t get to gloat over the vanquished? Besides, they were both noble born. Either one’s dying could prove difficult for the other to explain, especially as one was on foreign soil. Killing was not worth the effort. So they’d aim to disarm, to wound, to win.
But in the larger game—the more important game—the advantage was now Fabien’s. Sebastian flicked aside a probing thrust and set his mind to the task of wresting it from him.
Confident that, regardless, he was risking nothing more than his arm, Fabien was eager to engage. They were both past masters; for Fabien this meeting was long overdue. The Frenchman had speed, but Sebastian had strength and an agility he consistently disguised. He pushed Fabien back, turning parry into thrust, declining to follow Fabien’s answering feint in favor of another riposte that had his opponent quickly retreating.
Feinting, trying to lure him into opening his guard, relying on his quickness to keep him safe—that was Fabien’s style. Sebastian held back from any feints, projected his own style as straightforward, direct—undisguised. He needed to finish this quickly; against that, the only sure way past Fabien’s skill was to fool him, and that meant time.
Meant minutes of skirmishing, enough to establish his assumed style in Fabien’s mind. Meant backing Fabien toward one corner of the gallery—near where Helena watched, her back to the doors. He wished her elsewhere but couldn’t shift his attention from Fabien long enough to send her away.
The instant he had Fabien positioned where he wanted him, he launched a textbook series of thrust-counter- thrust, backing the Frenchman so he suddenly realized that being stuck in a corner with a stronger and larger opponent before him wasn’t the wisest place to be.
Fabien started looking for a way out.
Sebastian gave it to him.
Feinted to his left.
Fabien saw the opening, stepped left, lunged—
Sebastian heard a strangled scream. Already committed, he dropped, turned his wrist and sent his point flashing upward—in the same instant saw an explosion of brown coming in from his left.
With his weight behind his blade, his body extending into the lunge, he couldn’t stop her.
Could only watch in horror as she appeared between them, screening the space where his left chest had been, where she’d thought Fabien was aiming.
He glanced at Fabien—saw his own horror reflected in his face.
Too late—there was nothing Fabien could do to stop his lunge. His rapier took Helena in the shoulder.
Sebastian heard her cry as his own blade covered the last inches, couldn’t stop his guttural roar, couldn’t prevent his wrist rolling, deflecting the point three inches inward.
Fabien tried to spin away but couldn’t avoid the deadly thrust. The point pierced his coat, bit, and sank into flesh, slid along a rib—
Sebastian pulled back, released the rapier before he completed the killing stroke. Let the weapon clatter to the floor as he caught Helena.
Fabien staggered, then collapsed against the wall and slid down, one hand pressed to his side, his face paler
