The promise in a kiss

than death. As he lowered Helena to the floor, then pulled Fabien’s blade free, Sebastian was aware of the Frenchman’s burning gaze. Knew he hadn’t meant to harm Helena.

Ariele and Phillipe reached them in a rush. Sebastian steeled himself to deal with hysterics—instead, Ariele checked the wound, then set about ripping the flounce from her petticoat, instructing Phillipe to fetch Fabien’s cravat.

Phillipe approached cautiously, but Fabien, moving weakly, gave up the cravat of his own accord, without comment.

Sebastian’s opinion of Helena’s sister increased by leaps and bounds. Cradling Helena, he watched as Ariele efficiently formed a pad, then bound it over the narrow wound. She looked into his face, a question in her eyes. He nodded. “She’ll live.”

As long as she was properly cared for.

She’d swooned from the shock and pain; she was still unconscious, but not deeply. Relinquishing his position to Ariele, Sebastian stood and walked to Fabien. He bent and picked up his rapier, flicked out a handkerchief and wiped the blade.

Fabien’s gaze had remained on Helena. Now he glanced up at Sebastian. “You will tell her I never meant that?”

Sebastian met his gaze. “If she doesn’t already know.”

Fabien closed his eyes and shuddered. “Sacre dieu!Women! What they do . . .” He grimaced with pain but continued, his voice weakening, “She was ever unpredictable.”

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. Donot 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 therenow, 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— comeon !” 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?”