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 Phillipe 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.
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?”
“
“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—”
“
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
