Helena whisked through the door, then carefully shut it. She scanned the room again and saw what she’d hoped to see. A trophy case. She crossed to it, stood before it, and examined all the items. A whip with a silver handle. An engraved cup. A gold plate with some inscription. Various other items, ribbons, decorations, but no dagger.
She looked around, then started circling the room, checking the tops of the small tables and sideboards, investigating all drawers. Reaching the desk, she glanced over the top, hesitated, then tried the drawers. None were locked; none contained any dagger.
“Peste!” Straightening, she glanced around one last time—and noticed that what she’d taken for a domed clock standing on a pedestal by one window now seen from this more revealing angle was not a clock at all.
She crossed quickly to the pedestal, slowing as she neared. The object that lay beneath the glass dome was not a dagger. It was . . .
Curious, she drew close, peered.
The silvery light lay like gilding on the slim leaves of a dried sprig of mistletoe.
She’d seen that sprig before. Knew the tree on which it had grown.
Remembered—too well—the night it had been taken, snapped off, placed in Sebastian’s pocket.
One part of her mind scoffed—how could she be sure it was the same sprig? How nonsensical . . . and yet . . .
I had never forgotten you.
His words to her two nights ago. If she was to believe the evidence of her eyes, he’d been speaking the truth.
Which meant . . . he might well have been intending to marry her all along. Just as he’d claimed.
Fingertips touching the cold glass, Helena stared at the slim leaves, the slender twigs, while inside something swelled, welled, poured over . . .
While the veils shifted, lifted, and she saw the truth, tasted its aching sweetness.
And recognized, fully and finally, all she would lose in saving Ariele.
The deep bong of a clock made her start. It was echoed by others throughout the house. She blinked, stepped back. She was tempting fate.
With one last, lingering look at the sprig of mistletoe lying preserved forever under the glass, she turned to the door.
She reached her bedchamber without incident, but her heart was pounding. Slipping inside, she closed the door, then paused with one palm on the panels, giving her pulse a chance to slow.
Drawing in a tight breath, she turned into the room—
Sebastian was sitting in the armchair by the hearth. Watching her.
She halted, froze—her wits seized.
He rose, languidly graceful, and crossed the thick carpet toward her. “I’ve been waiting, mignonne. For you.”
She felt her eyes widen as he halted before her. She clung to her surprise. “I . . . didn’t expect you.”
An understatement. She fought not to glance at the letters she’d left folded on the dressing table.
He raised one hand; long fingers framed her face. “I did warn you.”
Until later. She remembered his words, remembered their tone. “Later,” it appeared, had arrived. “But . . .”
He said nothing, simply studied her face, watched . . . waited. She swallowed, gestured weakly to the door. “I went for a walk.” Her voice wavered; she forced a smile, let her nervousness show. Disguised the cause. “Your house is so large and in the dark . . . a little unnerving.” She shrugged lightly; her heart was racing. She let her gaze fall to his lips. Remembered the mistletoe. “I couldn’t sleep.”
His lips curved, yet his features remained hard, unyielding. “Sleep?” The deep murmur reached her as he released her face. She felt his hands slide about her waist. “I have to admit, mignonne”—he drew her to him, bent his head—“that sleep is the furthest thing from my mind.”
Her head tipped back of its own accord; her lips met his—and she couldn’t have stopped, didn’t try to stop herself from sinking into his embrace.
Desire flared, and she clung. Held to him as if he were her only salvation.