He waited, holding her curved over his arm, limp in the aftermath. Waited until he felt her stir, felt strength returning to her shaky muscles. He withdrew from her, rose, lifting her with him, then juggled her and swept her up in his arms.
Helena lifted her lids enough to see the bed rapidly approaching. She relaxed, set aside the protest she’d been about to make. She didn’t want him leaving her—didn’t want him leaving until she’d had the indescribable pleasure of knowing she’d pleasured him fully.
He stopped by the bed, dragged the coverlets down, then placed her in the middle of the soft mattress. He stripped off her chemise, then straightened, his gaze roaming her body, desire etched in his face. Then he reached for the covers and joined her in a crawling sprawl, his body caging hers as he wrestled the bedclothes into a cocoon about them, close, almost tight. Then he looked down at her, lowered his body to lie upon her, gripped her thighs and parted them, settled between. Joined with her in a single powerful thrust. Then he settled himself fully upon her and thrust again.
Letting go of all restraint, Helena lay back, put her arms around him, let her body ease beneath him, shifted her legs to clasp him more definitely as he rocked deeply into her.
The cocoon of the covers transformed to a cave, a place of primitive needs, primal wants—unquestioned desire. Driven, he loved her; captured, she loved him back.
Broken breaths, sobs, moans, guttural groans became their language, the powerful, insistent merging of their bodies their only reality. He wanted, demanded, took; unstintingly, she gave, opened her heart and gave him the key, gave him her body as the heat whirled and fused them. Gave him her soul as rapture caught them and lifted them from this world.
Chapter Eleven
THE creak of a floorboard pierced the deep slumber that had enfolded Helena in its warmth. She blinked into darkness. Realized from the deep silence that it was nowhere near dawn. Realized that she was not at Cameralle, that Ariele was not in the next room.
Realized that the warmth that surrounded her emanated from Sebastian, slumped heavily asleep by her side.
Another creak, nearer and too tentative to be natural, reached her. Sebastian had drawn the bed curtains. Easing from his side, sliding from under the heavy arm he’d draped over her, she searched for the gap in the curtains, carefully parted them, and peeked out.
For one instant she thought it was Louis creeping into her room. She nearly panicked, then her eyes adjusted, and the man, his hand on the latch of the open door, glanced around the room. The weak light revealed the truth.
Phillipe. Louis’s younger brother. He who had fetched Ariele from Cameralle and taken her to Fabien.
Panic was the least of the emotions that rocked Helena. Phillipe entered, then eased the door closed. He glanced around the room again; his gaze came to rest on the curtained bed. He took a step toward it.
Helena clamped her hand to her lips, smothering her instinctive “No!” She glanced at Sebastian; he was still fast asleep, the deep rhythm of his breathing undisturbed.
But she was naked. Casting around, she spied her robe draped over the bottom corner of the bed, pushed back by the violence of their mating and now jumbled with the covers. Beyond the curtains, she could hear Phillipe cautiously approaching.
She stretched—and just managed to snag the edge of the robe and drag it to her. Frantically, she shrugged into it, fervently praying that Sebastian wouldn’t wake, that Phillipe wouldn’t draw back the curtains—that he’d realize the rings would rattle. Reminded herself of the same fact.
With the robe covering the top half of her, she held it closed, then, with an even more fervent prayer, eased from the bed.
She heard a whispered curse from Phillipe—he’d seen the curtains shift. As carefully as she could, she slipped from the bed, wriggling the robe down, then slid through the gap in the curtains.
The instant she emerged and saw Phillipe—face pale, eyes wide—she waved him back, then put a finger to her lips. With her other hand she held the robe closed, tugging it free of the covers until, at last, she stood barefoot on the floor, the robe falling to conceal her limbs, the curtains falling almost fully shut behind her.
She noticed the gap, glanced up at the rings, wondered if she dared risk closing the curtains fully. Sebastian hadn’t stirred—yet . . . She couldn’t reach the curtain rod to ease the rings along.
Leaving the gap, she turned to Phillipe, to the source of her most urgent worry. Her heart thudded painfully as she padded across the floor, waving him back, all the way back to where the shadows hung heaviest by the door. It was as far from the bed as they could get. She glanced briefly back at the sliver of darkness that was the gap in the curtains. She had to weigh her options carefully—for Ariele’s sake, she didn’t dare do otherwise. Outside in the corridor would be safer on the one hand, but how much trust could she place in Phillipe, knowing him to be one of Fabien’s creatures?
“What are you doing here?” She kept the hiss barely above a whisper, yet her panic, and her accusation and distrust, rang clearly.
To her surprise, Phillipe flinched. “It’s not what you think.”
Even though he’d whispered, she frowned and waved at him to lower his voice. “I do not know what to think! Tell me of Ariele.”
Phillipe paled even more; Helena’s heart lurched.
“She is . . . well. For the moment.”
“What do you mean?” Helena seized his arm, shook it. “Has Fabien changed his mind?”
Phillipe frowned. “Changed? No. He still intends . . .”
The disgust and heartache in his face were too familiar for Helena to mistake them. “But he hasn’t changed his mind about Christmas—about me having until Christmas Eve to bring the dagger to him?”
Phillipe blinked. “Dagger? Is that what you have to get?”