He reached for her. Dragged her down into the depths of the feather mattress, settling her half beneath him. She sucked in a breath, felt his fingers searching for the opening of her robe. Then he pushed the robe wide, lifted over her and lowered his body to hers—skin to skin, heat to heat.
The rush of warmth was a shock. Giddy, she found enough air to say, “So the document—you are saying it’s worthless?”
He looked into her face as he set his hands to her body. “Not in the least. To us it’s a prize.” He considered her eyes, then smiled, bent his head, and brushed his lips across her furrowed forehead. “Your document is an ace, mignonne, and we’re going to use it to trump Fabien in a most . . . satisfying way.”
That he still meant to marry her—even now, after learning all about her deception—could not have been clearer. Yet guilt still lay heavy on her heart.
His hands were roaming, seducing her senses, stealing her wits. It would be so easy to sink under his spell, to give herself to him and let the matter slide.
She couldn’t.
She caught his face, framed it in both hands, held it so that even in the dimness she could see every nuance. “You will really help me—you will help me rescue Ariele.” No question; she didn’t doubt he would. “Why?”
He met her gaze. “Mignonne, I have told you—often—that you are mine. Mine.” On the word, he nudged her thighs apart, settled between. “Of all the women in the world, there is none I’m more devoted to helping, to protecting, than you.”
She could see it in the blue of his eyes, see the fire and the feeling that supported it. “But me . . . I put another higher than you.”
His gaze didn’t waver. “If you’d acted as you did for Fabien, or any other man . . . yes, I would have felt betrayed. But you did as you did for your sister—out of love, out of responsibility. Out of caring. Of all men in the world, can you not see that I would understand?”
She looked into his eyes and did see. At last, let herself believe. “I should have trusted you—told you.”
“You were afraid for your sister.”
He bent his head and kissed her—long and deep. Making it patently clear that, to him, the matter was closed.
It was minutes later before she caught her breath enough to murmur, “You forgive me?”
Above her he paused, then touched a gentle hand to her cheek. “Mignonne, there is nothing to forgive.”
In that moment she knew, not only that she loved him but why. Reaching up, she drew his head down, kissed him—delicately, tantalizingly, holding at bay the fire that was already raging between them. “I will be yours.” She whispered the words against his lips. “Always.”
No matter what was to come.
“Bon.” He took control of the kiss, plundered her mouth, then tilted her hips and entered her. Drank her gasp as the hot steel of him pressed inexorably in. All the way in.
Then he withdrew, and the dance began.
Helena gave herself up to it, up to him—surrendered completely. Opened her body to him, opened her heart. Offered him her soul.
In the dark cocoon of the bed, in their mingled breaths, the shattered sobs and low groans, as their heated bodies moved together, as the pace increased and the depth of his passion and need broke over her, buffeted her, pleasured her, a deeper understanding dawned.
While surrender was her gift to him, the most coveted element she brought to his bed, possession, in turn, was his gift to her. Yet as she sensed his control slip and his desire break free, take hold, and drive him relentlessly, while she sobbed and held him to her as he plundered her body, she had to wonder who was the possessed, who the posssessor.
Neither, she concluded as the wave broke and took them. Left them gasping. As they drifted, buoyed on fading glory, she recalled what he’d stated long before. They were made for this. For each other—him for her, her for him.
Two halves of the same coin, bonded by a power not even a powerful man could break.
Sebastian slipped from Helena’s side two hours later. Shrugging into his robe,
belting it, he crossed to the dressing table, picked up Fabien’s declaration, read it again. He glanced at Helena; she remained sound asleep. He hesitated, then folded the document. Taking it with him, he quietly left the room.
Regaining his apartments, he summoned Webster, gave orders as he washed, shaved, and dressed. Leaving his valet, Gros, rushing hither and yon, packing the small bag he’d declared was all he would take, he quit the room and headed for his study.
There he started on the task of setting in place the foundations of his plan.
The first letter he wrote was a personal request to the Bishop of Lincoln, an old friend of his father’s. Once he and Helena returned from France with Ariele, he was not of a mind to delay their wedding further. Finishing his letter, he sanded it, then set it aside, together with Fabien’s declaration. Helena had secured that prize—he fully intended to use it.
He rang for a footman, dispatched him to find Webster. With his customary magisterial calm, Webster led the senior staff into the study. They sat. In swift order Sebastian outlined his requirements, then they discussed, suggested, and eventually decided on various ploys to delay both Louis and Villard.