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.
She woke to warmth, to softness and comfort, to the distant smell of baking. Mince pies. Sweet pastries. Rich baked fruit.
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?”
“Oui. We couldn’t travel far, so I rejiggered our plans.”
“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.”