The Promise in a Kiss (Cynster 0.50)

Sensed, in that last precious minute of heightened lucidity, an unexpected vulnerability.

She smiled, wrapped her arms about him, and held him tight.

Before she recalled how dangerous that was, she slipped over the threshold into sleep.

The clocks throughout the house chimed three o’clock. Sebastian was already awake, but the sound drew him to full consciousness, out of the deep, soul-satisfying warmth that had held him.

He eased onto his back in the bed, glanced down. Helena lay sleeping, curled against him, pressing close, her small hands holding him as if she feared he would leave her. He considered her face, and wondered.

Mignonne, what are you hiding?

He didn’t voice the thought, but he wished he had the answer. Something had happened, yet he was damned if he knew what. She’d arrived, and all had been well, then . . .

He’d checked with his staff; they knew nothing, had seen nothing. He hadn’t asked specifically, but Webster would have mentioned if any letters had arrived and been waiting for her. Yet there were two letters on her dressing table; his sharp eyes had detected flecks of wax on the floor. She’d opened the letters here—he would swear that first night, before she’d come down for dinner.

That was when things had changed. When she had changed.

Yet precisely how she had changed—given the events of the last few hours—he was at a loss to understand.

Something had upset her, upset her deeply. A mere irritation and she would have let her temper show. But this was something so deeply troubling she’d sought to hide it, and not just from him.

She didn’t yet realize, but matters between them had already—even before the last hours—progressed to a point where she couldn’t hide her feelings, her emotions, not completely, from him. He could see them in her eyes, not clearly, but like some shadow clouding the peridot depths.

Her behavior had only reinforced his suspicion; when she’d come to his arms, she’d been controlled on the surface, and so fragile, so defenseless—so yearning—beneath. He’d sensed it in her kiss, a kind of desperation, as if what passed between them, what they’d shared in the last hours, was achingly precious, yet transitory. Doomed. That no matter how much she wanted it, yearned for it, regardless of his wishes, his strength, it would not last.

He hadn’t liked that—not any of it. He’d reacted to it, to her, to her need.

He grimaced as he recalled all that had passed. Knew she wouldn’t fully understand.

He’d seen her need for protection, her need to be possessed and cherished, and had responded and made her his in the only way that truly mattered to him. Or, in truth, to her.

His.

She wouldn’t see what that meant, not immediately. Ultimately, of course, she would. She could hardly go through life without realizing that from this moment she was, and always would be, his.

A difficulty, that, for them both.

Inwardly sighing, he glanced down at her dark head, then brushed a kiss across her forehead, closed his eyes—and left fate to do her worst.

Helena was not proud of herself the next morning. She woke to find herself alone, yet the bed bore eloquent testimony to all that had transpired. The tangled sheets were still warm with Sebastian’s heat. Without him, she felt chilled to the marrow.

Clutching a pillow, she stared across the room. What was she doing, allying herself so intimately with such a powerful man? It had been madness to have let it happen. Yet it seemed pointless now to pretend regret.

A regret that, despite all, she didn’t feel.

Her one real regret was that she couldn’t tell him everything, couldn’t lean on his strength, draw on his undeniable power. After last night it would be such a relief to throw herself on his mercy, beg for his help. But she couldn’t. Her gaze fell on the letters, folded on the dressing table.

Fabien had made sure she and Sebastian were on opposing sides.

Before she could sink deeper into the mire of her fears and wallow in despair, she rose and tugged the bell for her maid.

Sebastian was sitting at the head of the breakfast table, sipping his coffee and glancing over a news sheet when Helena walked into the room.

He looked up; their gazes met. Then she turned away, exchanged an easy smile with Clara, and headed for the sideboard. His gaze remained on her, delectable in a silk print gown, while his mind rolled back through the night past, through the passion and fulfillment, both so intense, to the question—questions—to which he yet lacked answers.

Helena turned; he continued watching, waiting . . .

Plate in hand, she approached the table. She traded mild comments with Marjorie and Clara, then continued on to the chair at his right.