The Promise in a Kiss (Cynster 0.50)

Helena gritted her teeth. “Yes! But for pity’s sake, tell me—has he changed his schedule?” She shook Phillipe’s arm again. “Is that why you’re here?”

Phillipe focused, seemed finally to grasp her question. He shook his dark head. “No—no. It’s still to be Christmas, the blackguard.”

Helena released him, watched his face closely. “Blackguard?” When Phillipe looked away, jaw setting, she prompted, “He’s your uncle.”

“He’s no uncle of mine!” Phillipe spat the words, drenched with an equal mixture of fury and revulsion. He looked at her; even in the poor light she could see the anger burn in his dark eyes. “He’s a monster—an unfeeling tyrant who would take a young girl and”—he gestured violently—“use her to force you to steal for him.”

“On that we’re agreed,” Helena murmured. “But what has brought you here?”

“I came to help.” Through the shadows Phillipe met her gaze. Desperation colored his voice. “I want to save Ariele. I didn’t know, when he sent me to fetch her, what he wanted her for. I thought he was just concerned for her safety, alone with only the servants at Cameralle.” He laughed bitterly. “More fool me. But my eyes have been opened—I’ve seen what he’s truly like, I learned of his real plans.”

Phillipe caught Helena’s hand, holding it beseechingly between his. “You are Ariele’s only hope. If there were any other way”—again he gestured, searching for the word—“of freeing her from his hold, anything I could do to draw her safely away, I would do it. But there is nothing. The law is the law—she is in his power. And she’s currently at grave risk.”

Another horror rose in Helena’s mind; she clutched his hand. “Does she know?”

To her relief, Phillipe shook his head. “No. I do not believe she even imagines . . . She is such a sweet soul, so pure and untouched.”

If she hadn’t already realized what emotion was driving Phillipe, the look on his face as he spoke of Ariele would have confirmed the matter beyond doubt. One thing Fabien in his coldly calculating cleverness had not foreseen and could not control. The irony did not escape Helena. “Then things are as they were before. I must steal this dagger and take it to him by Christmas Eve.”

“I only knew he had set you some task, and that if you failed . . .” Phillipe frowned at her. “Fabien thought the likelihood of your succeeding was slight.”

Helena fro

wned back. “I do not think the thing impossible.” She couldn’t believe it—wouldn’t believe it.

“Then why have you not brought this thing—this dagger—to him? When you didn’t return soon . . . That is why I came. I thought there must be some problem.”

“As to that . . .” Helena grimaced. There was a problem, but she would do it anyway. Had to, for Ariele. “Fabien says the dagger is here, somewhere in this great house, and in that I think him correct. But neither Louis nor Villard has found it—between us, we’ve searched all the obvious places bar one. It must be there. I was going to search there tonight, but . . .”

Phillipe seized her hand. “Come—let us go there now. We can look while the house is asleep, find it, take it, and flee before any wake. I have a horse—”

“No.” Helena tried to tug her hand free, but Phillipe clung. “We need more of a start than that, or monsieur le duc will catch us—and Ariele will not be saved.”

Puzzled, Phillipe stared into her face, then said, “You are frightened of this duke. I had not thought it of you.” Straightening, he looked censoriously down his nose at her. “But that is no matter. Now I am here, you can tell me where this dagger is and I will seize it, take it back, and free Ariele.”

Only his patent sincerity saved him from her temper. “No! You don’t understand.” She bit her tongue against the urge to tell him he was yet a boy—a naive boy trying to influence the games of powerful men. “Do you not think Louis would have taken the dagger and gone long since to claim kudos from your uncle if it were that simple? Fabien has decreed I must be the one to take it. Me and no one else.”

“Why? If he wants it, what matter the courier?”

Helena sighed. “He will have his reasons. Some I can see, others I can but guess at.” The thought that hurting—wounding—Sebastian was almost certainly high on Fabien’s list weighed on her heart.

Her deep reluctance must have reached Phillipe; he caught her hand again. “But you will take this dagger soon, yes?” He stared into her face, his whole expression one of earnest entreaty, then he relaxed, smiled, the gesture heartbreaking in its simplicity. “But yes, of course you will. You are good and loyal, brave and generous—you will not leave your sister to suffer at my uncle’s hands.” He pressed her hand, then released it, his smile gaining in confidence. “So you will take the dagger this coming night—you will, won’t you?”

Helena took in the calm, solid confidence with which Phillipe regarded her and was distantly grateful that Ariele had found such a steadfast cavalier. Would that she herself had one similiar, who would come to rescue her. Patiently, Phillipe waited for her answer; she knew what it had to be.

Yet still she hesitated. Tried not to remember the warmth, the sharing, the glory—the powerful love of the hours just past. Tried to shut her mind to its beauty. Failed. Tried to oust Sebastian from her mind, from her heart—knew she never could. She felt as if her heart were slowly tearing in two.

Feeling tears gathering, she stiffened her spine, parted her lips, started to nod.

A deep sigh rolled across the room.

“Mignonne, you should have told me.”

Helena gasped, whirled—hand to her lips, she stared at the bed. One white, long-fingered hand grasped the curtain. The scrape as it was pulled back echoed through the room.

Sebastian lay in her bed, propped on one elbow. The covers had fallen to his waist, exposing the heavy musculature of his chest. His gaze rested on her for a moment, then shifted to Phillipe. “You are related to the comte de Vichesse?”

His tone was even; a subtle menace growled beneath.