The Promise in a Kiss (Cynster 0.50)

The memory allowed her to grab back her wits, to hold panic at bay—to think. Phillipe had stepped back, shrinking against the windows. He’d pulled Ariele with him.

In the center of the gallery, bathed in moonlight, Sebastian and Fabien slowly circled, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

With a sudden rush, Fabien did—the clash of steel made Helena flinch, but she kept her eyes open, fixed on the scene, and saw Sebastian parry the attack without apparent effort.

Fabien was shorter by a few inches and slighter—faster on his feet. Sebastian was almost certainly the stronger and had a longer reach.

Again Fabien lunged; again Sebastian deflected his blade with ease.

Helena heard thumping, looked down at their feet. Realized . . .

Dragging in a breath, she eased along the wall, then slipped past them and fled to the gallery’s end. There she dragged the doors shut, turned the key. Swung around and looked back to see Phillipe and Ariele doing the same at the gallery’s other end. If the servants heard the thumps and came to investigate, the doors would buy them precious time.

Sebastian was aware of the problem—he saw the ends of Fabien’s lips lift mockingly and knew his old foe had seen it, too. The longer he and Fabien danced in the moonlight, the less likely they were to escape, regardless of the outcome of their play.

And play it was. Neither would kill; it was not in their natures. To triumph, yes, but what was the point of winning if one didn’t get to gloat over the vanquished? Besides, they were both noble born. Either one’s dying could prove difficult for the other to explain, especially as one was on foreign soil. Killing was not worth the effort. So they’d aim to disarm, to wound, to win.

But in the larger game—the more important game—the advantage was now Fabien’s. Sebastian flicked aside a probing thrust and set his mind to the task of wresting it from him.

Confident that, regardless, he was risking nothing more than his arm, Fabien was eager to engage. They were both past masters; for Fabien this meeting was long overdue. The Frenchman had speed, but Sebastian had strength and an agility he consistently disguised. He pushed Fabien back, turning parry into thrust, declining to follow Fabien’s answering feint in favor of another riposte that had his opponent quickly retreating.

Feinting, trying to lure him into opening his guard, relying on his quickness to keep him safe—that was Fabien’s style. Sebastian held back from any feints, projected his own style as straightforward, direct—undisguised. He needed to finish this quickly; against that, the only sure way past Fabien’s skill was to fool him, and that meant time.

Meant minutes of skirmishing, enough to establish his assumed style in Fabien’s mind. Meant backing Fabien toward one corner of the gallery—near where Helena watched, her back to the doors. He wished her elsewhere but couldn’t shift his attention from Fabien long enough to send her away.

The instant he had Fabien positioned where he wanted him, he launched a textbook series of thrust-counter-thrust, backing the Frenchman so he suddenly realized that being stuck in a corner with a stronger and larger opponent before him wasn’t the wisest place to be.

Fabien started looking for a way out.

Sebastian gave it to him.

Feinted to his left.

Fabien saw the opening, stepped left, lunged—

Sebastian heard a strangled scream. Already committed, he dropped, turned his wrist and sent his point flashing upward—in the same instant saw an explosion of brown coming in from his left.

With his weight behind his blade, his body extending into the lunge, he couldn’t stop her.

Could only watch in horror as she appeared between them, screening the space where his left chest had been, where she’d thought Fabien was aiming.

He glanced at Fabien—saw his own horror reflected in his face.

Too late—t

here was nothing Fabien could do to stop his lunge. His rapier took Helena in the shoulder.

Sebastian heard her cry as his own blade covered the last inches, couldn’t stop his guttural roar, couldn’t prevent his wrist rolling, deflecting the point three inches inward.

Fabien tried to spin away but couldn’t avoid the deadly thrust. The point pierced his coat, bit, and sank into flesh, slid along a rib—

Sebastian pulled back, released the rapier before he completed the killing stroke. Let the weapon clatter to the floor as he caught Helena.

Fabien staggered, then collapsed against the wall and slid down, one hand pressed to his side, his face paler than death. As he lowered Helena to the floor, then pulled Fabien’s blade free, Sebastian was aware of the Frenchman’s burning gaze. Knew he hadn’t meant to harm Helena.

Ariele and Phillipe reached them in a rush. Sebastian steeled himself to deal with hysterics—instead, Ariele checked the wound, then set about ripping the flounce from her petticoat, instructing Phillipe to fetch Fabien’s cravat.

Phillipe approached cautiously, but Fabien, moving weakly, gave up the cravat of his own accord, without comment.