Stephanie Laurens - The promise in a kiss

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.

S he 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.”

“But Fabien will follow.”

“He’ll undoubtedly try to, but he’ll send to Saint-Malo or Calais. He’ll search to the north, expecting us to run that way. Instead, we came south and away from the coast.”

“But . . . how will we return to England?” She wriggled higher against the pillows, ignored the stabbing pain. “You must get back for Christmas—for your family gathering. And if Fabien is searching, we cannot stay here. We must—”

“ Mignonne, be quiet.”

When she fell silent, unsure, he continued, “All is arranged. My yacht will be waiting at Saint-Nazaire when we’re ready to depart. We’ll be home in good time for Christmas.” His eyes, very blue, held hers. “There is nothing for you to do but recuperate. Once you’re well enough to travel, we’ll leave. Is there anything more you need to know?”

She looked at him, considered the asperity coloring his tone. Treasured it. She sighed and squeezed his hand. “I am a sad trial, am I not?”

He snorted. “You took years off my life. And Fabien’s.”

She frowned, recalling. “He did not wish to injure me, did he?”

“No—he was horrified. As was I.” Sebastian considered her, then added, “He never intended to harm you. Or Ariele.”

“Ariele? But—” She broke off, searching his face, then her eyes cleared. “It was a ruse ?”

“A heartless one perhaps, but yes—it was the surest way to get you to do as he wished.”

He could see her thinking back, remembering, reassessing. She shook her head. “He is a strange man.”

“He’s an unfulfilled man.” Looking down at her lying in the bed, Sebastian knew that was true. Understood what it took for men like him and Fabien to be fulfilled. Accepted it.

Helena stirred, glanced at him. “There is one thing I do not yet know—tell me how you got this dagger of his.”

He smiled. Looked down at her hand lying between his. Twining his fingers with hers, he lifted them to his lips, brushed a lingering kiss across them. “I won the dagger”—he lifted his gaze to her eyes—“on the night we first met.”

Her eyes widened. “ Vraiment? That was the reason you were after Collette’s earring?”

“ Oui . I won a large amount from Fabien’s younger brother, so Fabien sought me out, to put me in my place. We English were widely known for our wild wagers. Fabien manipulated the scene so I could not refuse—not without losing face. He didn’t, however, expect me to turn the tables and ask for the dagger to balance the scales. He’d brought half the glory of France with him—before them, he had to agree.”

“But he sent word to the convent.”

“Naturally. I knew he would. I pretended I was drunk and rolled off to my hotel—and from there straight to the convent.” He looked into her eyes. “To meet you in the moonlight.”

She smiled, not just with her lips but with her peridot eyes, now clear of all clouds and worries. There was more color in her cheeks than there had been when she woke. He squeezed her hand, then released it and stood. “ Bon . So if you are now awake and reassured, I’ll fetch Ariele and tell the innkeeper’s wife you’re ready to eat.”

Her smile was all he’d hoped for. “Please.” She eased up to sit; he helped her. “I will eat, and then we can leave.”

“Tomorrow.”

She looked at him, looked at the window. “But—”

“You will eat and rest and gather your strength, and if you’re well in the morning, we’ll leave.”

She met his gaze, read his determination, then sighed and sank back on her pillows. “As you will, Your Grace.”

“Indeed, mignonne —it will be precisely as I will.”

N aturally, it was. Helena wondered if she would ever get used to the sensation of being swept up and along by a will more powerful than hers.

The rest of that day passed peacefully. In the afternoon she left her bed and dressed and ventured downstairs to view the tiny, family-run inn Sebastian had found tucked away in the valley of the Sarthe. There was no main road near; the family was truly grateful for their custom. She was sure they had no idea they were playing host to an English duke and a French comtesse.

They had the inn to themselves; a fresh snowfall had reduced all outdoor activities to the strictly necessary. The inn parlor was warm and cozy; it was pleasant to sit by the fire beside Sebastian and watch as he played chess with Phillipe.

There were only a few days remaining before la nuit de Noël; the inn was already filled with a sense of calm, of peace—the expectation of joy. As she sat beside Sebastian, safe and warm, Helena found her heart free of worries, free of cares—for the first time in all the years since her parents had died, free to relax, to enjoy, free to let the calm, the peace, and the anticipation of joy assured flow in and fill her soul.