Cynster - The Promise In A Kiss Part 44

She smiled and glided around the desk, leaned back against it as he eased his chair back.

"You asked me why I was in the garden at the convent all those years ago, yet you never told me what you were doing there."

"Falling from the wall."

"After leaving Collette Marchand's chamber."

"Ah, yes-the inestimable Collette." He smiled in reminiscence.

One black brow haughtily rose. "Well?"

"It was a wager,mignonne ."

"A wager?"

"You will remember that in the days I haunted Paris, I was much younger, and rather wilder."

"The younger I will allow, but what was the subject of this wager that you needed to brave the convent's walls?"

"I had to procure a particular earring, one of some uniqueness, from Mlle Marchand by the end of that week."

"But she was due to leave two days later-in fact, she left the next day itself, after your visit."

"Indeed-that was part of the challenge."

"So you won?"

"Of course."

"And what did you gain by winning?"

He smiled. "What else but a triumph? And, even better, one over a French n.o.ble."

She humphed dismissively, yet her gaze was strangely distant. "Did you spend many years haunting Paris?"

"Eight, nine-all while you still wore pigtails."

Hmm.She didn't say it, but she thought it-he could see it in her face, could see the clouds gathering, darkening her eyes.

Did the letters have something to do with his past exploits in France? He couldn't remember crossing swords with any of the Daurents.

He watched her for a moment longer, watched her struggle with her demon. She'd grown so used to being in his presence that when she wasn't focused on him, aware of him, her mask slipped and he saw more. Saw enough to make him reach for her hand."Mignonne-"

She started; she'd forgotten he was there. For a fleeting instant he glimpsed . . . horror, terror, but hanging over all a profound and pervasive sadness. Before he could react, she rea.s.sembled her mask and smiled-too brightly, too brittlely.

He tightened his grip on her hand, expecting her to rise and try to flee.

With barely a pause for thought, she trumped his ace. Pus.h.i.+ng away from the desk, she slid onto his lap. "Eh, bien-if you have finished your work . . ."

His body reacted instantly; the soft, warm, distinctly feminine weight settling so trustingly, so confidently, had his demons slavering. While he struggled to rein them in, she freed her hand, turned his face to hers.

Set her lips to his.

She kissed him longingly, lingeringly-with a deep yearning that he knew was unfeigned because he felt it, too.

He'd given his word he would not manipulate her; as she drew him deeper into the kiss, into the pleasure of her mouth, he realized he would have been wise to demand a corresponding rea.s.surance.

His arms closed around her; moments later his hand sought her breast.

He could rea.s.sure her, pleasure her, let her distract him. But he knew what he had seen and he wouldn't forget.

Bittersweet. For Helena the days that followed were the definition of that. Bitter whenever she thought of Ariele, of Fabien, of the dagger she had to steal. Of the betrayal she had to practice. Sweet in the hours she spent with Sebastian; in his arms, for those fleeting moments, she felt safe, secure, free of Fabien's black spell.

But as soon as she left Sebastian's embrace, reality closed darkly about her. It took an ever-increasing effort to mask her leaden heart.

Sebastian had invited them for a week, but the week pa.s.sed and no one cared or spoke of a departure. Winter tightened its grip on the fields and lanes, but at Somersham there were roaring fires and cozy rooms, and distractions aplenty to keep them amused.

Outside, the year died; inside, the great house seemed to stretch and come alive. Even though she wasn't directly involved, Helena could not miss the building excitement, that antic.i.p.ation of joy that flowed from the myriad preparations for the Yuletide celebrations and the consequent family gathering.

Clara rarely stopped smiling, eager to point out this custom or that, to explain where the boughs and holly decorating the rooms were grown, what the secret ingredients of her Christmas punch were.

Again and again Helena found herself outwardly expressing an expectation of joy while inwardly experiencing the certainty of despair.

To her surprise, after that unnerving moment in his study when she'd become so engrossed in wondering how and when he'd met Fabien and won the dagger-considering them both, that was the most likely avenue by which Sebastian had come to possess it-that he'd startled her to the point she'd nearly told him all, since that time Sebastian had set himself to entertain her with stories of his ancestors, of his family, of his childhood-of his personal life.

Tales she knew he had told no one else.

Like the time he'd got stuck in the huge oak by the stables and had had to fall to get down. How frightened he'd been. Like how much he'd loved his first pony, how distraught he'd been when it died.

Not that he'd told her of that last, not in words. Instead, he'd stopped and abruptly changed the subject.

If he hadn't been trying so transparently hard to be transparent, she might have wondered if, despite his vow and even his intention not to manipulate her feelings, he simply couldn't help himself. Instead, all he said he said directly, even sometimes reluctantly, as if he were laying all that he was, all his past and by inference his future, at her feet. The less-than-complimentary as well as the laudable, exposing all without restriction, trusting her to understand and judge him kindly.

As indeed she did.

The days rolled quietly past, and she fell ever more deeply under his spell, came to yearn even more desperately that all he was offering her she could claim.

Knowing she couldn't.

She wished, beyond desperately, that she could tell him of Fabien's plan, but gentle tales did not in any way disguise the sort of man he was. Ruthless, hard, and at some time he and Fabien must have been rivals-nothing was more likely. If she told him her story, showed him the letters . . . he would not be human if he didn't wonder if all along she had been Fabien's p.a.w.n but now, with the splendor of the life of his d.u.c.h.ess spread before her, she'd chosen to change her allegiance.

He'd made it clear what level of commitment he sought from her, made it clear he did not want her agreeing because of all the material gains she would enjoy. After the trust he'd shown her, she couldn't now accept his proposal, show him the letters, claim his protection, and leave him forever suspecting her motives.

And what if he declined to help her? What if she told him and he refused all aid? What if the nature of his relations.h.i.+p with Fabien was such that he rejected her utterly?

She would never get the dagger, and Ariele . . .

Telling him was a risk she could not take.