It was a price she’d never believed she would be willing to pay, yet for freedom, for him . . .

To be his—safe, secure, and allowed to be free. Allowed to live her own life as she wished. To fulfill her destiny as a lady of position, as the wife of a powerful man.

What price such a dream?

She dozed again as the coach raced on. It was evening, the shadows fading to night, when the coach drew up outside an inn facing a quay. Sebastian stirred, then descended; Helena watched him speak with a sailor who’d hurried up. The steady splash of waves and the smell of brine carried clearly on the evening air. The sailor appeared to be in Sebastian’s employ; having received his orders, he tugged his forelock and departed.

Sebastian returned to the coach. Opening the door, he beckoned. “Come, we have time to dine before the tide turns.”

He handed her down; Phillipe followed. They crossed the cobbled yard to the inn door. Inside, all was cozy. The innkeeper beamed and bowed them into a private parlor. The table was set for three. The instant they sat, two maids arrived with steaming platters.

Helena glanced at Sebastian.

He caught her gaze, then flicked out his napkin. “I sent a rider down at dawn. Everything’s in readiness. We can sail in good time.”

Despite her relief, despite his planning, she could summon little appetite, a prey to unnameable worries. Sebastian insisted she consume at least the soup and a morsel or two of chicken. While she complied, he and Phillipe demolished everything else.

Then they were done, and Sebastian led her across the inn yard and onto the quay. His yacht, a sleek sloop that looked ready to slice through the water, stood bobbing, waiting, ropes straining as if it were a horse longing to race. All was in readiness, or so the captain informed him as he helped her down from the gangplank.

Sebastian gave the order to sail, then led her below.

She’d just stepped off the short ladder into the narrow corridor when the boat lifted on the swell, then surged. The sense of power, of being propelled forward—toward France, toward Ariele—was inexpressibly comforting. For one instant she paused, felt hope flare, let it grip her.

Realizing that Sebastian had stopped and was looking back at her, that Phillipe was still waiting to descend, she smiled and stepped forward, let Sebastian lead her to the stateroom at the corridor’s end.

The cabin was small yet spacious, uncluttered. It bore the stamp of his wealth in the luxury of its fittings, in the wide bed anchored against the wall, in the sheen of the oak paneling, the quality of the linens.

He’d stepped back into the corridor; she heard him directing Phillipe to another cabin. Heard them discussing the likely time of arrival. Sometime in the morning, Sebastian said. Phillipe was impressed; he asked about the boat, about its design. Helena stopped listening.

She put back the deep hood of her cloak, set her fingers to the strings at her throat. There was only one bed. That Sebastian would expect her to share it she doubted not at all. Yet how she would manage to sleep . . .

In her mind the gray walls of Le Roc rose, cold and forbidding. Not even the orchards and park surrounding it could soften its harsh, despotic lines.

What was Ariele doing, thinking? Was she sleeping, soundly with a small smile curving her lips? The sleep of the innocent—trusting, naive . . .

A noise in the corridor jerked her to attention. She glanced down, tugging at her laces as the door behind her opened, then closed. She heard a clunk, realized Sebastian had set the sword belt and sword he’d worn on a chair. Then she sensed his presence behind her, felt her pulse leap as it always did when he drew close. He hesitated, then closed the gap so that his chest met her shoulders, his thighs her bottom. So that the ridge of his erection nudged into the small of her back.

She hadn’t thought. “I’m . . . worried.”

“I know.”

His hands closed about her waist. He bent his head, ran the tip of his tongue about the rim of one ear; when she shuddered and tipped her head back, he trailed his lips to the pulse point at the base of her throat.

Laved as his hands shifted, rising to close possessively about her breasts. Sucking as he languidly kneaded, then lazily squeezed the ruched peaks.

She struggled to hold back the tide but couldn’t. Her breasts swelled, firmed, heated . . . her thoughts splintered.

“It’s too cold for you to be naked.”

His deep purr told her he preferred her that way.

She managed to draw breath but couldn’t break free of the drugging sensuality in his voice, in his touch. Couldn’t pull free of his spell. “What, then?”

“Lift the front of your skirts and petticoats. To above your knees.”

She summoned sufficient wit to comply. His hands fell to her waist, gripped. She gasped when he lifted her, then set her on her knees on the edge of the bed.

“Sssh.” His lips returned to her throat, to the sensitive spot beneath her ear. “Phillipe’s in the next room.”

One of his hands had returned to pleasure her breasts. She could feel the other behind her, sifting through their clothes. Then she felt his staff press more definitely against her. Felt him start to raise the back of her skirts.

“I don’t know if I can . . .”

His hand made contact with her bare bottom, caressed; she moaned.

Knew she could.

Knew she would.

He lifted her skirts and slid into her softness—and the world fell away. His rhythm was slow, easy; desire rose like a gentle tide and swept her up to a place that existed only in the here and now, in the moment of heat and passion. A sensation-filled plane where pleasure built, stage by stage, step by step, inexorably, until at the end the towering wave broke and washed through her, leaving her shattered, exhausted . . . too exhausted to think.

She was only dimly aware of him drawing her dress from her, then laying her in the bed. He stripped and joined her; she curled instinctively into his warmth, into his strength.

His arm came around her; he held her close.

She sighed and drifted into sleep.

sudden jerk woke her.

Helena looked about, remembered where she was—realized she was alone and that faint light tinged the circle of sky visible through the porthole.

France!

She went to throw back the covers—and couldn’t.

The next second the yacht listed dramatically, held motionless for a second, then, with a slap, slammed back into the sea.

Thatwas what had woken her. Pulling at the blanket, she realized that Sebastian had tucked her in securely so she wouldn’t roll out of the bed. The yacht pitched again as she struggled free—she had to grab the side of the bed to stop herself from being hurled across the cabin.

Wrestling her way into her dress, then relacing it—by herself while teetering about the cabin fighting to keep her feet—had her swearing. Under her breath. In French.

But when she left the cabin and climbed the short ladder and looked out at the sky and sea, words failed her.

Dark gray, nearly black, the sky churned; beneath it the waves ran in long, white-plumed rolls, breaking over the prow of the yacht before raging past. Through the spume thrown up by the boiling waves, whipped high by the tearing wind, she could see low cliffs; she squinted and could just make out a cluster of buildings at the head of an inlet some way across the water.

“Sacre dieu,”she eventually managed. She would have crossed herself if she’d dared to risk releasing the rail she was clinging to.

She was facing the prow; the bridge and wheel were aft. Gradually, the buffeting of the waves subsided, eased to just a rocking. Dragging in a breath, she stepped up onto the deck. Shakily, she walked past the hatch housing, started to turn—and glimpsed the sea beyond the prow.

Saw the next set of roiling waves rush in.

The first hit; the deck tilted. She clutched a bollard and clung.

The deck was wet; the second wave hit, and her feet slipped, slid.

Frightened, she glanced around—and saw she was small enough to slip easily under the deck railing. She clung to the wet bollard for dear life.

The third wave hit, and she lost her footing. She shrieked—felt her fingers slip on the smooth, wet surface. Heard a shout, then an oath.

Seconds later, just as the next wave hit and her fingers lost their grip, she was plucked up, snatched up against Sebastian’s hard chest. His arm tightened about her waist, locking her to him, her back to his chest as he held tight to a rope while the yacht rode out the wave.

The instant it did, he lunged for the hatch, reached the ladder, and bundled her down it.

She didn’t understand that many English swear words, but his tone left little doubt that he was cursing her.

“I’m sorry.” She turned to him as he set her on her feet in the narrow corridor.

His eyes were burning blue, his lips thin, set, as he stood halfway down the ladder, blocking it. “You will henceforth bear one point firmly in mind. I agreed to rescue your sister, and I will. I agreed to let you accompany me, against my better judgment. If you do not have a care to yourself and your safety, I’m liable to change my mind.”

She read the truth of that in his eyes, in the granite determination in his face. Placatingly, she held out her hands, palms up. “I have said I am sorry, and I am—I didn’t realize . . .” Her gesture encompassed the tempest outside. “But can we not put into the harbor?”

He hesitated, then his features eased. He started to step down—the wind gusted a spray of water through the hatch onto his head. He growled, turned, climbed back up the ladder, and slammed the hatch shut, then came down again. He shook his head; droplets flew. He gestured her back. “In the cabin.”

She retreated. He followed. She crossed to a small dresser bolted to the wall, pulled a towel from a rail, and walked back to hand it to him.

He took it—the next wave hit and pitched her into him. He caught her, held her to him. And she felt the rigid tension, the reined temper that gripped him. Then he sighed. The tension seeped, then flowed away. He bent his head, set his face to her curls. Breathed deeply. “Don’t do anything that foolish again.”

She lifted her head. Met his gaze. Saw, clearly, because he allowed her to see, the vulnerability behind the words. Raising a hand, wonderingly, she touched his lean cheek. “I won’t.”

Stretching up, she touched her lips to his—invited the kiss, gave it back.

For one instant that sweet power welled between them, then he lifted his head. They parted; he handed her to the bed, and she wriggled up to sit. He went past the bed to the porthole and looked out, toweling his hair dry.

She didn’t repeat her question, just waited.

“We can’t put in, not with the seas running like this. Not against the wind.”

She’d guessed as much. Her heart sank, just a little, but she was determined. “Can we not run with the wind and put in somewhere else?”

“Not easily. The wind will more likely blow us onto the rocks.” He glanced at her. “Besides”—he nodded to the porthole—“that’s Saint-Malo. It’s the closest, most convenient port to Le Roc. Once we land, it’ll take a day, perhaps a little more, to reach Montsurs.” He glanced at her. “Le Roc is close to there, I understand?”

“Half an hour, no more.”

“So . . . these storms never last long. It’s nearly midday—”

“Midday?” She stared at him. “I thought it was just dawn.”

He shook his head. “We were still north of the islands at dawn and sailing free. This blew up only after we’d entered the gulf.” He dropped the towel on the bed, then came to sit beside her. “So we have to weigh our chances. To get free of this wind, we’d have to either run north and pray the wind dies farther up the coast—which it may not—or go west and potentially have to round Brittany entirely to lay in to Saint-Nazaire. Either option leaves us farther from Le Roc than Saint-Malo.”

She considered, drew in a breath, felt the tightness in her chest. “So you’re saying it would be best to stay and wait for the storm to pass.”

He nodded. After a moment, he added, “I know you’re worried, but we have to weigh each hour carefully.”

“Because of Louis?”

He nodded again, this time more curtly. “Once he realizes we’ve gone and he leaves Somersham, his route will be clear. He’ll go to Dover and cross to Calais. It’s unlikely this storm will affect him.”