Stephanie Laurens - The promise in a kiss

He turned to them, smiling. “No one.” Returning, he took the reins Helena held. “Let’s go.”

He lifted her to her saddle, held the horse while she settled her feet. Then he mounted; with Phillipe leading the fourth horse, they rode down the lane and turned for Le Roc.

alf an hour later they rounded a hill, and the fortress of Le Roc came into view. Rising above a small valley, Fabien’s fortress sat atop a finger of upthrust rock, like an extension of that intruding presence, a foreign overlord brooding over the fertile fields.

“Stop.” Sebastian drew rein, glanced at Helena as she halted beside him. With his head he indicated the fortress. “That’s it?”

She nodded. “From this side it’s impregnable, but on the other face there are paths leading up through the gardens.”

“Just as well.” He studied the building, the way it had been set into the stone. As fortresses went, it was impressive. “If we go much farther along this road, we’ll risk being seen.”

Helena nodded. “Because of the strife, there are guards, even at night.”

He glanced at her; she felt his gaze and looked up, through the gloom searched his face. “I know the guards’ routine—it never varies.”

Phillipe snorted. “That’s true. There are guards, but they don’t really expect to be challenged.”

“All the better if they’re overconfident.” Sebastian scanned the surrounding fields. “Is there some way we can circle and approach from the other side?”

“Yes.” Helena nudged her mount into a walk. “There’s a lane that joins this one just a little way along—it’s the one the carts use to carry the apples away from the orchards.”

With Phillipe bringing up the rear, Sebastian followed her. One hundred yards farther, she turned down a narrow lane just wide enough for a cart, deeply furrowed but overgrown. Unless you knew it was there, you’d never suspect; following Helena in single file, Sebastian didn’t, however, doubt that Fabien knew. If they had to leave fast . . .

He was deep in plans for all manner of contingencies when Helena drew rein and glanced back. “We should leave the horses here. There are gates farther on, but if we take the horses into the orchards”—with her head she indicated the land that rose above them—“the guards might hear them.”

Squinting through the shifting shadows, Sebastian studied the terraces that sloped ever upward, eventually meeting what appeared to be a garden wall. While well protected from the road and any force that arrived from that direction, the fortress was much more vulnerable from this angle.

“Très bien,”he murmured, eyes searching the night. “We’ll leave the nags here and go on on foot.”

The orchard wall was eight feet high but roughly built of stone blocks. It was easy to climb, even for Helena in her skirts. Tucking the hems into her boots, she scaled the wall under Sebastian’s watchful eye, then sat atop it while with a few quick steps he joined her. Swinging his legs over, he dropped to the ground. She looked down, then sniffed, turned, and descended more carefully.

Sebastian plucked her from the wall when she was only halfway down and set her on her feet. With a regal nod in thanks, she dusted her hands, gestured up the sloping orchard, then set off.

He prowled by her side as they ducked from deep shade, through open spaces into the skeletal shadows thrown by the next tree. The moon had yet to rise; they only had the faint light of the stars to hide from.

They reached the top of the orchard and slipped into the dense shadows in the lee of the next wall. This one was more of a deterrent; it stood over eight feet high, and its construction was excellent, each block flush with the next, leaving the surface smooth, free of hand- or footholds. Sebastian studied it, then looked at Helena. She waved him to wait while she and Phillipe conferred in low whispers, then she gestured to their left. She pushed past him and led the way along the wall.

Sebastian followed. She scurried along, hugging the wall’s shadow until he estimated they must be almost directly opposite the main gates. She stopped, glanced back at him, held a finger to her lips, then turned and went on—a few steps more took her to the other side of a wrought-iron gate.

He stopped, as did she, and looked up at the gate. It was as high as the wall and topped with very long spikes. There was no way to climb over it. He glanced at Helena and saw her beckoning. He joined her beyond the gate; she reached up and pulled his head down so she could whisper.

“It’s locked, but there’s a key. It hangs on a peg on the other side of the wall from here.” Releasing him, she pointed to a spot on the wall about a foot from the base, nearly two feet from the frame of the gate. Then she pressed close again. “Can you reach it?”

Sebastian looked at her, looked at the spot she’d indicated. “Keep your hand there.” He turned to the gate. Kneeling by its side, he put his right arm through the last gap, rested the side of his head against the iron rail, then, his gaze on Helena’s hand, directed his fingers to the opposing spot. If he didn’t lift the key cleanly but dropped it . . .

His fingertips touched metal, and he stopped. Froze. Then, very delicately, he reached farther, tracing the outline of the key, following the cord up to the nail from which it hung. He stretched and slipped his fingers through the cord, crooked them, lifted.

Withdrew his arm and looked down at the heavy key in his palm.

Before he could react, Helena swiped it up. He caught her as she moved past him to the lock and hauled her down.

“The guards?”

She turned her face to him, whispered back, “These are the kitchen gardens—they check here only once early, then once again close to dawn.”

He nodded, released her. Stood and dusted his knee while she carefully slid the cumbersome key into the old lock, then turned. Phillipe helped her; together they wrestled the tumblers over. Tentatively, clearly worried about the possibility of squeaks, Phillipe eased the gate open. The hinges grated, but the sound was low and wouldn’t carry.

Visibly sagging with relief, Helena followed Phillipe into the garden, onto the beaten path leading to the house. Sebastian followed, paused, watched his two collaborators sneak quietly and eagerly up the path. Then he sighed, shook his head, carefully closed the gate, locked it, and removed the key.

Helena glanced back and saw him tuck the key into his coat pocket. They’d all worn dull colors. Under her dark cloak, her gown was dark brown, plain and unadorned now she’d removed all the braid; Phillipe had worn black. Sebastian was wearing a coat and breeches of a brownish gray with soft, thigh-high boots of a similar hue. The color suited him in daylight, but in night’s faint light he appeared a phantom of the shadows, unreal—surely a figment of a young woman’s imagination as he walked softly toward her, his prowling gait never more pronounced, the grace that invested his large body a symphony to her senses.

He joined her, and she had to force herself to breathe. She nodded to the archway where Phillipe waited. “We must avoid the servants’ quarters. We can reach the rose garden through there. Only Marie, Fabien’s wife, has rooms in that wing. As she is ill”—she shrugged—“it will most likely be the safest place to get in.”

They saw no guards as they circled the stone house with three floors and more of windows looking out on them. Despite the fact that it was long after midnight, Sebastian’s nape prickled. He could see the distant wing Helena was making for; while following in her wake, he scanned the nearer ground-floor rooms.

They were flitting past a stand of rhododendrons when he reached out and caught her arm. “What’s through there?”

He pointed at a pair of narrow doors opening to a small paved area. Helena leaned back to whisper, “A small parlor.”

Sebastian slid his fingers to her hand and gripped, then signaled with his head to Phillipe. Drawing Helena with him, he cut through the intervening garden and slid into the shadows close by the house.

She’d followed without protest, but now she asked, “Why this?”

Sebastian studied the narrow doors. “Watch.” He bent his knees, set his shoulder to the place where the two halves came together at the lock, braced his upper arm along the join. Then he gave a sharp shove.

With a click, the lock popped. The doors swung ajar.

Helena stared. “How . . . simple.”

Sebastian pushed the door wide, bowed her in, then followed. Phillipe joined them; Sebastian shut the door, then looked around. The room was small, neat, and quietly elegant. He joined Helena by the main door, put a hand on her wrist to stop her from opening it. “How far to your sister’s chamber?”

“Not as far as it would have been—the chamber she usually has is in the central wing.”

He considered, then looked at Phillipe. “You go first, but go slowly. We’ll follow. Stroll along; don’t skulk. If any servants should appear, they’ll think you’ve just returned.”

Phillipe nodded. Sebastian let Helena open the door. Phillipe led the way as directed; they flitted in his wake like ghosts.

They had to climb the main stairs; Helena breathed easier when they reached the top and entered the long gallery. The moon had at last risen. Silver light poured through the many long windows, mercilously illuminating the long room. She and Sebastian hugged the inner wall as they followed Phillipe, who at Sebastian’s wave hurried through the gallery.

They slowed again as they entered the maze of corridors beyond. Helena’s tension eased as panic left her and eagerness and anticipation took hold. In minutes she would see Ariele again, know she was safe. See that she was.

Sebastian tugged on her hand, then lowered his head to whisper, “Where are Fabien’s apartments?”

“That way.” She waved back. “At the end of the gallery, he goes the other way.”

Ahead, Phillipe stopped before a door. He looked back and waited until they joined him. “Is this it?”

Helena nodded.

Sebastian closed his hand on her arm. “You go in. We’ll wait here until you’re sure she won’t take fright.” He tightened his grip briefly, then released her. “Make sure she understands the need for silence.”

Helena nodded. She held his gaze, then closed her hand briefly over his. Turning to the door, she eased up the latch and slipped in.

ELENAforced herself to pause inside the door until her eyes adjusted. Then she rounded the curtained bed, knowing Ariele would be sleeping facing away from the door. Quietly parting the curtains, she looked in, saw the mound under the covers, saw the sheen of Ariele’s honey-brown hair splayed across the pillows, saw the pale sliver of one white cheek.

Smiling, tears threatening, Helena stepped closer.

“Ariele? Ariele—wake up,mon petit chou .”

Brown lashes flickered, lifted; eyes greener than Helena’s peeked out, then Ariele smiled sleepily. Her lids fell again.

Helena reached out and shook her gently.

Ariele’s eyes opened fully. She stared at Helena, surprised wonder in her face. Then, with a cry of joy, she threw herself into Helena’s arms. “Itis you!Mon Dieu! I thought you were a dream.”

“Sssh.” Helena hugged her fiercely, closed her eyes for one rapturous moment, and gave thanks. Then she pushed Ariele away, held her at arm’s length. “We have to leave.Vite . Phillipe and another—the Englishman I am to marry—are waiting beyond the door. But we must hurry. You must dress—dark clothes.”

Ariele had never been slow-witted. She’d scurried from the bed even before Helena had finished speaking. She ran to her armoire, searched, pulled out a brown gown, showed it to Helena.

“Yes—that’s perfect.”

“Where are we going?” Ariele scrambled into the gown.

“To England. Fabien . . . he is mad.”

“Mad?” Ariele cocked her head. “Disgustingly arrogant, true, but . . .” She shrugged. “So he does not know we are leaving?”

“No.” Helena came to help with her laces. “We must be very quiet. And we can take only a small bag—just your brushes and important things.”

“I didn’t bring much with me from Cameralle. I’d hoped to go home for Christmas.”

Helena tied off the laces, then hugged her. “Ma petite,we won’t see home for some time—”