“Yes, but think of the adventure!”

Reassured, Helena left Ariele brushing out her long hair while she hunted and found a small bag in the armoire, then piled all the little items from the dressing table into it, then hurried to the prie-dieu to collect prayer book and crucifix.

A tap on the door had them both looking up; Phillipe peered in. He saw Ariele and slipped in, crossed to her. Sebastian followed him into the room. Helena stared at him, drank in his strength, calmed her tense nerves. All would be well.

Sebastian returned Helena’s regard, then, satisfied that all was as she’d expected, switched his gaze to Phillipe and the young girl he assumed was Ariele. Phillipe was whispering earnestly, explaining his part in things. The girl was listening politely.

Ariele was taller than Helena, larger overall, yet not above average. Her hair lay like a curtain of old gold down her back. He could see her profile, as perfect as Helena’s. See her hands gesture, swift and delicate, reassuring Phillipe and hushing his apologies.

Then she sensed his presence and turned. Smiled shyly.

He walked forward, held out his hand.

She reacted instinctively and laid her fingers in his. He bowed over them. Ariele shook off her surprise and curtsied prettily.

Sebastian raised her. “I’m honored to meet you, my dear, but I think we should leave further pleasantries until later. We must leave immediately.” He looked into eyes that were darker than Helena’s, a different shade of green. “If all goes as we plan, we’ll have years to get to know each other better.”

Ariele tilted her head at that, looked at him almost challengingly. The same fire that burned so brightly in Helena had not missed Ariele.

Sebastian laughed softly; leaning closer, he dropped a light kiss on Ariele’s forehead. “Do not fence with me,ma petite . You are not—yet—in your sister’s league.”

Ariele made a sound that could only be described as a chortle. She shot a quick glance at Helena, her face alight with innocent query. No mystery why Phillipe had been smitten.

Releasing her hand, Sebastian stepped back. “Come. We dare not dally.”

Helena had remained rooted to the spot watching the interplay between her sister and him; now she bustled up, took the brush from Ariele’s hand, dropped it in the bag, and cinched the drawstring tight. She looked at him. “We are ready.”

He took her hand, kissed her tense fingers. “Good. This is what we’ll do.”

They left the room, four silent shadows slipping through the slumbering house. As before, Phillipe led the way; Ariele, in her cloak with the hood already up, followed at his heels, much as if he’d been sent to summon her and she was grumpily complying. They walked swiftly but quietly down the corridors. A few yards behind, Helena, also fully cloaked, followed with Sebastian, keeping to the shadows as much as they could.

Helena’s heart thumped. As she hurried along, she felt giddy. They were nearly free—all of them. And Ariele liked Sebastian. The two people she loved the most would get on. Relief mingled with anxiety; lingering trepidation weighed against her burgeoning joy.

They reached the gallery and started along it.

A single, confident footstep was all the warning they had before Fabien swung into the gallery from the other end. He’d taken three long strides before he halted, staring. The moonlight sheened his fair hair. Booted and spurred, dressed as always in unrelieved black, he was carrying his riding gloves in one hand. His rapier was at his side.

For one instant they all stood transfixed in the light of the moon.

Then Helena heard a soft curse, and Sebastian stepped past her. The sibilant hiss as his rapier left its scabbard shimmered, menacing in the tense quiet.

It was immediately answered by a smiliar hiss as Fabien’s rapier flashed into the night.

What followed, Helena later understood took but a few minutes, yet in her mind each action was ponderous, laden with meanings, subtle hints, and portents.

Like the smile that curved Fabien’s lips as he recognized Sebastian, the unholy light that flared in his dark eyes.

The fact that Fabien was considered a master swordsman flashed into her mind. She felt ill for one instant, then rallied. Remembered Sebastian’s confidence over younger men challenging him—remembered that indeed they didn’t.

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—there 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.

Sebastian’s opinion of Helena’s sister increased by leaps and bounds. Cradling Helena, he watched as Ariele efficiently formed a pad, then bound it over the narrow wound. She looked into his face, a question in her eyes. He nodded. “She’ll live.”

As long as she was properly cared for.

She’d swooned from the shock and pain; she was still unconscious, but not deeply. Relinquishing his position to Ariele, Sebastian stood and walked to Fabien. He bent and picked up his rapier, flicked out a handkerchief and wiped the blade.

Fabien’s gaze had remained on Helena. Now he glanced up at Sebastian. “You will tell her I never meant that?”

Sebastian met his gaze. “If she doesn’t already know.”

Fabien closed his eyes and shuddered. “Sacre dieu!Women! What they do . . .” He grimaced with pain but continued, his voice weakening, “She was ever unpredictable.”

Sebastian hesitated, then murmured, “She’s too much like us—didn’t that ever occur to you?”

“Mais, oui—of course. She schemes and plots and thinks quickly, yet she is hardly up to our weight.”

Sebastian humphed. He looked down on his old foe, knew the wound he’d delivered would cause serious discomfort for weeks. Counseled himself that that, together with all that would come, was fair payment for all Helena had suffered—that he couldn’t, no matter what he wished, exact further physical retribution. “You and your games—I gave them up years ago. Why do you still play them?”

Fabien opened his eyes, looked up, then shrugged—grimaced again. “Ennui, I suppose. What else is there to do?”

Sebastian considered him, shook his head. “You’re a fool.”

“Fool?Me? ” Fabien tried to laugh, but pain cut off the sound. His eyes closed again, tight, but still he inclined his head to where Helena lay. “It is not I who has, it appears, been caught in the oldest trap of all.”

Sebastian looked down at Fabien’s white face and wondered if he should mention that he knew Fabien had been caught in the same trap many long years before. But in Fabien’s case there’d been no happy ending, only a prolonged, slowly deepening sorrow. His Marie had proved too weak to bear children, and now she was dying. At the thought, Sebastian’s lingering anger faded. Declining to touch on the matter or mention that he knew Fabien’s closely guarded truth, he slid his rapier back into its sheath. Looked at Helena. “Blood will tell, I suppose.”

Fabien frowned, then glanced up at him.

Sebastian didn’t deign to explain.

Fabien looked again at the others. “One thing I must know. Whose estates are larger—hers or yours?”

Sebastian grinned grimly. “Mine.”

Fabien sighed. “Well, you have won this round,mon ami. ” His voice faded; he closed his eyes. “But you have yet to win free.”

Sebastian saw Fabien’s muscles relax, saw him slip into unconsciousness. Hunkering down, he briefly checked Fabien’s wound—confirmed it was serious but not immediately life threatening. Standing, Sebastian beckoned Phillipe, pointed to a door off the gallery. “What’s through there?”