Along the way to perdition.

Despite her defiant stance, Helena felt plagued by doubts, racked by guilt. By the sense that, while plotting to thieve from Sebastian, in taking pleasure from him, no matter how much she gave back, she was committing some heinous sin.

She should find the dagger quickly. Then go.

The house lay silent about her even though it was only just eleven. She'd heard a clock somewhere strike the hour as she'd slipped from her room. She'd considered waiting until after twelve, but by then she was sure all the lamps would be extinguished. Most had already been put out, but enough were still burning for her to see her way.

The house was too huge and as yet too unfamiliar for her to risk blundering about in the full dark. And she felt certain that Sebastian, the only one she feared meeting, would keep late hours. He was probably in his study, looking over some papers. So she devoutly hoped.

An ornate dagger of not-inconsiderable worth-where would he keep it?

Not in any of the rooms she'd thus far seen. A whispered conference had elicited the information that Louis, likewise, hadn't spotted it. Neither he nor that weasely man of his had any idea where it was. So much for Louis's help.

Reaching the gallery, she turned in the direction she'd seen Sebastian take when heading to change for dinner. She doubted he would keep such an object in his bedchamber, but his suite would doubtless include a private room-a room in which he kept his most precious things, the things that meant something to him.

Whether the dagger featured in that category, she didn't know, but . . . given the propensities of powerful men, she suspected it might. Fabien had not mentioned how Sebastian had come to possess a de Mordaunt family heirloom. Louis hadn't known that either. Helena wished she did-aside from anything else, knowing how Sebastian viewed the dagger would aid her in searching for it and in knowing how hard she would need to run once she found it.

Locating Sebastian's apartments wasn't difficult. The opulence of the hangings, furniture, and vases told her she had the right corridor; the coat of arms carved into the solid oak of the double doors at the end confirmed it.

No light showed below the double doors or beneath the single door along the corridor to the right. Ladies to the left, gentlemen to the right-she prayed the English followed the same convention. Holding her breath, she eased open the single door. It opened noiselessly. She peeked in.

Moonlight poured through uncurtained windows, illuminating a large sitting room luxuriously furnished yet distinctly masculine.

The room was empty.

Helena whisked through the door, then carefully shut it. She scanned the room again and saw what she'd hoped to see. A trophy case. She crossed to it, stood before it, and examined all the items. A whip with a silver handle. An engraved cup. A gold plate with some inscription. Various other items, ribbons, decorations, but no dagger.

She looked around, then started circling the room, checking the tops of the small tables and sideboards, investigating all drawers. Reaching the desk, she glanced over the top, hesitated, then tried the drawers. None were locked; none contained any dagger.

"Peste!"Straightening, she glanced around one last time-and noticed that what she'd taken for a domed clock standing on a pedestal by one window now seen from this more revealing angle was not a clock at all.

She crossed quickly to the pedestal, slowing as she neared. The object that lay beneath the gla.s.s dome was not a dagger. It was . . .

Curious, she drew close, peered.

The silvery light lay like gilding on the slim leaves of a dried sprig of mistletoe.

She'd seen that sprig before. Knew the tree on which it had grown.

Remembered-too well-the night it had been taken, snapped off, placed in Sebastian's pocket.

One part of her mind scoffed-how could she be sure it was the same sprig? How nonsensical . . . and yet . . .

I had never forgotten you.

His words to her two nights ago. If she was to believe the evidence of her eyes, he'd been speaking the truth.

Which meant . . . he might well have been intending to marry her all along. Just as he'd claimed.

Fingertips touching the cold gla.s.s, Helena stared at the slim leaves, the slender twigs, while inside something swelled, welled, poured over . . .

While the veils shifted, lifted, and she saw the truth, tasted its aching sweetness.

And recognized, fully and finally, all she would lose in saving Ariele.

The deep bong of a clock made her start. It was echoed by others throughout the house. She blinked, stepped back. She was tempting fate.

With one last, lingering look at the sprig of mistletoe lying preserved forever under the gla.s.s, she turned to the door.

She reached her bedchamber without incident, but her heart was pounding. Slipping inside, she closed the door, then paused with one palm on the panels, giving her pulse a chance to slow.

Drawing in a tight breath, she turned into the room-

Sebastian was sitting in the armchair by the hearth. Watching her.

She halted, froze-her wits seized.

He rose, languidly graceful, and crossed the thick carpet toward her. "I've been waiting,mignonne . For you."

She felt her eyes widen as he halted before her. She clung to her surprise. "I . . . didn't expect you."

An understatement. She fought not to glance at the letters she'd left folded on the dressing table.

He raised one hand; long fingers framed her face. "I did warn you."

Until later.She remembered his words, remembered their tone. "Later," it appeared, had arrived. "But . . ."

He said nothing, simply studied her face, watched . . . waited. She swallowed, gestured weakly to the door. "I went for a walk." Her voice wavered; she forced a smile, let her nervousness show. Disguised the cause. "Your house is so large and in the dark . . . a little unnerving." She shrugged lightly; her heart was racing. She let her gaze fall to his lips. Remembered the mistletoe. "I couldn't sleep."

His lips curved, yet his features remained hard, unyielding. "Sleep?" The deep murmur reached her as he released her face. She felt his hands slide about her waist. "I have to admit,mignonne "-he drew her to him, bent his head-"that sleep is the furthest thing from my mind."

Her head tipped back of its own accord; her lips met his-and she couldn't have stopped, didn't try to stop herself from sinking into his embrace.

Desire flared, and she clung. Held to him as if he were her only salvation.

Knew it wasn't so, knew that for her there could be no savior, no release. No happy ending.

But she couldn't pull back, couldn't deny him what he wanted. Couldn't deny herself her only chance for this.

If she tried, he would suspect, but it wasn't any fear of revealing Fabien's scheme that drove her to agree. To slide her fingers into his hair and hold him to her. She met his demands, pressed her own-their tongues tangled, caressed, hinted boldly at what was to come, what they both sought, desired. It wasn't thoughts of Ariele that warmed her, that supported her through the moment when their lips parted and she felt his fingers on her laces.

She caught her breath on a hiccup. His lips brushed her temple in a soothing caress, but his fingers never paused.

The force that swept through her, that swamped her mind and directed her movements, that gave her the strength to follow his murmured directions, to stand, albeit swaying slightly, as he stripped first her bodice, then her skirts, petticoats, and lastly her chemise from her-that wasn't even desire. Not hers, not his.

Something more.

When she stood naked before him, her skin pearlescent in the moonlight, it was that transcendent power that opened her eyes, that had her glorying in the naked desire in his face, in the pa.s.sion that burned in his eyes. She could feel his gaze like a flame as it swept from her face to her toes, then returned.