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 pa.s.sion. 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.

Asudden 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 cl.u.s.ter 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, s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 encompa.s.sed 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 pa.s.s."

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."

She slid her hand into his. "But then he'll have to drive down to Le Roc-that will slow him."

"Yes, and that's why I think we should sit tight through today. Louis could have left Somersham only this morning-a few hours ago at best. He won't have succeeded in leaving before that, not with so many set on delaying him."

She thought, considered, then sighed. Nodded. "So we have time." She glanced at Sebastian. "You are right-we should wait."