Page 16 of The Secrets of Roan Island

He’s so straightforward, it startles a laugh out of me. “It’s a rare man who will be honest about being dishonest.” I brush a gloved hand over the prickly leaves of a plant I recognize as some form of nettle. It’s beautiful in its own defensive, stinging way.

The plant beside it has broad leaves and lovely white blooms that glow softly in the light of the moons. When I touch a blossom, it opens wider as if greeting me with its beauty.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Noah says.

“It is.”

Footsteps draw closer, his shadow looming over me, breath warm on my neck. “What are you really doing here, Miss Rose?”

I have no idea what he’s implying, but his nearness sends a tingling sensation through my body. My heartbeat picks up again, for entirely different reasons than before. All I can think of is leaning back into his warmth. A fraction of an inch and my back would be pressed against his chest. I hold myself very still, afraid to draw a breath. My traitorous brain urges me to lean into him, to learn what his body feels like against mine.

I close my eyes. Only instead of clearing my mind, it makes me more aware of his scent. Earthy and warm, like amber beads, frankincense, and warm tea leaves. I think about earlier today, in the hallway, when his fingers slid along the back of my hand.

“I’m researching,” I say, breathless, recalling he asked a question.

Noah’s fingertips dance along the side of my waist. My breath hitches, as if a prickly plant is trying to grab hold of the soft tissue inside my chest.

“Whatare you researching?”

“Women.” The word is the whisper of wind through trees. “Policy of power.” I hate how weak I sound as I speak, how shaky my legs feel. Noah’s featherlight touch ignites a fire inside me.

His chuckle is low and sensual in my ear. “Women. Power.”

The mocking tone snaps the tether of yearning coiled low in my belly. I spin around to face him, miscalculating how close he is, so close I have to lean back over the plants to look up at him.

“You’re just like your father, aren’t you?” I jab a finger into his chest. “A misogynist.”

Noah pushes away my hand but doesn’t let go of my wrist, holding it in his firm grasp. “I’m nothing like my father.”

There’s a war waging in his eyes, but I can’t determine what battle he’s fighting. On a sudden exhale, he drops my wrist and spins away from me, clenching his fists. The self-control he’s exerting is evident in every tight muscle in his body. Oddly, it makes me want to trust him.

“Forgive me,” I say, turning away from him to look out at the stark moons. “We’ve only just met, and I shouldn’t make assumptions. About you. Or your father.”

His terse laugh scrapes the heavy air. “Your assessment of my father is… inaccurate, Miss Rose. You’re too kind to him.”

“And what of you?” I walk along a row of plants, needing to put some distance between us. The moons mute the color of the leaves, highlighting only their shape. “What kind of man are you?”

“Not a good one.”

I look over my shoulder to where he stands a few paces away, his hands buried in his trouser pockets, the fabric of his dinner jacket stretched over his hunched shoulders. If he was any other man, I might think his comment was a bid for a compliment. But he isn’t any other man, and I can tell he believes what he said.

His gaze bites through me, leaving me chilled and shivering, desperate to turn away and change the conversation. I feel like a mouse caught in the sight of an owl. For a moment, in the dark, his eyes seem to glow with a strange brightness, the shadows appearing to move around him.

I shake the dark thoughts from my mind and take off my dinner gloves, needing to feel something tangible, bound to the earth and reality. I run a finger along the soft, marbled leaves of Devil’s Ivy. “My ex-husband used to complain every time I brought a plant into the house. I would have loved to have a room like this.”

“You were married?” There’s an undercurrent to the surprise in his voice. A knife-like edge.

“For a time.”

He makes a noise, as if pondering my admittance like a revelation. “Interesting.” He walks down an aisle of plants, and I find myself following.

“What’s interesting?”

He glances over his shoulder before continuing his stroll through the foliage. “You give the impression of innocence.”

“Is innocence such an important quality?” I stop walking and bend to smell a blood-red rose to keep from putting my hands on my hips with indignation.

“Not at all,” Noah says. “I like my women with a bit of experience.”

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