Page 7 of The Secrets of Roan Island

Seething, I stab at a beet. “Are you suggesting that if a woman is abducted by a man because she sells her body for sex, she is somehow at fault, sir?”

“That is exactly what he’s saying,” Noah replies. His gaze dips to my white-knuckled grip on my fork.

“And is this what you also believe, Mr. Roan?”

“Noah. And there are many who believe it,” he says, avoiding my question. “But belief isn’t the crux of the problem, is it?”

“Yes. I do believe it is.” I spear an orange slice. “If men believe a woman deserving of this sort of punishment for using her body as a means of survival, then why would men ever stop hurting them?”

“Would you use your body for survival?” Noah’s look is suddenly probing.

Time seems to stop as I share space with only him, and while everything else slows, my pulse races with something other than anger and frustration. My mind, still focused on the topic at hand, splits itself in two, one part pondering his question, the other considering sex. With him.

It’s been so long since I’ve considered sex—with a man. There was a woman. After David, I didn’t think I would ever feel attracted to a man again. Now, however, desire pulls me towards him with a powerful grip. I squeeze my thighs together, needingrelief from the ache at my core. The rush of wetness, imagining him between my thighs, pumping into me, filling me, it’s almost too much to take.

I gasp.

Time hasn’t stopped.

The men around me are staring like they’re waiting for an answer to a question I didn’t hear.

I grab for my wine, take a deep drink, but miscalculate as I put it down. The goblet tips, spilling the rich liquid onto the dark tablecloth.

“I’m so sorry.” Lurching forward, I press my napkin against the dripping puddle, feeling a sudden wave of dizziness.

“James,” Mr. Roan says. His voice sounds so far away. “Clear the mess.”

“Of course, sir.”

The room tilts.

“I feel strange.” I bring my hand to my cheek, feeling the heat of my skin even through the silk of my glove.

I think I hear the elder Mr. Roan chuckle, a grating sound. “Perhaps you’ve over-indulged in this particular vice.” He lifts his glass.

“It must be the travel,” Jafeth says, and though he’s sitting just across the table, my vision tunnels, making him seem far away.

Suddenly I’m being lifted from my seat into a strong, steady grip.

“I’ll take her to her room.”

I turn my head toward the voice. Noah Roan is carrying me. Why? As soon as my mind asks the question, my heavy head lolls toward his chest. “What–”

“Hush,” he says. “Sleep.”

Unable to fight it, I do.

5

Ruby

Iwake to the sharp snap of curtain rings scratching against metal and the harsh light of late afternoon. A backlit shadow stands in the center of the window, and I blink, squinting, as I try to make it out.

When my eyes adjust, I recognize Mrs. Darning. She’s looking out over the grounds, her hands clasped behind her back. The woman glances over her shoulder, then turns. “Your presence is requested in the drawing room on the first floor.” She gives me an appraising look. “As with last night, you will be required to dress appropriately for the prestige of the house. I’ve selected suitable attire.” Her long fingers lift to indicate a sepia gown draped from a hanger balancing on the tip of the open armoire door. It looks like a ghost.

I yawn and stretch, trying to remember the details of the night before. Noah’s intense gaze is the only part of the evening I can solidly recall. My nipples pearl at the memory, all tooobvious through my thin shift. I pull the covers higher over my chest.

Mrs. Darning narrows her eyes and crosses her arms. “You best hurry. The Roans don’t like to be kept waiting.”

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