Page 14 of The Secrets of Roan Island

“Exceedingly,” he replies and takes another sip of wine, perhaps to hide that he’s fighting a grin.

Though less eventful than last night, dinner has been a surprisingly enjoyable endeavor. Perhaps because Hammish Roan is absent.

Jafeth took it upon himself to entertain us all with stories. Shemaiah added a few details, even blessing us with an almost smile or two. I laughed until my stomach ached.

The only thing clouding the evening is Noah, stoic as a statue, his dark eyes measuring Jafeth as if waiting for a break in the routine. It gives me the unnerving sense that Jafeth’s humor is too intentional, like a magician’s misdirection. I’ve been in the company of men too long to not be aware of tricks. I’m just not sure, in this case, what the trick is.

The footman sets down the final course, a crystal bowl filled with cold berries and sweet cream garnished with a sprig of mint. “How is it you have berries at this time of year?”

“Probably the same way we have jasmine,” Noah says, then grabs his dessert spoon.

I can’t help but watch his mouth as he eats, the sweet cream sticking to his spoon, his tongue sliding along the metal’s smooth surface to slick it clean. My core tightens and I squeeze my thighs together, imagining his tongue between them, licking me clean. Before I can look away, Noah’s gaze flicks up, catching me staring.

Cheeks heating, I hastily sip my water.

The moment dessert is finished, Noah stands. “I’ll escort you back to your rooms.”

Disappointed I’m unable to think of a reason to remain, I say, “I take it you’re off to smoke cigars.”

“Men-folk things,” Jafeth says with a grin. “Though smoking cigars isn’t my idea of men-folk things.”

His tone gives me pause. There seems to be something he’s saying between the words. I think of other things that men might do with their time, things that involve beds and sheets and limbs tangled together. Is that what Jafeth means? Is that what Noah will seek once he drops me safely at my room? An uncomfortable jealousy crawls across my skin at the thought of Noah with someunknown woman, a scullery maid perhaps, or an escort from the mainland.

“Professor Rose?” Though it sounds like a question, Noah’s tone is insistent. Like he’s eager to get somewhere else.

I stand, setting my napkin over what’s left of my dessert. “Yes, Lord Professor. I’m coming.”

Noah clears his throat.

When I look up, I’m surprised to see he’s extended his arm. On the way to dinner, he maintained his distance, choosing to walk as if there were a third person between us. Nearly silent but for polite grunts and one word answers to my questions, he was cold and indifferent. A contradiction to the man who cornered me in the hallway.

Now, his offered arm feels like another shift in character—warm, almost cordial—although the fire that was in his eyes in the hallway is currently missing.

“Did you find what you were looking for in the library?”

I want to laugh. After all, he’s the one who selected those infuriating books. Instead, I bite my lip and make a noncommittal noise in the back of my throat. My turn for the one word answers.

“And your dinner?” Noah asks.

There’s a stiltedness to his attempts at conversation that puts me on edge. The questions feel forced, like he’s following a script. I’m not sure why he’s trying to make up for his poor manners now, when he seemed to care so little earlier.

“It was delicious.” In an attempt to lighten the mood, I add, “Staying away from the wine helped.” My laugh comes out more nervous than lighthearted. Glancing out of the corner of my eye, I catch his jaw tighten, like a metal trap clamping down on a beast it doesn’t want to escape.

Vague memories of Noah carrying me up to my room float through my mind like bones shimmering under a bog. Had hekissed my neck? No, it was his nose that brushed my throat. He sniffed me, I think, and shuddered as if he was fighting against some great impulse. But those memories are too cloudy to know if they’re real.

“If I had known the food would be so delicious,” I say, shaking off my confusing thoughts, “I would have begged an invitation much sooner.”

“Is that how you got your invitation? Did you beg, Miss Rose?”

The way he attaches the word beg to my name makes my heart gallop like a horse across a barren plain. I try to hide the effect he has on me with a laugh, but it comes out strangled. “It would seem so. I asked for access to your library and an interview with your father. He agreed.”

Noah’s shoulders tighten, though I can’t begin to understand why that bothers him.

“I might wonder why you’re so averse to my presence here. Do you worry your father will donate your vast fortune to my work and leave you destitute?”

His head tilts, his brows collapsing together as if he can’t comprehend my question. “There is no risk of that.”

“Indeed. Mr. Roan has plenty to go around.”

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