Page 6 of The Secrets of Roan Island

Bright gold chargers frame the fine ivory dishes rimmed with matching gold. I free the black linen napkin embroidered with gold thread—the Roan crest surrounded with the flourish—and lay it over my lap, then reach for the crystal goblet to wet my dry throat. An evergreen centerpiece is draped across the table, oranges and white blooms threaded with gold ribbon, a subtle fragrance of pine, cinnamon, and jasmine wafting about them. Everything about the moment is beautiful, and yet, goosebumps rise on my skin as if I just plunged into a dark, cold lake. The fire behind my back does nothing to warm me.

“You have a greenhouse?” I eye the centerpiece to keep from looking at the enigmatic man to my right.

“Are you a gardener?” Shemaiah asks. He takes a sip of his wine.

My gaze lands on the dark red liquid that stains the corner of his mouth. It seems thicker than wine—perhaps port. He wipes it with his napkin.

“No. I’m hopeless with plants. I just noticed the jasmine.” I reach out and touch the white blossom. “I wouldn’t think they’d grow on the island. Not in the cold.”

“You’d be right,” Mr. Roan says from the head of the table. “Beautiful and intelligent.”

Somehow, his compliment feels more like an insult, even though he’s smiling. There’s something about him I immediately distrust. An odd feeling in my gut, some instinct that tells me to run. I can’t shake the feeling that I need to tread carefully. “You’re too kind, Mr. Roan.”

“That is entirely an overstatement,” Jafeth says under his breath.

His father casts a sharp look in his direction.

Shemaiah coughs. “Your research,” he says, clearing his throat awkwardly. “What inspired it?”

“Abducted women?”

It’s Jafeth’s turn to cough. “Goodness. Must we?”

“What?” I ask, leaning back as a bowl of steaming soup is set in front of me. I look up to thank the footman, but he’s already retreated from the room. Turning back to the dish, I admire the presentation: thick green, a swirl of white cream curled around the top, a sprig of rosemary at the center. Another beautiful thing.

“What were you saying?” Noah’s voice draws my gaze from the soup to his, the tone demanding even though he asked a question. He watches me as he lifts his glass to his lips. The light brown that circles the dark center of his eyes gives me the impression of a gilded mirror at midnight. I feel as if I could stare into those cold eyes forever and never see my own reflection.

“You were saying?” Jafeth repeats his brother’s question in a more sincere tone, interrupting the course of my thoughts.

I struggle to tear my attention away from Noah, glancing around the table. I’m struck again by the beauty of these men. Their faces are perfect, proportionally perfect, all variations of one another. Though Hammish’s dark hair is laced with a touch of silver and the lines of his face are more defined, those are nearly the only things that set them apart. Their dark eyes are expressive, framed by full brows arched keenly and thick eyelashes. Their cheekbones are wide, with mouths that curl invitingly with their smiles. Lips that look lucious and kissable. Perfect. Theirs is the kind of beauty that isn’t found in nature. It’s beyond natural.

That awareness drifts under my skin, raising chills that speed down my spine. The vulnerability of my situation suddenly becomes even more apparent. I’m alone here, surrounded by men, with no way to contact the outside world. At least I had the foresight to let my friends know I’m here.

I take a deep sip of my wine, needing the fortification. “Sorry. Yes. I was saying that my research is focused on issues related to women, including policy that concerns abducted women. My academic speciality involves the legal protections of women and their rights in society.”

“Curious,” Hammish Roan says.

“Why is that?” I tightly clutch my spoon . “Because I’m a woman?”

He smiles. I have the sense he’s trying to disarm me, but I feel anything but charmed. “Not at all. Who better to study women than a woman. This is clearly a passion project for you.”

Seeing my opportunity, I jump into the skirmish with Hammish Roan. “Which is the reason I reached out to you and accepted your invitation. To appeal to your philanthropy.”

“Your motives were always clear.” The bright scrape of his spoon against the china seems loud against the silence in the room.

“And your generosity is profound,” I say, appealing to his ego. “Even going so far as to support the medical community and sanatoriums filled with women. But one of the greatest atrocities being committed under our noses is the prevalent abduction of unattached women. Those left to the streets, to their poverty–”

“–to their vices,” Hammish interrupts, setting down his spoon and nodding at a waiting footman.

“Vices?” I ask, my tone rising with my incredulity. “To which vice are you referring?”

“I’m not sure that’s polite conversation,” Jafeth says with a chuckle.

“I’m not the squeamish sort,” I reply before sipping my wine. “Speak plainly.”

The footman reappears carrying new plates, and though I’m not done with my soup, it’s replaced with a salad. Bright green leaves laced with red threads that remind me of veins mixed with small orange slices, cubes of bright beets, and a sprinkling of pungent cheese. Another beautiful dish.

“Sex, Professor Rose,” Hammish says. “These women give themselves over to the vice of promiscuity and unfortunately pay the ultimate price.”

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