Page 105 of The Darkest Oath

He let out a slow breath, his arms tightening briefly before he pulled back to look at her. “You’ve been honest with me from the beginning,” he said, his voice thick. “But it doesn’t make this hurt any less.”

She nodded, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

Hugo studied her for a long moment, his bright blue eyes searching hers. Then, as if making a decision, he said, “What if we waited?”

Her brows knitted in confusion. “Waited?”

“What if I told the community that we decided to postpone our marriage because of everything happening in France this year—the war, the executions, the uncertainty of it all? We’ll say it’s not the right time to bring children into this world.”

Élise’s throat tightened. “Hugo, I?—”

He held up a hand to stop her. “I’m not saying we’ll get married next year or even the year after that. Just . . . give yourself time. If your heart tells you to wait for Rollant, even though he might never return, I’ll end our promise to wed by telling the community that we’ve grown apart. But if, after that time, you decide you can see a life with me . . .” He trailed off, his voice cracking. “Then we’ll marry, and I’ll spend my life trying to make you happy.”

Fresh tears streamed down her face as she nodded, her heart breaking for him. “I admire your patience, Hugo,” she whispered.

He smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I will wait forever for the woman I love,” he said.

Élise stood and draped her arms around his waist, burying her nose into his neck. Why couldn’t she love him? Why did her heart still ache for a man who might never return?

And yet, if Rollant did return, she knew she wouldn’t hesitate. She would also wait forever for the man she loved.

CHAPTER40

Ashes of the Crown

THE TEMPLE, PARIS, NOVEMBER 1793

The streetsof Paris ran red, and the blood of priests, peasants, and political rivals oozed between the cobbled pathways. Rollant’s boots splashed through puddles of crimson, leaving scarlet pinpricks on his white culottes. The stench of decay clawed down his throat and turned his stomach. He had seen cities crumble and kingdoms fall under the weight of war, but never had he witnessed a nation devour itself with such brutality.

The Convention had become a terror, but he had seen the fate of those who spoke out against it, even those who had fought to give it life. Robespierre was at the helm, directing the ferocious beast to devour any enemy of its contorted reason and logic.

King Louis had been but the first victim. Others had followed, including Queen Marie Antoinette. Priests, nuns, and the common man—all victims of the beast’s appetite were convicted, sentenced, and executed on the same day. He hadn’t seen any inmates at the Temple from beyond the city walls, but he knew it was only a matter of time.

The eight-year-old Louis Charles bore bruises on his arms and legs, and Rollant’s heart twisted at not being able to prevent them. He could not be there morning and night or give away his true identity and purpose, ultimately preventing him from protecting the boy while he stood guard. He’d already pushed away Louis Charles’ caretaker, the drunk Antoine Simon, with his coarse wife. Rollant didn’t want to know what they were doing with little Louis at night, for his screams were heard throughout the Temple.

In the beginning, Rollant marched to Louis Charles’ room, where screams radiated, and pounded on the door to break it down, but his commanding officer stopped him.

“He is a child!” Rollant had screamed in his face.

“Return to the barracks, soldier,” was the cold reply.

Rollant protested but was met with, “He is not your concern. Now, be gone before you appear to be an enemy of the state.”

The following day, Rollant entered Louis Charles’ room and sat on the edge of the bed. Louis Charles was curled in the corner. “I am afraid of Citizen Simon,” he whispered. “But he doesn’t do anything to me when you are my guard.”

His words nearly crushed Rollant’s spirit. “As long as I am breathing,” Rollant offered. “I will be here as much as I can.”

The days turned into weeks, and winter neared. He often wondered if Élise had married Hugo or if she had waited in vain for his return. She occupied his thoughts as he stood guard and fell asleep, though the image of Hugo and her sharing a kiss in the meadow still burned in his mind.

One November evening, Rollant walked the prison corridor to turn in for the night when he passed by a cell with a nun inside. He’d seen priests in prison, led to the guillotine, never to return, but it was the first time he’d seen a nun at the Temple. He debated whether to stay or keep walking.

The notion of forsaking a nun knotted his belly, so he turned his head. Her familiar face still held kind eyes that sparkled upon meeting his gaze.

“Rollant de Montvieux,” she whispered.

His head swiveled to ensure no one was listening before shrinking beside her. “It is Rollant Montvieux in here,” he whispered.

“I remember you from Le Marais,” she said and laid a finger alongside his lips. “You loved dear Élise. I still keep her in my prayers.”

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