Page 116 of The Darkest Oath

A Love to Hold

VALMONT, CHARTREUSE MOUNTAINS, SEPTEMBER 1794

A new groupseized control of the National Convention and turned its blade inward, executing the democratic tyrant, Robespierre, by the same instrument he had so liberally used on others. He and his radical followers fell beneath the guillotine, and the Terror’s reign of blood waned after July. France stumbled forward, weary and fractured but yearning for peace.

The war had not been kind to its soldiers. The National Guard, stretched thin and underfunded, sent the Temple guards home in shifts or forced them to volunteer without pay. With Antoine Simon executed, Louis Charles was in better hands—though not good ones. Rollant could do little for him. Marie-Thérèse was left forgotten in the Temple’s tower. Rollant could do nothing for her.

For two days a week, Rollant was forced home, and for two more, he stayed without a wage. But his thoughts were elsewhere.

Élise.

The memory of her lingered with every breath, with every night spent in the barracks. He should have returned to her sooner—should have gone back the moment he knew Charonne was safe. But a selfish fear had held him back.

She would not choose to stay his wife.

She would not choose him.

Still, he had promised. He left the city behind in the middle of September and rode through the countryside, the familiar path stretching before him in golden fields and shadowed woods. It was a day and a half on horseback, and he pushed through most of the night.

By noon, he reached Valmont. The crisp mountain air refreshed his lungs, and he dreaded returning to the stench of the city.

As he entered the square, the town came alive around him. People rushed from their homes, pressing against his horse, hands reaching toward him, some clutching flowers. A murmur of anticipation rippled through the crowd.

He searched the sea of faces, his pulse quickening. He recognized them all but could not find the one he wanted to see.

Instead, he found Hugo.

The herbalist stood at the front, a woman at his side. Her hand was tucked firmly beneath his arm, and their fingers intertwined in a quiet declaration.

Rollant pulled his horse to a stop as Hugo stepped forward, flanked by the village elder.

“Seigneur Montvieux,” Clement greeted, lifting his hands to calm the crowd. “We are glad you have returned.”

A hush fell over the people.

Rollant glanced at Hugo before dismounting. “The land is safe again,” he said slowly. “The residents of Charonne are free to return home.”

A flicker of hesitation passed over Hugo’s face. His grip on his wife’s hand tightened as he glanced toward the people who had followed him. “I have decided to stay with my wife. And I believe the community has chosen to remain as well.”

The words landed like a blow to his stomach.

Rollant kept his expression still, but the unspoken question rose in his chest like a tightening fist. “All of them?” His whisper was barely audible.

Hugo hesitated, rubbing his thumb along his wife’s wrist. “Not all,” he finally said, voice low. “One has not decided.”

Rollant’s stomach twisted. The words hung between them, and he almost didn’t dare ask. But he had to.

“Élise?” His voice was barely more than a breath.

Hugo nodded.

Clement clapped his hands together with an air of forced joy. “Your wife will go with you, Seigneur Montvieux. She would not stay with us now that it is safe for her to return.”

His gaze swept the crowd, searching. His heart pounded as he scanned the square, expecting her to step forward—to emerge from behind one of the villagers with those same fiery eyes that had haunted his dreams.

But she was not there.

His throat tightened. “But where is she?”

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