Page 117 of The Darkest Oath

Hugo’s expression darkened. His wife cast her gaze downward as Hugo spoke. “She has been living in your ancestral home since the early summer. She ventures into the village now and then, but?—”

Clement interrupted, his voice carried a slight tremble. “We did everything we could to ensure she was respected as your wife. We begged her to stay.”

Rollant’s jaw clenched. He inhaled sharply, glancing between Hugo and the elder.

“I have no doubt you all tried,” he said, though his voice was tight. He imagined the shunning she endured and how bad it must have been to drive her to solitude in a place with the dead.

Hugo stepped closer. “She left of her own accord,” he insisted. “She went there once and then a few more times, a few days, then she stayed. We did not drive her away.”

Rollant’s throat burned. He dipped his chin to Hugo. “I believe you,” he said, though a few doubts still lingered.

Hugo gestured toward the distant hills. “None of us dared follow her. The ghost of your ancestor, you see. But she never seemed afraid. We helped her cut wood and give her what she needed.”

“Cut wood?” Rollant asked.

“She decided she wanted to make a home there again . . . for you,” Hugo said with eyes full of sincerity.

For a month, he had let his fears hold him back, convincing himself that she would choose another life, that she was better off without him. But the idea of Élise waiting for him, alone in the ruins of his past, gnawed at something raw inside him. He had been a coward to stay away so long, wasting time convincing himself she would choose another life while she waited for him.

Rollant nodded slowly as his doubts about her treatment faded but did not vanish. “Then, I must go to her.”

Clement smiled. “Very well, Seigneur Montvieux,” he said, with the hesitation in his voice gone. “We shall not hold you any longer. Please, take our finest foods for your return journey and give our well wishes to Dame Montvieux.”

“Thank you,” Rollant said with a gentleman’s nod to Hugo and the elder. Then, turning to the crowd, he spoke with quiet certainty, “Thank you, people of Valmont, for taking in the residents of Charonne. To the community I brought here, I see why you would wish to remain. The land is beautiful, and life is simple.” His voice steadied. “I will not return for some time. But I will always see to my lands.”

The villagers moved forward, pressing baskets of dried meats and fresh bread into his hands. Flowers were tucked into his saddle.

He took it all in, but his mind was already elsewhere.

As he mounted his horse, the elder stepped back. Hugo gave a final nod.

Then Rollant turned his horse toward the distant hills.

To the place where she waited. To the home she had rebuilt for him.

* * *

Rollant dismountedand tied his horse at the iron gate, still bent from time. Though stubborn weeds still crept between the cracks, the cobblestone path had been cleared of its wild overgrowth. The house, once a proud stone estate six hundred years prior, was a pile of rubble. Near the well, a small, simple wooden lean-to had been constructed. A few of the old garden beds had been recently harvested as a quiet testament to the life of solitude Élise had embraced there.

His gaze fell beyond the garden and the ruins, where the creek ran clear. There, bent over the water, filling her cup, was Élise. She had cleared headstones and placed fresh flowers on each one.

His throat tightened.

“Élise?” he called out.

She glanced over her shoulder and stood. The moment recognition set in, her expression transformed—weariness melting into a radiant smile.

“Rollant!”

She ran toward him with her skirt billowing behind her.

He barely had time to restrain himself as her arms wrapped around his waist, and her head slammed into his chest.

His hands clenched at his sides. He wanted to hold her. More than anything, he wanted to hold her. Instead, he stood rigid, willing to endure her touch.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

She lifted her face to his and, without hesitation, kissed him.

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