Page 18 of The Darkest Oath

“That is so much. I cannot pay,” she said in hushed tones. “I don’t have any coin. None at all. Everything I earn is in food for barter.”

He placed his hand atop hers. “I have coin. I told you I saved, and I insisted you come and intend to pay for your meal as a thank you.”

“But it is too much,” she said, placing her other hand atop his. The naturalness of his hand in hers captured his breath. Her eyes fell on their intertwined hands.

“It is not enough,” he whispered. He would remember her touch as he remembered Amée’s. He could feel himself falling quickly for this woman. It was just an infatuation, he told himself. He would return to Versailles in the morning, and she would be old or dead by the time he ventured this far out to the city again. He inched his hand away from hers to where their fingertips lay adjacent.

Her deep sigh and quivering fingers told him all he needed—she was falling fast for him as well. Her hands crept back into her lap. Her shoulders relaxed, and she nestled into her wooden chair with a reupholstered cushion. “Well, I thank you.” She glanced at the window across the room.

“No one knows you’re here, Élise. I made sure no one was following us,” he said, remembering the three men from the bakery. He hadn’t seen them since Le Marais.

He rubbed his lip as he watched her settle. Her eyes closed, and her chin dipped in slight reprieve. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, her hands covering her face.

“Tell me, Rollant,” she whispered, folding her hands near his and settling her gaze squarely on him. “Why would a handsome man with coin and clean clothes want to spend his day with me?”

She lifted her chin. The slight twitch in her lip implied her cautious curiosity, either daring him to explain or silently urging him to lie due to their raw attraction and inopportune situation.

His instinct was to pull back from the answer, to let his heart return to its cold and indifferent state, yet the thought of leaving the following day without genuinely knowing her tugged him in the opposite direction. His voice softened, yielded like he was sharing a truth too weighty for her fragile frame.

“You intrigue me, Élise,” he murmured with a heavy undertone.

A sigh of relief followed by a smile lit on her lips. “As you intrigue me,” she whispered.

“You are an enigma that I haven’t seen in centuries.” He covered in his error. “I mean years that felt like centuries.” His chest tightened. He was losing his armor, his guard, the character he’d built. “You have a fire and a mind I’ve never seen. If you advised the king, maybe the people would not be in such a situation,” he said, the words coming unwelcome.

Her eyes lit at the vast compliment.

The young server returned and set down two steaming cups of coffee and a plate of bread and cheese. “Your pastries and stew are coming,” he said. “Pay at the counter once you’re done.”

They both offered him a distracted nod.

“I am honored you think so highly of me.” Élise tore off a piece of bread and dipped it into her coffee as though savoring even the most modest meal.

Rollant did not respond but studied her as she ate, her fingers lightly touching the bread and the quiet gratitude in her expression. There was a woman unaccustomed to indulgence who took pleasure in small things and hid a core of resilience. He wanted to ask her a hundred questions, all ones that could root him to this place and time—ones that could ultimately break his resolve to distance himself.

“Why do you stare at me?” she asked.

He lifted his handle-less cup of coffee to his lips and blew the steam from the top. “As I said, you intrigue me.”

Her eyes prevented him from taking a sip. Their depths were dark, fathomless, and layered with untold stories, yet piercing and alive with a fire that had withstood storms and held him still. She studied him in return, trying to see the man beneath his polished armor.

She swallowed and dabbed her mouth. “You know of my drunken father and my child-exploiting aunt. You know of Gabin, but I know nothing of you, except you are a sailor who fought in the Americas and an orphan whose parents passed when you were young.” Her eyebrow lifted. “But if you were assumedly raised as an orphan in the streets and spent recent years on a ship, how are you so cultured?”

“One could ask the same of you,” he replied and finally took his sip. The bitter black slid down his throat with ease. The beans had been roasted and brewed well. It warmed his chest, allowing his muscles to relax. He wasn’t going to answer her question; there was too much risk in her uncovering his secrets.

Élise shifted in her seat as she took another bite.

“Then tell me of Amée. I saw the love in your eyes when you looked at me and thought of her. Is that why you want to know me, because I look like Amée?” she asked in her blunt fashion, but her face flushed, perhaps realizing the intimacy of the question. Her eyes averted. “I shouldn’t have asked you that.”

Amée’s memory warned him to stop, to get up and walk away. He swiped his mouth, afraid to answer her. He hadn’t spoken of Amée with anyone since Cateline refused to be a part of his life after he laid Amée to rest. His jaw grew taut, and he played with his bread and cheese before taking a bite. He swallowed it down with another sip of coffee, debating what to say.

“I have made you uncomfortable,” Élise said. “I am sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

He shook his head and leaned back in his chair. “No, it is a valid question.”

His gaze flickered to the hearth. “It’s been years—felt like several lifetimes. She was my wife, fell sick, and died in my arms. Our daughter passed as well.” He fidgeted with his thumbnail as the words came without prompt. “Time has blurred their faces in my mind.” He leaned forward, his forearms pressing into the wooden edge of the table.

“Our minds are our best advocate and our worst enemy.” Élise chewed her lip. “Thank you for answering, and I’m so sorry you lost them to illness.”

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