Page 46 of The Darkest Oath

Rollant paused, then shrugged. “The neighbors told me. That’s how I found it.”

She wanted to believe him, but something about the ease with which he explained didn’t sit right. It was the same when he lied to Gabin after Le Marais. There was no hesitation in his voice, but she saw this time there was something unnatural in his eyes, but it soon was gone.

“Élise, all I am offering you is this home. If you want to fall in love and start a family, you can do that here. If you want to paint or garden and live alone, you can do that here, too. If I ask anything of you, it’s that when or if I return, I can at least sleep on the sofa or a pallet on the floor.”

Rollant’s offer of hope seemed genuine, sincere, and too good to be true. “But why? Do you expect nothing from me? I don’t deserve any of this, Rollant. I half-expected you to take me to a dingy apartment with holes in the walls and floors and rats in the bed, so as not to burden you too much. But this?”

She looked around at the plastered walls and polished wooden floors. The comfort of the hearth fire had already reached her. The counter held a small cheese wheel and bread, along with a few wine bottles.

“A new dress? A new coat? I thought that was too much, and yet”—she swallowed her disbelief—“you tell me that I’m free here, free to stay, free to leave. I don’t work for you or anyone. I only have to be kind to the neighbors?” She shook her head and waved her hands to dismiss it all. “What are your terms, Rollant? I don’t believe for a moment that this is the new life you promised.”

He approached the table and pulled out a chair. They locked eyes, and he spoke with his voice low and raw. “You are gold, Élise—precious and valuable, with a rare beauty worthy of admiration. I’m sorry you’ve been treated as the utilitarian and undervalued iron all your life. I want you to see your worth. You deserve all of this and more.” He gestured to the seat. “Please sit, and I will make us dinner.”

Her arms fell to her side. “What?” she asked in a breathless whisper. No one had ever made her dinner, much less a man offering to do it for her. Her jaw remained ajar.

“Please,” Rollant pleaded. “I am hungry and don’t wish for my stomach to speak in your presence.”

Her muscles grew tight. Her gaze found the bread knife on the counter. Was Rollant a murderer—a man who lured women into this place, killed them, and disposed of their bodies in the garden? Who was Rollant? Where did he come from? Why did he pick her out of all the women in Paris?

His third “please” drew her attention to his frame. Her gaze darted between him and the open chair. Why was he helping her to sit? She knew how to sit. Her mind finally processed what he had said about gold and iron. It was the most kind sentiment anyone had ever given her. She forced one foot forward and then the other until she stood before the chair. Her breath caught in her throat. There was still time to run, but there was nowhere to go. Rollant knew it, too. Her eyes lifted to meet Rollant’s.

Patience waited for her in his gaze. He had never hurt her before.

She steadied her heartbeat, shook her head at her likely bad decision, and turned to sit down.

He pushed the chair just before her bottom hit the wooden seat, seating her perfectly at the table. “What was that?”

His brow furrowed. “I pushed your chair in for you as a gentleman would,” he said before heading to the counter.

She folded her hands on the table as she observed him, still not fully understanding what he had done, but he called it a gentleman’s action. “No one has ever done that before,” she said.

“Well, that is a shame.” Rollant kept his back to her as he cut cheese from the wheel. “Monsieur Roux left a lot to be desired. I never once liked him. It is all vanity with that man.” He finished with the cheese and sliced the bread. “I want you to know something. I was elated to have knocked him senseless tonight.”

The corners of her mouth immediately rose at Rollant’s last comment, but she forced herself to say nothing. She watched him pour the wine and plate their dinner on small wooden plates. He grabbed a wooden bowl and emptied the kettle’s contents into it. The aroma of long-boiled stew filled the room. It made her mouth water. He gingerly placed the bowl before her.

“Are you not to have any?”

“I only prepared enough for one person this morning. Tomorrow, I will make enough for two.”

She grasped the rim of the bowl with both hands. “But Rollant. You made this for yourself. This is yours.”

“And I want you to have it,” he said, finishing setting the table. He then sat opposite her, and they locked eyes in silence.

Was it poison? Did he mean to kill her? He wouldn’t have been expecting her, or had he been prepared to have her come? She wanted to believe him, but belief was a dangerous thing. Belief kept her in Gabin’s grasp for years, clinging to promises that had turned to bruises. Belief was a poison she couldn’t afford to swallow again.

“Why is there fear in your eyes, Élise?”

She averted her gaze and stared at the bowl of steaming stew. It looked so good and smelled even better. “I am afraid of you,” she said, not lifting her gaze.

As if reading her mind, he leaned forward, took a spoonful of her stew, and emptied it into his mouth. “I made it for myself, as I told you,” he said after he swallowed.

She picked up her spoon and dipped it into the thick, meaty stew. Her mouth watered. Her back crumpled, and she lifted her gaze once more. “Rollant? I can’t believe . . .” Her voice trailed off. Her sight blurred from tears. She licked her wounded lip and rubbed her forearm over her moistened cheeks.

His soft, but firm croon came. “Go ahead and eat, Élise, while it’s still hot.”

She nodded and did as he said. The stew stung the cut on her lip, but she didn’t mind. She last had a stew of this quality at the inn in Le Marais and the cafe in Bastille, both times with Rollant.

“I apologize for my curtness earlier,” Rollant said between bites. “I was angry at Gabin’s increased violence and directed my frustration at you. I’m sorry if that was what gave rise to your fear.”

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