Page 71 of The Darkest Oath

He held the door for Élise. “Can you make dinner for us? I will put the mare in the stable.”

When he returned, she was waiting with a plate of cheese and dried meat. “I’ll wash up,” he said, pouring water into the basin.

“Were you shot?” She must have noticed the blood stain splattered on his back.

He remembered the bullet. Answers raced through his mind.

“Must be another’s blood,” he finally answered. He washed the grime from his hands, face, and neck in the basin, leaving the ends of his hair dripping with water. He sat down, exhausted. Élise did not look well either.

They ate in silence, and when she was done, her voice was soft, and her shoulders sagged. “I was so excited earlier, and now I can barely stay awake.”

“It was courage surging through you, but those acts usually leave you exhausted after the surge is gone. Believe me, I feel the same after today.”

She stood using the table to support her. “I’m glad you’re here, Rollant. I’ve missed you so much,” she said, though her eyes drooped.

“And I, you,” he replied. Unspoken truths pressed against him. He wondered if she would ask him to stay again. How could he refuse her a second time?

“I want to talk to you in the morning, but I am so tired tonight,” she said.

“Go, sleep. I promise I won’t leave until we have spoken.” He stood to respect her exit.

She lingered in the bedroom doorway, glancing back at him with a faint smile. He smiled in return, watching as she disappeared into the bedroom.

Alone in the dim light, Rollant slipped his shirt and boots off, grateful to have a basin of water to wash the rest of the grime and sweat from his body. The water cooled his muscles after the day’s many trials. He sank against the too-small sofa. The ache would dull with time, but the memory of seeing Élise again—after swearing never to return—would haunt him far longer.

CHAPTER28

The Dance of Death

CHARONNE, PARIS, JULY 1789

The door creakedas Élise opened it, its sound too loud in the quiet morning air. She froze, her breath hitching at the sight before her. Rollant’s hand fell away from his head, revealing the broad, scarred expanse of his bare chest. The early sunlight caught the fine hair running down his belly where his breeches buttoned. For a moment, she thought she was dreaming again—his return, the day before, had been too surreal to trust.

He stirred and opened his eyes, breaking her trance.

Rollant rolled to sit and let out a groan as he rubbed his neck. He stopped upon seeing her in the doorway. He jolted up.

“Forgive me,” he stuttered, looking around the floor and finding his shirt. He stooped quickly and threw it over his head. Élise could not look away from the soldier’s perfect body and left her to wonder about the scars that marred his skin. The soft fabric rolled down, and he adjusted it in haste.

She swallowed the lump in her throat as Rollant’s eyes met hers.

“You wear my shirt still?” he asked with a straight face and a neutral voice.

“Oh,” she said and looked down. She usually paraded around the house and slept in it instead of her chemise. “It is comfortable and . . . well, I’m so used to being alone here, I forgot you were here.”

He nodded, his lips tightening into a straight line. “I see,” he murmured, lowering himself to the sofa. His hands moved methodically, tugging on his boots, though his focus seemed somewhere far away. His jaw clenched as if to keep anything more from coming out.

He finished with his boots and walked past her to prepare a simple breakfast of bread and tea, and sat at the table. With a silent wave, he invited her to join him.

She fidgeted with the fabric around her thigh. She watched him, wondering what had happened to the man who had saved her from Gabin, who had offered her his home with a smile, and the man who had taken her to safety only the day before. The man before her was polite and curt at the same time.

“I apologize if I—” she began, but he interjected.

“I apologize for not rising before you, ensuring I was appropriately dressed, and having a meal ready for you.” His voice was monotone. He said all the right words, but somehow, their affection was stripped again.

“I’ve seen men more inappropriately dressed at the taverns,” she chuckled, though none of those men had a body like Rollant’s. “And still, no one has ever made my meals before except for you.” Her voice trailed off at his lack of interaction and eye contact. “I can change out of your shirt if you’d rather me not wear it.”

He raised his eyes to meet her gaze. “As I’ve told you, it’s yours now,” he said. “Do as you wish with it.”

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