Page 9 of The Darkest Oath

Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she ignored her growing unease and curiosity about the man’s identity. She didn’t know how to steer the people away from rebellion anyway, given that she had already fanned the flame with their chanting. Her natural ability to orate only went so far. Her gaze lingered on the stranger, and she could feel Gabin’s hot stare burning the side of her face. It was too late, she reasoned, to save them from prison if the stranger indeed were there to silence them. The people needed to hear her last words, and she did not want to instill doubt.

“United!” she yelled, and they repeated.

“United, we shall be heard. United, we shall demand our needs. And united, we shall take back what is ours. Sleep well tonight, my fellow countrymen and women. Sleep well, for a time is coming when we shall be heard around the world.”

The bakery and the people in the streets pressed in, erupting in cheers, applause, whoops, and hollers. She stepped down, and her shoulders, back, and hands attracted the happy pats of her peers. Gabin approached her. She ignored his heavy footsteps and, instead, made her way out of his path and toward the stranger in the back.

The stranger met her gaze, and his jaw fell slack at the sight of her. It was as if he had forgotten everyone else in the room. Something about his longing eyes drew her closer. His silent attention sent a familiar shiver through her legs. He stood like a sculptor’s greatest masterpiece; his beauty needed no exaggerated gesture or show. His relaxed posture deceived his powerful build and surely hidden strength. Every detail seemed crafted with purpose, from the contours of his face to the shadow of stubble that softened his cut jawline. Gabin was handsome, but this man was striking. Gabin flaunted his beauty and bragged about his strength, but this man’s allure lay in subtleness and mystery that boasted of both strength and restraint. Though his exterior called her to come hither, she shut her falling jaw and told herself he was probably like every other man she had ever met, and if not, he would surely throw her in prison for her words that evening.

CHAPTER4

A Flicker in the Dark

FAUBOURG SAINT-ANTOINE, PARIS, FEBRUARY 1788

The womanwho had been speaking approached him under the oil lamplight softly swaying above. Its warm rays cast a marble glow over her bare arms and blushed her cheeks, as if an angel had kissed them. And her eyes were as dark as the woman he had once married. Her eyes reminded him of the first life he’d once cherished.

“Amée?” he whispered. His voice broke from the weight of memory and fully lost in the past.

Her eyes hardened, and the warmth left her face. “My name is Élise. You’ll do well to remember that, stranger.” Her voice was not as soft or feathery as Amée’s, yet it sounded wounded, holding a certain sultry, dangerous allure.

Rollant flinched, reality snapping in, and he wondered how long it had been since he had said Amée’s name aloud. He swallowed the ghost of guilt. It had been at least a century.

“I will remember,” he replied, tracing her face with his gaze. Her features were worn, too worn for her age. Yet she possessed a raw kind of beauty that defied expectation—a beauty forged from survival and determination to hope. Vitality lived in her expression. Her hair, as dark as ink, was loosely tied in a defiant red scarf, with falling strands that caught the light of the oil lamp. Her dress was plain but carefully mended. Each stitch was a testament that though she was not of wealth, she refused to fall and made each hardship polish her strength. She was indeed a flame in the dark. It was no wonder the people gave such a response to her fiery speech. It was no wonder he had to enter the bakery from the streets to see who spoke such empowered words.

Élise sized him up; her eyes scanned him from head to toe. “You’re well-nourished, I might say,” she said and poked him in the chest as she rounded him like prey. He stood still and let her measure him as he did her.

She squeezed his bicep, raising an eyebrow. “A former soldier, I presume?”

He chuckled and nodded. “I fought for the Americas and ended my service with His Majesty’s Navy just this past month,” he lied. The words slipped through his teeth with ease. Lies were almost second nature, unlike his time in the Second Crusade. He had been a man of honor, but after watching love die and trust shatter, he realized lies were necessary.

Élise crossed her arms. “Lots of men claim they were sailors.” Skepticism curled her lips and set in her gaze.

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as though letting her in on a secret. “The sea’s a cruel mistress. Only a few return to speak of her—those who survive have the scars to prove it. What would you like to know to prove the truth?”

She met his gaze, and he could see the doubt slipping away as curiosity took it’s place.

“Anything,” she said with a dismissive wave.

She was not hostile or friendly; her responses reflected someone who had learned to live between civility and suspicion.

“Well,” he said and leaned back. “I was stationed aboard theVaisseau Ville de Paris. We shipped out in ’81 under the command of Admiral de Grasse, and fought the British Royal fleet in the campaign off of the Chesapeake Bay.” He only needed to sound convincing to turn a lie into a believable truth.

“Hmm,” she murmured, still with questions in her eyes.

He pressed on, seeing she was not yet satisfied. “We escorted supplies and troops for General Washington of the colonies and fought off the British frigates. I earned my salt with theHMS Terrible; a fierce battle, it was,” he said, thankful he had paid attention to the Minister of the Navy’s reports all those years ago. He gazed off with a pause, letting the weight of the false memory sink in. To bring an air of authenticity to his eyes, he thought of Arnoul putting a hole in his neck and he returning the same and forever changing his fate.

She glanced at the other men in the room. Their nods of approval told him she was leaning toward belief.

Rollant continued for their benefit and to seal his credibility, pushing Arnoul away from thought. His voice lowered again. “The sea teaches patience in a way I’ve never been taught before. To survive, you watch the horizon for threats.” His gaze slid to her. “Much like you, watching for wolves in your den,” he said, complimenting her.

She received it with a soft smile, and something flickered in her eyes for a temporary pause in time, something warm and uniquely hers.

He fought the pull of it and remembered the sailor character he was portraying.

“Is there anything else you’d like to know?” he asked with a charming, practiced smolder.

She scoffed but couldn’t hide her curiosity. Glancing again at the men to his right, she straightened her back. With her gaze averted, he kept his eyes on her. He traced the curve of her high cheekbones and delicate nose above her full rosebud lips—carrying both the promise of a velvet touch and the risk of thorns. As soon as his gaze dropped, he saw a bruise peeking beneath the shoulder strap of her shirt. A bluish-purple stain marred her skin and told a story she wouldn’t share.

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