Page 31

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.”

“Rollant, stop. Please.” élise let her spoon drop into the empty bowl. She sat back with her hands folded in her lap. “Are you treating me this way out of pity?”

Rollant shook his head. “I told you why in Le Marais.”

Her brow furrowed. “But I still don’t understand why you would give me three years’ rent just because I inspired you to overcome your grief?”

He shook his head again. “No. You inspired me to love again, élise, and life without love, in any form, is numb and painful.” His eyes glimmered in the firelight, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed the agony that surfaced in his words.

The affliction in his tone could have torn élise’s heart from her chest.

He adjusted the collar of his shirt and recomposed himself. A soft haze replaced the glimmer in his eyes. “I want you to have the same peace that you have given me.”

Her chest released the captive breath of relief. She bowed her head, feeling almost ashamed of her cautious thoughts, and continued to eat.

Rollant swirled his wine before sipping, watching her. His gaze went to her neck and focused. She shifted, and his gaze averted.

“Why are you staring at me?”

“I’m staring at your bruises.” Rollant dug something out of his pocket and placed a small tin on the table.

Words were painted on its top—words she couldn’t read. Her brow furrowed. “What is it?”

His finger ran over the words. “Arnica balm.” He found her eyes. “It helps heal bruises and cuts, sometimes overnight. I bought some on the way to see you today if you didn’t come with me again. I wasn’t sure what state I’d find you in.” He pushed it toward her.

“You’ve done all this for me,” she said, arms folded tightly. “But what happens when you decide I’m not worth the trouble? Men change their minds, Rollant. What makes you any different? Are you going to bed me and then kick me out? Get your fill and be done with me?”

Rollant coughed at the blunt question, clearly taken aback. “No,” he said with a bitter chuckle. “Where did that question come from?”

She didn’t want to tell him. It was too much—all of it.

With Gabin, any gratitude was taken as indebtedness.

With Rollant’s offer, she got out of Gabin’s debt.

She didn’t want to step into any more debt with Rollant than what she had already.

Debtors were never treated kindly. He was trying to trap her after she had finally learned to stand up for herself in the face of violence.

He was trying to drag her back. She shrugged in response to his question, and they finished eating in silence.

He stacked her plate and bowl and carried them to the large basin on the counter. She jumped up. “I will wash the dishes,” she told him, grabbing the pail to fill with water.

Rollant spun around and gently laid her hand atop hers on the pail. “Allow me. I’m sure you have done the dishes every night of your life. Rest.”

“If I’m staying here, I’ll earn my keep.

I won’t just sit around waiting for your charity.

” She sneered, hating herself for doing it.

He had been kind, but part of her needed him to have an ulterior motive.

She needed him to lie or mistreat her to justify in her mind that he was like all the rest. There was nothing special about him.

He was going to be leaving anyway. Leaving her.

Abandoning her. Giving her hope and taking it away.

“It is not charity. I’ve told you before,” Rollant said, gently pulling the pail toward his chest. “Let me do this while I’m here.”

Her fingers twitched before she finally let go. “It’s your home,” she said. “That you have three years’ rent for, somehow.”

His head fell to the side, and a sigh escaped his lips.

She couldn’t bring herself to say thank you lest she be trapped again. “Well, what should I do while you hand me a perfect life?”

He turned and pointed to the open doorway on the East wall. “You could start the fire in the bedroom so you are not cold tonight, or rest on the sofa and relax.”

The sofa was enticing, but she walked along the room’s perimeter instead, running her fingers over the polished wooden counter. Her eyes flicked to the shadowy corners, searching for something—a crack in the wall, a trapdoor, or perhaps a flaw in Rollant’s perfect facade.

“Did you want me to leave you alone? You could have told me never to return as Gabin ordered you to,” Rollant said as he filled the pail with water and dumped it into the basin.

She spun to face him and bit her lip. She couldn’t lash out any more than she had.

Her chest felt tight, the weight of the evening pressing down on her.

She needed a moment to think—to breathe—away from his kindness that felt too big to bear.

The open doorway pulled her into it, and she shut it behind her.

She took a deep breath and scraped her nails down her face until they made tight fists beneath her jaw.

She hated herself. Rollant was a kind man, and that was all. He was a kind, beautiful, honest, and hard-working man she had treated like dirt due to fear. The backs of her eyes ached as they withheld tears.