Page 32

Light from the large gap under the door allowed her to see a spacious bedroom with an actual bed with bedposts and a much smaller hearth nestled in the corner.

She traced her hands along the wall, discovering the flint and stacked wood near the hearth.

She could see her breath in the dim light.

Her fingers trembled and fumbled with the flint.

The chill in the room wrapped around her like a blacksmith’s vise and gnawed at her fingers, but her pride burned hotter.

She ran her hands along her coat’s sleeves to warm them before getting to work and lighting the fire.

She couldn’t ask for Rollant’s help—not after all her sharp words and doubts.

Sparks flew on her third attempt, and for a brief moment, the spark caught.

A soft glow lit the damp kindling, teasing her with hope.

She exhaled in relief, carefully cupping her hands around the fragile ember to coax it to life, but the wood hissed, guttered, and extinguished.

She bit her lip hard, forgetting the cut and stifling a cry out of frustration and pain.

She knew how to light a fire; why wasn’t it working?

Again, she struck the flint, her hands succumbing to the cold a little more with each attempt.

A few more sparks. The faintest wisp of smoke.

Once more, the wood refused her. Her breath quickened; her chest tightened. It wasn’t fair—nothing ever was.

Tears pricked her eyes, hot against the cold air, but she swiped them away with the back of her hand. Her fists clenched around the flint as she tried again, each scrape of the stone growing more frantic, more desperate. Still nothing.

She heard Gabin’s mocking voice: Pathetic. Worthless. Weak . Her shoulders slumped as she tucked her numb fingers under her arms and shivered.

The faintest shift of light caught her eye.

She glanced over her shoulder at the door.

Rollant’s shadow moved across the gap, pacing—then stopping.

Then, pacing again. She pressed her lips together, resenting that he might know she was struggling.

Was he waiting for her to admit defeat? To call for help?

Her jaw clenched as her pride flared once more. She wouldn’t call for him.

But she didn’t need to. The door creaked open.

She froze, her heart racing. She braced herself for the impending rebuke, certain of the scornful disdain for her ineptitude that would surely follow.

But Rollant said nothing.

He stepped inside with a lit log. Its flickering light cast calm shadows on his unreadable face.

He didn’t have to come to help the damsel in distress; she could light the fire herself.

She’d done it a million times before. He would mock her or lord it over her that he could do it while she couldn’t. A scowl crept across her lips.

“It’s tricky,” he said softly, crouching beside her. “The wood’s damp. Here—allow me.”

His voice was steady, as though she was no inconvenience at all.

Words eluded her at his unassuming manner. She couldn’t look away as he skillfully coaxed the flames to life. Within moments, the fire began to crackle and leap, casting warmth into the room. She stared at it, her hands still frozen at her sides.

“Hopefully, this will warm you quickly,” Rollant murmured, his gaze falling to her hands tucked under her arms. He paused, and when he looked at her, there was no triumph in his eyes, no disappointment.

She averted her gaze and focused on the fire as it danced to life. Shame and relief warred within her. How many times had Gabin called her useless? Was he right after all? A lump rose in her throat, but she swallowed it back as she tried to speak.

Nothing came.

Instead, she simply nodded. Warmth spread through the room, but it wasn’t just the flames that chased away the cold. It was him. He thawed the knot in her chest. And she hated how much she needed his warmth, how much she needed him, and wanted him by her side.

“I’m sorry, élise, I didn’t return for you sooner. I’m sorry I didn’t urge you to come with me more after Le Marais. I hate that you’ve endured that monster for so long, needlessly. I’m sorry if you feel I abandoned you. I will do my best to ensure?—”

“Stop. Rollant. I—” élise’s chin fell to her chest. “It is I who should be sorry. I am so afraid. I—” What was she trying to say? Her mind emptied.

“I’m not going to hurt you, élise.” His gaze found hers.

“From your comments tonight, it seems you think I have some ulterior motive, but it is as I told you.” His fingers ran along the collar of his shirt until they fell into a fist on his lap.

“I wish I could live this life with you.” His eyes traced her face like an enamored boy.

“But I have already made an oath to the king.” He coaxed her hand into his.

“And I am afraid of how I feel for you, knowing I cannot live this life with you.”

Affection exuded from him as he warmed her hands with soft strokes.

She noticed the calluses on his palms. A noble spy wouldn’t have calluses, but a navy man would.

Tears welled in her eyes as her earlier doubts dissolved into shame.

Of all the lies she had concocted to protect herself, the thought of him as a spy now felt absurd.

He was nothing like Gabin or the others.

Rollant had given her no reason to doubt him—only reasons to fear what his kindness might cost her.

“I want you to have a happy life, élise, a life I should have given Amée.” His gaze dropped at the mention of her name. “I never should have married her. I should have let her live her life and find love with a man who was there for her.”

Her breath hitched at the grief woven into his words.

“Rollant, don’t say such things,” she whispered, half-wishing that if everything he said was true, he would break his oath to the king—the miserable scoundrel.

How could a man so kind serve a crown that had let millions like her starve?

She wouldn’t think less of him if he reneged.

She cradled his cheek and prepared to tell him as such.

His gaze softened at her touch, but something flickered in his eyes—regret, or maybe guilt—before he pulled away, leaving her hand cradling air.

“Do you wish to bathe this evening?” he asked, changing the subject. His tone was deliberate and controlled as if erasing the weight of his confession with practicality.

The question caught her off-guard. “You have … a bath?” His sudden recoil had left her mind spinning. She pulled her hand back and pressed her fingers against her coat’s thick wool to ground herself.

He gestured to the bin behind her.

“Oh,” she said, glancing at it and dropping her hand to her lap. “I—I would appreciate a bath,” she said, and added quickly, “But I can draw my own water.”

“I can do it. The pail is large and heavy.” He jumped up and took a second pail by the bath, filled it, heated it, and returned without a word as she warmed herself by the bedroom fire. She observed him, each muscle drawn tight. She yearned for his touch but despised relying on him.

As he finished the bath, small sweat beads formed on his brow. He went to the chest of drawers, pulled out a garment, and laid it folded on the bed.

“If you prefer clean clothes to sleep in, here is one of my long shirts,” he said and stepped back.

His steady patience wore down the walls she’d built brick by brick over the years. She hated how much she wanted to believe him—hated how the warmth of the fire and his presence dulled the sharp edges of her fear.

She stood up and approached him. She took a chance and placed her forehead on his chest and grasped his shoulders as though anchoring herself. For a moment, she allowed herself to breathe him in—the strength of him, the calm he exuded.

“Thank you, Rollant,” she whispered and lifted her face to his, afraid of the vulnerability in her voice.

He nodded with a tight jaw and stepped back again, creating a space between them she wished to cross but knew he wouldn’t allow her to.

He gave a half-bow before exiting the room with a soft, “Goodnight, élise.” He lingered in the doorway for a moment, his hand brushing the frame and eyes glancing back at her before he stepped into the main room.

The quiet click of the door closing felt like a finality she hadn’t anticipated.

She focused on the empty spot he had left behind, her heart in contradiction.

He had provided her with hope only to walk away, and now he had offered her a home before departing again.

He had given her warmth and space, kindness and quiet, yet her heart was adrift.

How could she long for someone she wasn’t sure she could trust?

If he spoke the truth, if his promises were good, if he was the man he portrayed himself to be, then she’d beg him to stay.

They could have the peaceful life he wanted her to have—they could have it together.

France was in turmoil. She doubted anyone had the time or resources to come looking for a deserter in Charonne, of all places.

She collapsed onto the bed’s edge and stared at the door, overwhelmed by a confusing mix of gratitude, yearning, and doubt.

She glanced at the bath and realized it would soon be cold, so she stripped off her clothes and stepped into the oblong wooden tub.

The warm water embraced her body like a glove.

She curled her knees to her chest, forcing the water beneath her chin.

Her mother had bathed her once as a child, laughing and singing as warm water washed away the day’s grime.

It was the last time she had truly felt safe, cocooned in a love that seemed unshakable.

But like a flickering flame in the wind, the memory faded, leaving only the ache of its absence.

Perhaps the memory was her mother telling her she was safe there with Rollant or in Charonne.