Page 33

The water cradled her, and élise sank her tense shoulders deeper into its warmth.

Rollant’s act of care felt foreign. She wanted to shed the grime of her past along with the chill into the water, but her scars would not wash away so easily.

Rollant’s words echoed in her memory, tugging at emotions she dared not name.

She had left the bakery to escape promises turned to chains, yet Rollant’s home felt different—less a chain, more a lifeline. Yet lifelines could fray. Could she afford to trust him, to believe in someone who would leave just as easily as he had arrived? Was hope worth the risk of heartbreak?

The warmth of the water seeped into her bones, loosening muscles clenched tight for years.

Luscious, tallow soap awaited her, its surface smooth and slick against her fingers.

She had never bathed with soap before—a wet rag was all she could afford.

Her aunt had hoarded the one soap shard, she remembered, though even that had seemed like a luxury out of reach.

The soap bar slid over bruises, leaving a thin film of cleanliness behind.

She wanted it to strip away more than dirt—the bruises.

If Rollant saw her entire body covered in black and blue, he’d be disgusted.

They were disgusting to her. Her fingers cradled a tender one on her neck before sliding to the cut on her lip.

Dried blood flaked off. She stared at the black dots on the pad of her finger before curling it into her fist.

“Curse Gabin,” she muttered and slammed her fist into the water. “I hate you.”

Her gaze dropped to the ripples as though they reflected the turbulence in her heart. The hearth light made her skin glow, and its crackle soothed her brow.

She finished with the soap and cupped the water to wash her face. She removed the grime, water alone had missed all twenty years of her life.

Twenty years.

She wondered if she was the same age Amée had been.

The war in the Americas started ten, twelve, years ago.

If Rollant was twenty-six when she met him the prior spring, it meant he was either twenty-seven or almost, and he would have been eighteen or so when he joined the Navy and married Amée.

She ran the numbers through her mind. Years of dealing with suppliers and customers had taught her basic mathematics.

He said it had been years since Amée died.

His voice had wavered when he spoke of Amée.

Regret clung to his words. Maybe he still loved her.

Maybe he loved élise too, and that was why he pushed her away.

Maybe in his mind, élise was destined to become just another name in the litany of his guilt.

Yet she wondered if she could ever become something more.

If Rollant carried such a heavy weight in his heart, it was strange how little it showed.

Unlike her, with bruises on her skin and weariness etched into her soul, Rollant seemed untouched by time, as if the months apart had left no mark on him—no weariness, no signs of strain, no complaints of hardship.

He had been a year at sea since they’d met, only returning once to Paris, yet he bore no signs of the salt or wind. Time passed differently for him, it seemed. He had the same sharpness in his eyes, the same steady gait. The world had left him physically unscathed.

She shivered at the thought but also realized the water had turned cold.

The oil in the lamp flickered, and she sighed.

Her time in the water had to draw to a close.

She dried off and slipped his shirt over her head.

The hem brushed her at the mid-thigh, and she pushed the sleeves to her wrists.

The smell of old wood and candle smoke embraced her, and she turned her nose into its collar.

Odd how a navy man could smell of land and not of brine.

She washed her dress and hung it to dry near the fire. She filled the bedpan with bathwater before heating it and placing it under the mattress. She was excited to finally sleep in a bed alone in such a warm room.

She glanced back at the door and wondered if Rollant would be comfortable on the sofa and if he could stay warm.

The urge to go to the door and see how he fared came over her, but he had said, “Good night.” He had everything else figured out for the evening, so he probably had his sleeping arrangements in order.

The bed invited her in. The feather pillow molded to her head and shoulders.

Her body, once tense with fear or anxiety, relaxed.

But a slow knock came at the door. She sat up, her shoulders once again around her neck. This was it—the true test of Rollant’s word. She was half-naked in his bed, allowing her to bathe first. She sighed and shook her head at the ridiculous notion. He was a kind man, she reassured herself.

“élise,” Rollant said through the door. “I found the arnica balm on the table—the balm for your bruises. Did you want it for tonight?”

élise didn’t move. Was it a ploy to get her to open the door? To see her half-naked? So he could finagle a reason to force her to bed?

“Stop,” she told herself in a whispered mutter.

“If you are already in bed,” Rollant continued.” I can walk it to you, or if you prefer, I can push it under the door, and you can retrieve it if you want it.”

She looked around the room. It was larger than anything she had ever lived in. Her belly was full, and he had not hit her. She rolled her shoulders back and took a deep breath to settle her quickening heartbeat.

“Come in,” she said and balled her fists beneath the sheets to hold back her fears.

The door creaked open, and she held her breath.

He kept his gaze on the floor as he entered. “Would you like me to walk it to the bed or leave it on the chest?”

She rationalized her answer as a test. “Please bring it here.”

His sock-covered feet made no sound as he approached. Without his hat, soft brown curls fell to his ears. He extended the little tin jar of balm but kept his eyes averted. She slipped it off his fingers. “Might you have a mirror?”

He nodded and pulled a small handheld mirror from the nightstand. She took it again. His eyes had never left the floor.

“You are not going to try to bed me?” The question came out before she could stop it. He had already told her his answer, but there was his chance again.

His brow furrowed, and his jaw grew taut. “I honor women, élise,” he finally said. “I’m sorry you have never met a man who lives by that virtue.” His eyes closed at the curt tone in his voice.

She shrank back.

“I am not angry at you,” he clarified. “I am angry at the men in your life.” He turned his back on her. “Is there anything else you might need before I turn down the lights?”

Her shoulders relaxed, and the breath she had been holding blew in a sigh of relief.

“No,” she said.

He began to walk toward the door. “Then goodnight.”

“Wait.” She winced. She hadn’t wanted to say anything more.

He stopped and waited for her to speak, his head turned perched over his shoulder, but his eyes still downcast.

Hesitation surfaced again in tight shoulders. “I . . . I have bruises on my back.” She pressed her lips together, wanting them to stay closed. Her belly twisted into knots. “I cannot reach them.”

She watched his body language. He did not jump at the chance to help, but rather waited for her to finish her request.

Her head shook, hating herself for inviting a night of probable pain. At least, she hoped Rollant would be gentle with her. “If you truly honor women,” she began as tears welled in her eyes.

Was it wise? Was she asking too much—or was she simply trying to confirm he was different? Her chest tightened as the request tumbled from her lips, unwelcome but not undesired.

“Will you apply the balm to those bruises and . . . and . . . not do anything further?”

“I will do as you ask,” he said.

As he approached, she shifted on the bed, bracing herself for the worst while willing away the tears threatening to spill. It had always hurt with Gabin. She faced the wall as Rollant came to stand behind her.

“I won’t hurt you, élise.”

Her jaw ached from clenching her teeth. She slid the shirt up to reveal her back. The cool air kissed her exposed skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of her fear, curling low in her belly. Silence and stillness ensued until finally she peered over her shoulder to see if he was even there.

“Does he kick you as well?” The question sliced through the air as a swift knife.

“Yes.” She heard herself say. “Please, they are tender. Some of them are new.”

He snatched the balm she had placed by her side.

A measured sigh came through his clenched teeth.

The balm’s lid hit the nightstand. She closed her eyes and dipped her chin to her chest. She expected his fingers to roam, but they stayed on each tender spot, softly rubbing the tallow over the wounded flesh.

She wasn’t used to the softness, to a man’s hands that didn’t demand or bruise but soothed, as if her pain were something precious enough to cradle.

“I believe that is all of them,” he said after a while, returning the balm to her side. He gently replaced the shirt over her skin. The tightness in her shoulders and chest dispersed. He had not harmed her, but he hadn’t moved either once the cotton had slipped down her back.

“Thank you,” she said, returning to her seated position with her legs under the sheet.

Their eyes locked, and he bent over. The knots in her belly came back with a vengeance.

The sheet was her only ally and protection.

She should have known better. Men always wanted something.

Why should he be any different? And yet, he hadn’t taken advantage.

Not when he could have. His hands had only carried care, no trace of the cruelty she had braced herself for.

His eyes darkened the longer their gazes locked. Anger swirled behind the windows to his soul, just like Gabin. Rollant could hurt her if he wanted.

Rollant’s nostrils flared. “I’m sorry you’ve endured so much,” he whispered as he pulled the blanket up to her hands.

He spun around to his chest of drawers and slammed two fists atop it.

His jaw tightened, and a low growl escaped his throat—a sound of anger, of helplessness to change the past, almost feral in nature.

He yanked open the drawer and pulled a dagger free.

He set it down beside élise’s coat with a reverent motion.

His movements were sharp and precise, as if they were the only thing he could control.

The blade gleamed faintly in the lamplight—its hilt worn smooth from use but sturdy in its purpose.

She stared at the dagger, the weight of its meaning pressing against her chest.

“If anyone touches you, kill them. I will teach you how in the morning,” he said.

No one had ever entrusted her with anything, let alone a weapon meant for her protection.

The responsibility it carried felt immense.

Could she use it if it came to that? Her fingers twitched, aching to grasp it, to feel the power it offered.

Rollant had not promised her safety but would equip her to ensure her own.

He stepped away, eyes averted, and dipped his chin. “Good night, élise.”

The tenderness in his voice and his offer rendered her mute. She thought Rollant would have at least let his hands roam on her bare back. The oil lamp dimmed, and the door opened and closed. In the stillness alone in the room, her voice then managed a whisper.

“Good night, Rollant.”

élise’s gaze fell to the dagger, where the hearth light reflected a sliver on its blade. Trust had always been a concept for fools and dreamers. Yet, Rollant’s actions spoke louder than any of the hollow promises she’d been fed before.

Her back caved, and she fell back into the feather pillow. Maybe trust wasn’t foolish, but a type of strength when put in the right person.

The balm’s tin warmed in her palm, a reminder of his touch—soothing, intended, and entirely without malice.

It grounded her in the unfamiliar reality.

She finished applying the balm to her arms, face, and neck, but didn’t have the strength to use it on the bruises on her legs.

As she slid the balm to the nightstand, she paused.

Survival had always been an immense burden, and, in one night, Rollant had lifted it from her shoulders, offering to carry it in her stead.

The tears came slowly at first, warm trails slipping past the walls she had so carefully constructed until they flowed freely, carving paths of relief down her cheeks and soaking the pillow beneath her head.

Her chest ached from the tension she had carried all night and rose and fell with a deep sigh.

For the first time in years, the darkness felt less oppressive, the silence less threatening.

She sighed into the pillow, her tears washing away the last traces of fear.

Her eyes fluttered shut as a faint smile lingered on her lips.

For the first time, she dared to believe that the kindness she’d glimpsed in Rollant might not be fleeting.

Perhaps, the home, the dagger, the night—it was a start. A promise she didn’t have to fear.