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“You’ll still freeze out here,” she whispered, her gaze dropping to the floor.

Her fingers twisted in the hem of her gifted shirt.

“And I—I’ll sleep better knowing you’re warm too.

” She hesitated, the words catching in her throat before she forced them out.

“Could we—could we share the bed? Just to stay warm?” Her cheeks flushed, and she couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes. “That way, we’ll both have good sleep.”

“If that is what you wish,” he said softly, his voice heavy with restraint.

“But I will not hold you, élise. I will not touch you. For your sake—and mine.” His fingers brushed her chin, lifting her gaze to meet his.

For a moment, his eyes lingered on her lips, and she felt the weight of all the words left unspoken.

“Please, élise,” he whispered. “Do not tempt me further, for I have already failed once before.”

“We all fail,” she said to comfort him. Though it pained her that he would not kiss her, she whispered, “But I promise it.”

They returned to the bedroom. She took one side of the small bed, and he took the other, pulling the blankets up.

His weight caused her to slide into his back.

He didn’t move, and she didn’t want him to.

His warmth put an instant spell on her. She ran her hands down his long shirt and pulled it over her bare legs.

“Rollant?” she whispered, curious.

He hummed, already half asleep.

“If you are unwounded, then why did you groan? Why did you moan in pain?”

He shifted a little on the bed and scratched his neck. “I don’t remember, élise. Everything happened so quickly. I’ll speak of it tomorrow.”

It was impossible. No man could bleed without a gash, cry out in pain, yet bear no wound.

The memory haunted her as she lay in the dark, her mind repeating the night’s events again and again.

She knew what she had seen—what she had felt.

It didn’t make sense. And as Rollant slept beside her, steady as a stone, élise stared into the dark, her mind racing.

She wasn’t mad—she couldn’t be. She had seen the blood.

Felt it. Heard his pain. Yet there he was, whole, untouched, breathing softly beside her.

The impossible truth settled over her like a shroud: either she was indeed mad, or there was more to Rollant than she could ever comprehend.

* * *

Dawn’s pale light seeped through the shutters, cold and gray. She stretched her arm across the bed, her hand meeting only emptiness where warmth should have been.

Her heart seized.

She bolted upright, the sheets tangling around her legs.

“Rollant?” she whispered, her voice catching in her throat. Had she imagined it all? Had it been his ghost that had tended to her, whispered to her in the dark?

Her trembling hands rose to her line sight.

Faint specks of dried blood stuck to her skin.

His blood—or what she thought was his. A cold dread knotted her stomach.

She flung herself out of bed, stumbling as the sheets dragged her down, and slammed into the dresser.

Ignoring the sting, she scrambled to the door and threw it open, her breath lodged in her chest.

He was there. Standing by the hearth, tending to a pan of eggs. The amber glow outlined his form, casting his long shadow across the floor. His shirt hung loose, and his dark hair curled from the lingering moisture of his wash. He turned, his steady gaze finding hers with quiet concern.

“Are you well?” he asked, his voice low and warm, like the fire crackle.

An audible gasp and sigh followed as her knees went weak with relief.

“Yes,” she managed.

She pressed her hand to the doorframe, and her body sagged as the weight of her panic lifted. He was alive. Not a ghost. Not a phantom conjured by her grief-stricken mind. Rollant was there, standing before her.

She closed the door and slid down, curling her knees to her chest and leaning her head back against the wood. Relief swelled in her chest, but it was tangled with confusion.

A knock at her door came. “Are you certain?” Rollant asked.

“Yes,” she said again, crawling to her drawer.

Questions raced through her mind: How could he be here, standing upright and whole, after what she’d seen?

The blood, the groans of pain, the dagger pulled from his own belly—it burned in her memory like the glow of the fire in the hearth.

But the more she thought, the more her memories blurred, tangled by the impossible.

Shaking her head, she pulled out her dress and prepared for the day.

When élise finally emerged with her hair unkempt and her dress wrinkled, she found Rollant standing at the small table.

He pulled a chair out for her like nothing in the world was amiss.

The scent of warm eggs mingled with the faint smoke of the dying hearth.

Her stomach grumbled, but her mind wouldn’t let her relax.

“You are too kind,” she murmured, but before she sat down, she paused. Her fingers curled around the back of the chair, and her gaze averted. “At Versailles, you said everything was a lie. Everything.” Her voice was quiet, but the words trembled with accusation. “Was that a lie as well?”

Rollant stilled, his hand brushing the sleeve of her dress as if grounding himself. Slowly, his fingers reached beneath her chin, tilting her face up to meet his. His eyes softened.

“Of course it was,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Her breath hitched at the touch of his hand, the warmth of his skin against hers. “But why?” she pressed. “Why would you say that? Why would you—” her voice faltered, breaking on the word “lie.”

He leaned down, his forehead almost touching hers.

For a moment, he hesitated, his hand cradling her cheek as if weighing the cost of what he was about to do.

Then, he kissed her—a fleeting, feather-light touch that was gone as quickly as it came.

A promise, not a possession. An apology, not a demand.

“I will tell you everything today,” he promised with a gaze solely and steadily on her. “But for now, let us enjoy a quiet breakfast.”

* * *

Rollant debated how to tell élise all through their meal. And after they cleared the table, Rollant led her to the sofa and lowered his hand to hers.

“I’ll answer all your questions, élise,” he said softly. “But let me start from the beginning.”

He closed his eyes, drawing in a deep, steadying breath, bracing himself for what was to come.

She waited, quiet and poised, though he feared the truth might shatter her.

He could have left her to think he’d died, could have let her grief bury the questions—but that would have been a guilt he could never tame.

She deserved the truth, however cruel it might be.

He kissed her hand, hoping it was not the last time he kissed her. “I couldn’t tell you I was Captain of the King’s Bodyguard,” Rollant admitted, his voice low, “so I told you I was a navy man.”

élise blinked, her brow furrowing. “So, you’re nobility?” she asked, her tone edged with curiosity and suspicion.

“Forgotten nobility,” he replied.

“Then how did you rise so high?” Suspicion sharpened her voice.

He hesitated, his gaze falling to the floor. “Through service. Loyalty. And proving myself when it mattered most.”

“Were you an informant?” She leaned forward, pleading to know. “Did you throw any of us in prison?”

“I informed the king of the city’s reactions to his decrees per his command,” he answered, meeting her gaze evenly. “I was on Rue Saint-Honoré last night, seeing where loyalties lie. And no, I never threw anyone in prison, nor did anyone ever go to prison from my reports to the king.”

He paused, waiting. He knew there was more she needed to ask, more she had to understand before she could forgive—or condemn.

She nodded slowly, as if weighing his answers before her voice softened. “Then what about Amée and Cateline? Were they lies?”

A shadow passed over Rollant’s face. He smiled, but it was a smile touched with sorrow. “Everything I told you about them is true, except they passed from life as old women with silver hair.”

Her brow knitted, and her eyes closed, processing his words. “How could they die old women,” she whispered, her eyes narrowing, “when you’re only twenty-seven?”

“They lived a long time ago, élise,”—his voice grew heavy—“and . . . I will always be twenty-six.”

She rubbed her neck, her head tilting as if to shake loose the growing knot of questions. A chuckle escaped her lips, full of disbelief. “What do you mean?”

The bitter truth stuck in his throat, reluctant to emerge. But he forced it out. “I was born in the year 1122.”

Her brow furrowed. “Eleven?” Her tone was incredulous, her eyes narrowing as though she were trying to decipher some cruel joke. “You mean 1762, surely.”

His silence was her answer. Her lips parted, but no words came. Finally, she shook her head. “I don’t beli?—”

“Please,” he interrupted, his voice almost a plea. “Let me tell you the truth, all of it, and then you can choose to believe it or not.”

“I hoped you thought me deserving of the actual truth, Rollant,” she whispered as tears glistened. “Not another lie?—”

“You are,” Rollant crooned. “And I will tell you.”

She slid her hands into her lap, her shoulders stiff with distrust. A slight, curt nod signaled for him to continue. Her face was carved with indifference, but her quivering fingers betrayed her.

“My father fought in the First Crusade,” Rollant began.

His words were slow and deliberate. “He was a knight for the Kingdom of France. He died when I was a boy. My older brothers died in subsequent feudal wars. My sister perished as a child. My mother . . . She lost her life to illness, or as the physician said, a broken heart.” He looked away, his jaw tight.

“I was not enough for her to want to live.”