Page 58

Cry of the Heart

The blood had long since faded from her hands, but its stain lingered on her soul.

Sixteen months and élise still couldn’t forget the men she had stabbed—the one she’d killed and the one she had cast away.

The ache was intolerable, a constant knot in her chest. Her hand still shook at night, remembering Gabin forcing her to drive the blade into Rollant’s belly—Rollant, the only person who’d ever truly cared about her.

She was a wretch.

Sixteen months. It had been sixteen months since she’d screamed for Rollant to leave. Since he’d walked into the cold night and disappeared from her life. Sixteen months, and he had not returned.

She tried to bury him in the past, but he lingered in her dreams, her thoughts during monotonous tasks, or the quiet moments before slumber.

Though he lied to her and betrayed her, she understood why.

His lies, his departures—they were all to protect her from Amée’s fate, from the curse that haunted him.

And yet, she had thrown him away, screamed at him to leave, and called him a monster.

He never would have shown himself after she thought him dead if he hadn’t loved her and trusted her with his secrets. And she threw him away like a fool.

If only to apologize and beg his forgiveness, she wished he would return at least once more in her lifetime.

Rollant was only an hour’s walk away, but fear kept her rooted in Charonne.

She had killed a man, and all the murderous rioters knew she’d done it.

If they found her, they’d kill her without hesitation.

She didn’t want to die, not for that. She hated Gabin, but she didn’t want to become him.

Paris had scarred her soul.

Life in Charonne was peaceful, even if it was small. The four families who lived on Rollant’s land were kind. They helped her, helped themselves to her garden, and she took from their shops and farms in return. It was a quiet community, one without debts or obligations.

The long grasses tickled her ankles as she lay in them, looking up at the sky.

Hugo lay beside her. élise’s hands were behind her head, not allowing Hugo to hold her hand.

Though Hugo was a good friend, kind and devoted, she did not feel for him what he felt for her.

His infatuation weighed on her like a growing shadow, impossible to ignore but equally impossible to embrace.

But as the months went on without Rollant, she wondered if it would be fair to Hugo to marry him as he had hinted or to let him go.

Giselle’s shout echoed across the hill. “Hugo, élise! Mother says dinner will be ready soon.”

Hugo chuckled. “That means we have a while,” he said, rolling up. He waved to his sister and gazed at the city walls in the distance. “Do you ever want to go back there?” he asked.

“No,” élise said, rolling up beside him. “Never.”

Hugo focused on her profile. “Does that mean you wish to stay in Charonne?”

Her chin dipped. “Yes, Hugo.”

“You’re beautiful, élise,” he whispered and smoothed her hair off her cheek. “I am getting older now,” he started. He glanced back over his shoulder to ensure there were no prying eyes. “I’ve been trying for two years to win at least a slice of your heart.”

He smiled, but élise thinned her lips. She had tried to fall in love with him. It would have been easy, but her heart betrayed her, always pulling her back to the memory of Rollant, alive like the first spark of a flame.

She turned to face him. “You have. You and your sisters are my closest friends.”

He leaned back but turned his shoulders to her. “See, élise. That’s what I mean. Friends. I want my wife to be my friend, but if that is all she ever sees me as, then maybe it’s not meant to be.”

She met his gaze, not wanting to reveal the truth, afraid it might damage the relationship with his family.

His cerulean eyes softened, pleading. “May I at least try to kiss you, élise? Just once—to see if there is anything between us?” His voice was low, careful, as though he feared her answer.

She pulled her knees to her chest. It was an improper question, one she should refuse.

But Rollant’s kiss lingered in her memory, its spark unmatched.

She glanced at Hugo’s lips, soft and full, and forced herself to consider it.

She felt she owed him that much, to at least try. At least, as his friend.

“That seems to be acceptable,” she said.

“Really?” he asked with lifted eyebrows and surprise etched into his wide smile.

She nodded.

“Alright,” he said, shifting in the grass closer to her. “Well,” he said with a boyish grin.

He took her hand and cradled her cheek with the other.

He leaned forward, but before he placed his kiss, he whispered, “I love you, élise. You are the most beautiful, vivacious, protective, and loyal woman I’ve ever met.”

His lips pressed against hers. She forced herself to give him a chance, so she returned his kiss.

She closed her eyes, hoping, willing the spark to come.

Rollant’s kiss had been fire—sweeping, consuming.

But Hugo’s? There was only tenderness, a flicker compared to the inferno she remembered.

It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t Rollant. Her heart ached as she pulled away, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.

Rollant had ruined her for any other man.

Hugo’s eyes grew wide, and his fingers quivered against her skin. “Are you hurt? Did I do something wrong?” he asked in a frantic rush.

She looked past Hugo at the house Rollant had given her, where her heart had been left behind.

Hugo cradled her cheek. “Are you alright, élise?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

Hugo leaned in to continue the kiss, but élise turned her face, leaving him to kiss her cheek.

“I do not love you, Hugo.” Her voice broke.

She turned back to face him, and her chest tightened at the hurt in his eyes.

Hugo deserved a woman who loved him wholly, not someone who pined for a ghost. “I love your family. I love our friendship. I know you would be an extraordinary husband and father, but I do not love you.”

His hand fell away from her cheek. “My parents didn’t love each other when they were married, but they grew to,” he said, his voice flushed with hope. ”Maybe—maybe that could happen for us too.” The plea in his voice cut through her, but she couldn’t give him what he wanted.

She glanced at him, having turned away from her. Silence was her answer.

“At least I’m here,” he said before shooting up and walking to the edge of the field with his hands on his belt. He paced at the border.

She slowly got up, walked over to him, and embraced him. “I’m sorry, Hugo,” she said, her voice breaking. “Maybe one day, I could fall in love with you. But if Rollant returned, I can’t promise I wouldn’t find my love for you was only a facade—a remedy meant to heal but destined to fail.”

She hurt for him, not wishing to be the one to deliver rejection. She released her arms around him. “And that is not fair to you or your family.”

Hugo gripped the edge of the fence, pulling back and pushing forward, figuring out his next words. “He may never come back, élise.”

“I know that,” she sighed with a break in her voice. “And I am fine to live a life alone if that be the case.” A tear ran down her cheek that she wiped away. The motion drew Hugo’s attention. He said nothing but rubbed her back before pulling her into a second embrace.

élise laid her head on his shoulder. “Only allow me to be the fiery aunt to your children,” she chuckled.

Hugo chuckled as well, but his was edged with sorrow. He lifted her face to his and pressed his forehead against hers. “I love you élise,” he whispered. “You’re my first love, and likely my only one.”

“Don’t say such things, Hugo. How you feel about me is how I feel about Rollant. One day, he may come back, and if he does, I want to go with him.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I know it’s not a nice sentiment, but you should know the truth.”

He nodded and pulled her closer, digging his nose into her neck in a bear hug. Then he released her and stepped back. “Well, either I suppose I shall try harder to make you forget Rollant or live my life alone.” He smiled. “And I’m not quite content with living alone just yet.”

She laughed. “Is it a challenge?”

“A challenge I’ve already accepted,” he said with a sly smile. “Come, dinner is probably ready now.”

“I’m looking forward to it, but I’ll be there soon. I need to gather my thoughts and compose myself,” she said, adjusting the neckline of her dress.

His cheeks turned red as he bowed his head. “Of course, Mademoiselle.” His sheepish grin left two dimples on either side of his cheeks before he turned to go.

She glanced over the vast open lands with the city wall just beyond.

“Could I marry Hugo?” she whispered a few moments later. “Could I love him more than I love Rollant?” She wasn’t sure.

She leaned on the fence with her elbows; her gaze followed a rider as he trotted east in the distance. Something about him drew her—the way he sat, the familiar tilt of his shoulders. Her heart leaped before her reason could catch it.

“Rollant!” she cried, the name tearing from her throat like a prayer, raw, unthinking, and full of want.

Her voice echoed across the meadow. She hoped, wished, willed, and longed for the stranger on the horse to turn around, but fate did not hear her silent pleas.

Her call was left unanswered, and she hung her head, shame burning her cheeks.

Foolishness. She peered over her shoulder to see if anyone was outside.

She was alone and hoped they did not hear her.

Why did Rollant have any business returning to Charonne after she’d told him to leave? He had told her he would not intervene again. She looked up to the sky, drenched in blue and purple with streaks of gold from the evening sun.

Curse her mouth.

Curse her heart.

* * *

Rollant watched them from a distance, sitting in the meadow.

Hugo’s arms around her and their lips meeting, élise returning his kiss—Rollant’s heart twisted, a vise tightening in his chest. He gripped the reins, the leather creaking beneath his hands as he forced himself to look away. He’d told himself to let her go.

He’d come the long way against his better judgment for a chance to see élise once more as he plotted the King’s escape route amid rising violence and opposition against the crown. It was reckless and foolish, and yet he couldn’t help himself.

As his horse trotted off, a scowl drew heavy on his lips.

He had wanted one fleeting glimpse of her—just one.

He had convinced himself it would be enough to see her in the garden or hanging laundry, but the image of élise’s mouth on Hugo’s burned into his mind.

Her closeness, her laughter—it was everything Rollant wanted with her.

A life of love. A life he could never give her.

Sensing his tension, his mare shifted beneath him, but Rollant remained rooted in the saddle.

“This is what I wanted,” he mumbled to himself. “This is what she deserves.”

But watching her embrace another man, the hollow ache in his chest flared into a storm he couldn’t calm. He wanted her to be happy, and he meant it.

He wanted élise to be with Hugo, to find love with someone kind and good, to live a normal life, and to be held in love far from his curse.

He would rather endure his own torment than see her fall victim to his sins.

He had made his choice long ago—her happiness over his own.

Yet what he had just witnessed burned like ash in his heart.

He hadn’t realized how much it would hurt to see it.

His shoulders slumped as he fought the instinct to turn his horse around, to ride back to her, to pull her into his arms. But what then? Wrap her in his embrace and kill her? Curse her to Amée’s fate?

No. He’d already lied and betrayed her trust. She didn’t want him. Not anymore. Clearly.

His knuckles whitened as he clenched the reins, forcing his gaze forward and away from the stretching meadows.

“At least I will be in exile with the king,” he whispered. “And I can go knowing she is happy, safe, and with a good man like Hugo.” His whisper was thick with sorrow but faint at the mention of Hugo’s name.

Rollant urged his mare forward, his back forever to élise. The distance between them stretched into the unbearable.

Yes, he had told himself this was for the best—for her—but he couldn’t silence the small, desperate voice in his heart that begged him to turn back.

But he couldn’t go back. She deserved a future, even if it meant tearing himself from the one person who had made him feel alive.

He just needed one more glimpse. To see her smile.

To hear her say his name. But what could he give her except heartbreak?

“Take me away, girl,” he whispered to the mare, his voice thick with sorrow. “Far from her, far from the pain.”

He patted her neck absently, his mind a thousand miles away. But no matter how far he rode, he knew he could never silence the image of élise in Hugo’s arms.