The Secrets of Roan Island

4. Ruby

4

Ruby

I hold my hands out to the fire in the dining room, begging for its warmth. This house feels even colder than outside. Jafeth has barely finished introducing his brother Shemaiah when he exclaims, “There he is.”

I turn expecting to meet the father, only to watch as a younger man strides into the room. Not Hammish Roan, I’m sure. This man is stunning in a way that feels too perfect, much like Jafeth and Shemaiah, but where their looks didn’t affect me physically, this man’s countenance stops my breath and constricts my lungs. Like the others, he wears a formal suit that fits his tall form perfectly. His dark hair is styled, but not slick like many men prefer to wear it in the colony. It looks silky smooth, combed away from his face so it falls in soft waves to one side, a dark lock skimming his forehead. His eyes are dark, his lashes thick, his brows slashes that might appear severe but aren’t. The severity of his features is in the harshness of the lines of his face: the sharp, wide cheeks, the defined jaw, the serious line of his mouth.

When our eyes catch, he stops, faltering mid-step. His gaze bores into mine with an intensity that makes my heart race. His expression is hard, yielding nothing, demanding everything. I’m a fly caught in a trap. Small, in the face of a force much larger.

The bodice of my dress suddenly feels like it’s two sizes too small. The capped lace sleeves, which seemed elegant moments ago, now feel flimsy and fragile as his gaze slides slowly from my pinned up hair to my delicate slippers. A shiver skates across my skin.

“Why is she wearing Zarah’s dress?” he asks, low and lethal.

“Forgive me. It was laid out on my bed for dinner. I didn’t think–”

Jafeth cuts me off with a laugh. “This is Noah. Our eldest brother.”

“Oh.” I curtsy. “Hello, Mr. Roan.” I extend my hand.

Noah Roan stares at my gloved fingers like they’re poisonous vipers and doesn’t return the courtesy. Heat flares in my cheeks.

“Noah,” Jafeth says, cutting a hand through the air from his brother to me. “Miss Rose.”

Still, the man stands unmoving, though now his gaze has returned to my face. I retract my hand, untouched, and grasp it with my other in front of my body, depressing the full skirt under them.

“He doesn’t exude the ease and friendliness the rest of us do, right, Shemaiah?”

Shemaiah leans against the window, looking absently at the storm outside, but he huffs a sound of agreement at Jafeth’s comment and adds, “Absolutely awkward at the best of times.”

When my focus swings back to Noah, he’s still staring at me with an expression I can’t decipher. He swallows, then clears his throat.

“I’m sorry. I spend so much time… working that I forget how to be polite.” At last, he extends his hand. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Professor Rose.”

I unclasp my hands and take hold of his. “Ruby is fine.”

“Ruby.” He holds my gaze as he slowly lifts my hand and plants a featherlight kiss on the silk covering my skin. His eyes close as he lingers, the warmth of his lips burning through my glove.

Electric sparks light my nerves from my hand to somewhere deep in my core. My heart skips inside my chest as his thumb slides over the inside of my wrist, hesitating at my pulse point. His eyes fly open, and he releases me, stepping back so quickly it makes me dizzy.

“Good, you’re all here,” a voice says from somewhere behind me. I turn to see a gentleman of indefinite age standing at the head of the table. I’m not sure when he entered, and it unnerves me that I didn’t notice. “Allow me to introduce myself, Miss Rose, I am Hammish Roan. I see you’ve met my sons. It’s a pleasure to have you in my home. Come, let’s eat.” He holds a hand out to the seat to his right.

Noah immediately storms to the long table set for five, saying nothing.

Feeling off balance by the broody Roan brother, I grab hold of a shallow breath. Then another, willing my pulse back into place.

“Shall we,” Jafeth asks. His hand comes to rest at the small of my back, a bold touch that feels oppressive, so different from Noah’s which still burns against my wrist.

I take the seat Jafeth pulls out for me, to the right of Mr. Roan and beside Noah. Rather than glance at him, even though I want to, I study the table as the men take their seats. The table is dressed in a black cloth and set with five opulent settings, making it clear no one else will be joining us. I recall, then, that Hammish Roan is a widower, his wife having died tragically, though the details are obscured by rumor and time.

Bright gold chargers frame the fine ivory dishes rimmed with matching gold. I free the black linen napkin embroidered with gold thread—the Roan crest surrounded with the flourish—and lay it over my lap, then reach for the crystal goblet to wet my dry throat. An evergreen centerpiece is draped across the table, oranges and white blooms threaded with gold ribbon, a subtle fragrance of pine, cinnamon, and jasmine wafting about them. Everything about the moment is beautiful, and yet, goosebumps rise on my skin as if I just plunged into a dark, cold lake. The fire behind my back does nothing to warm me.

“You have a greenhouse?” I eye the centerpiece to keep from looking at the enigmatic man to my right.

“Are you a gardener?” Shemaiah asks. He takes a sip of his wine.

My gaze lands on the dark red liquid that stains the corner of his mouth. It seems thicker than wine—perhaps port. He wipes it with his napkin.

“No. I’m hopeless with plants. I just noticed the jasmine.” I reach out and touch the white blossom. “I wouldn’t think they’d grow on the island. Not in the cold.”

“You’d be right,” Mr. Roan says from the head of the table. “Beautiful and intelligent.”

Somehow, his compliment feels more like an insult, even though he’s smiling. There’s something about him I immediately distrust. An odd feeling in my gut, some instinct that tells me to run. I can’t shake the feeling that I need to tread carefully. “You’re too kind, Mr. Roan.”

“That is entirely an overstatement,” Jafeth says under his breath.

His father casts a sharp look in his direction.

Shemaiah coughs. “Your research,” he says, clearing his throat awkwardly. “What inspired it?”

“Abducted women?”

It’s Jafeth’s turn to cough. “Goodness. Must we?”

“What?” I ask, leaning back as a bowl of steaming soup is set in front of me. I look up to thank the footman, but he’s already retreated from the room. Turning back to the dish, I admire the presentation: thick green, a swirl of white cream curled around the top, a sprig of rosemary at the center. Another beautiful thing.

“What were you saying?” Noah’s voice draws my gaze from the soup to his, the tone demanding even though he asked a question. He watches me as he lifts his glass to his lips. The light brown that circles the dark center of his eyes gives me the impression of a gilded mirror at midnight. I feel as if I could stare into those cold eyes forever and never see my own reflection.

“You were saying?” Jafeth repeats his brother’s question in a more sincere tone, interrupting the course of my thoughts.

I struggle to tear my attention away from Noah, glancing around the table. I’m struck again by the beauty of these men. Their faces are perfect, proportionally perfect, all variations of one another. Though Hammish’s dark hair is laced with a touch of silver and the lines of his face are more defined, those are nearly the only things that set them apart. Their dark eyes are expressive, framed by full brows arched keenly and thick eyelashes. Their cheekbones are wide, with mouths that curl invitingly with their smiles. Lips that look lucious and kissable. Perfect. Theirs is the kind of beauty that isn’t found in nature. It’s beyond natural.

That awareness drifts under my skin, raising chills that speed down my spine. The vulnerability of my situation suddenly becomes even more apparent. I’m alone here, surrounded by men, with no way to contact the outside world. At least I had the foresight to let my friends know I’m here.

I take a deep sip of my wine, needing the fortification. “Sorry. Yes. I was saying that my research is focused on issues related to women, including policy that concerns abducted women. My academic speciality involves the legal protections of women and their rights in society.”

“Curious,” Hammish Roan says.

“Why is that?” I tightly clutch my spoon . “Because I’m a woman?”

He smiles. I have the sense he’s trying to disarm me, but I feel anything but charmed. “Not at all. Who better to study women than a woman. This is clearly a passion project for you.”

Seeing my opportunity, I jump into the skirmish with Hammish Roan. “Which is the reason I reached out to you and accepted your invitation. To appeal to your philanthropy.”

“Your motives were always clear.” The bright scrape of his spoon against the china seems loud against the silence in the room.

“And your generosity is profound,” I say, appealing to his ego. “Even going so far as to support the medical community and sanatoriums filled with women. But one of the greatest atrocities being committed under our noses is the prevalent abduction of unattached women. Those left to the streets, to their poverty–”

“–to their vices,” Hammish interrupts, setting down his spoon and nodding at a waiting footman.

“Vices?” I ask, my tone rising with my incredulity. “To which vice are you referring?”

“I’m not sure that’s polite conversation,” Jafeth says with a chuckle.

“I’m not the squeamish sort,” I reply before sipping my wine. “Speak plainly.”

The footman reappears carrying new plates, and though I’m not done with my soup, it’s replaced with a salad. Bright green leaves laced with red threads that remind me of veins mixed with small orange slices, cubes of bright beets, and a sprinkling of pungent cheese. Another beautiful dish.

“Sex, Professor Rose,” Hammish says. “These women give themselves over to the vice of promiscuity and unfortunately pay the ultimate price.”

Seething, I stab at a beet. “Are you suggesting that if a woman is abducted by a man because she sells her body for sex, she is somehow at fault, sir?”

“That is exactly what he’s saying,” Noah replies. His gaze dips to my white-knuckled grip on my fork.

“And is this what you also believe, Mr. Roan?”

“Noah. And there are many who believe it,” he says, avoiding my question. “But belief isn’t the crux of the problem, is it?”

“Yes. I do believe it is.” I spear an orange slice. “If men believe a woman deserving of this sort of punishment for using her body as a means of survival, then why would men ever stop hurting them?”

“Would you use your body for survival?” Noah’s look is suddenly probing.

Time seems to stop as I share space with only him, and while everything else slows, my pulse races with something other than anger and frustration. My mind, still focused on the topic at hand, splits itself in two, one part pondering his question, the other considering sex. With him.

It’s been so long since I’ve considered sex—with a man. There was a woman. After David, I didn’t think I would ever feel attracted to a man again. Now, however, desire pulls me towards him with a powerful grip. I squeeze my thighs together, needing relief from the ache at my core. The rush of wetness, imagining him between my thighs, pumping into me, filling me, it’s almost too much to take.

I gasp.

Time hasn’t stopped.

The men around me are staring like they’re waiting for an answer to a question I didn’t hear.

I grab for my wine, take a deep drink, but miscalculate as I put it down. The goblet tips, spilling the rich liquid onto the dark tablecloth.

“I’m so sorry.” Lurching forward, I press my napkin against the dripping puddle, feeling a sudden wave of dizziness.

“James,” Mr. Roan says. His voice sounds so far away. “Clear the mess.”

“Of course, sir.”

The room tilts.

“I feel strange.” I bring my hand to my cheek, feeling the heat of my skin even through the silk of my glove.

I think I hear the elder Mr. Roan chuckle, a grating sound. “Perhaps you’ve over-indulged in this particular vice.” He lifts his glass.

“It must be the travel,” Jafeth says, and though he’s sitting just across the table, my vision tunnels, making him seem far away.

Suddenly I’m being lifted from my seat into a strong, steady grip.

“I’ll take her to her room.”

I turn my head toward the voice. Noah Roan is carrying me. Why? As soon as my mind asks the question, my heavy head lolls toward his chest. “What–”

“Hush,” he says. “Sleep.”

Unable to fight it, I do.