CHAPTER 8 ROHAN
ROHAN
The moon shone brighter in the bayou, bright enough that Rohan could make out the shadowy branches of weeping swamp trees as he fixed his gaze on the moon’s reflection on otherwise black water.
Dark water. Rohan forced himself to keep looking for another five seconds, just to prove he could, then he turned and made for the rather questionable ladder up which his companions had just disappeared.
Whether Severin Thorp’s abode in the bayou was best described as a shack or a shanty was a matter of some debate.
It sat on stilts twenty yards away from the water’s edge.
By the time Rohan stepped foot on the platform at the top of the ladder, his sense of hearing had already told him that Brady wasn’t inside, but as Rohan pushed the front and only door inward, the beams of multiple flashlights from multiple phones made it clear: Someone had been here.
There was a bag on the counter—a small, worn, cloth backpack.
Before any of the others could claim that bag, Rohan gave Knox one last, calculated push.
“I know who this place belonged to.” Rohan’s knowledge of Severin Thorp was hardly extensive, but he knew the gentleman had been Knox’s mentor, that he was dead, and that Knox had only recently discovered that Severin was gone.
“You have my most sincere condolences, Mr. Landry.”
There was nothing glib in Rohan’s tone, but he was well aware that some people did not want condolences. Some people were wired to rage instead of mourn.
Knox snarled, and Gigi popped in between them.
“Brady!” Gigi reminded Knox. “You can punch and/or double-punch Rohan’s obnoxiously symmetrical face later. First: We find Brady.”
“Stay here,” Knox growled, slamming out of the shack.
“He meant you two,” Gigi said decisively, scurrying after Knox. Savannah went to follow her sister, then halted when she realized that Rohan showed no signs of moving.
“Go on, love,” he said.
Savannah narrowed her eyes. “You want me to leave.”
“Do I?”
“You’re up to something.”
Rohan flashed her a smile. “Always.”
Icy eyes narrowed just a fraction more. “You’re letting Gigi and Knox do the work of tracking Brady down. Why?”
“Your sister will doubtlessly let you know when they find him. Soulful little thing, isn’t she? And quite intent on making the past up to you.” Rohan almost hated to probe at that wound but needs must.
“My relationship with my sister is none of your business.” Savannah’s body betrayed her in ways her face did not. Her delicate lips, strong jaw, and silvery eyes were all dangerously neutral. The muscles in her shoulders and neck, however…
The secrets your sister kept from you still hurt, but the pain is duller now, isn’t it, love? No longer bleeding, starting to scar. Rohan had done some of his best work with scars—kissing them, tracing his fingers around them.
Ripping them open at opportune times, the Proprietor whispered somewhere in his mind.
Rohan resisted the urge to reach out and touch his quarry. “Aren’t you going to ask what we will be doing while your sister and Knox are finding Brady for us?”
“Do you think I need to?” Savannah reached for Brady’s backpack, her tone making it perfectly clear that cities had been felled by creatures far less capable and fearsome than she.
“You’re hoping for leverage that you can use to make Brady more pliant or, barring that, some kind of insight that might allow you to more effectively manipulate him. ”
“Manipulative? Me?” Rohan allowed Savannah first stab at the bag and turned his attention to searching the rest of the shack. If I were a secret, where would I be? A full minute passed before Rohan allowed himself another glance in Savannah’s direction.
She’d removed three books from the backpack, and Rohan helped himself to them.
“It appears our Mr. Daniels has a fondness for poetry, particularly of the French variety.” Rohan could—and probably should—have stopped there.
“A match, I believe, for the gentleman’s taste in fairy tales.
” Rohan dragged his eyes upward to Savannah’s. “Such as Les Fées.”
He waited to see if the winter girl would take the bait. She did not.
“I would very much have liked to see the scholar’s expression,” Rohan continued, “when you let it be known that you would no sooner spit diamonds than snakes.”
“Brady tried to play me.” Savannah kept her tone tantalizingly neutral as she continued her search of the bag. “But I am no one’s piece to move around the board.”
That’s my phrasing, love. My way of looking at the world. “Tell me, Savannah…” Rohan sidled up beside her. “What is the board right now?”
Savannah did her best to pretend the proximity of his body had no effect whatsoever on hers.
“You indicated that Jameson Hawthorne was headed for Prague,” she said crisply.
“The Mercy, I assume, is in England. The Hawthornes’ home base is in Texas.
Calla Thorp vanished years ago from the oh-so-charming backwoods where we find ourselves now. ”
“St. Adelaide Parish is more than backwoods,” Rohan informed her.
“It also includes a rather quaint collection of towns where Calla Thorp’s family controls just about everything.
The Thorps were transplants from New York in the early nineteen hundreds, old money—by American standards, at least. They bought up all the property hereabouts, razed more than one plantation to the ground, and rebuilt the entire area to their own tastes. ”
“And the duchess?” Savannah finished her search of the bag but made no move to drop it. “Where is she from?”
So demanding. That thought was a low, warm buzz in Rohan’s mind as he turned his face toward hers. “As the press tells it, That Duchess met her duke at Oxford, where she was an international student and he was a young man no one expected to inherit a dukedom. It was, by all accounts, true love.”
“Love is a story people tell themselves in moments of weakness.” Savannah went to turn away from him, but Rohan closed his hand around the strap of the backpack, his fingers coming close to but never brushing hers.
Drop the bag and back away, love. If you dare.
Savannah didn’t back away—or down. “We’re going to need some ground rules,” she said, her voice austere, her chin angled just so.
“No touching. No calling me by terms of endearment of any kind. This is a business arrangement, Rohan. I need you to take me to the duchess. You, for whatever reason, want Brady with you when you do. Business, and that is all.”
Rohan arched a brow, waiting. Expectant. “And…?” he prompted.
“And the board,” Savannah finished crisply, “is the world.”
Rohan had a sudden urge to ask: Has anyone ever promised you the world, Savannah?
But instead, he snaked his free hand into the bag, his dexterous fingers probing the fabric and seams, his body not touching hers.
A most thorough search revealed what Savannah had missed: an object sewn into the bottom of the bag.
Rohan tore the fabric—no hesitations, no regrets. Something metal fell into his hand. Something on a chain. He withdrew his hand from the bag and spread his fingers wide, presenting for Savannah’s inspection the object on his palm.
A necklace. A silver-and-gold fleur-de-lis, a highly stylized one, distinct in its proportions, an exemplary bit of craftmanship on a simple chain.
When Savannah reached to claim it, Rohan closed his fist. “Ask first, love.”
One rule broken: a term of endearment. Savannah reached to peel Rohan’s fingers back. And there’s the second. Touching. Rohan caught her wrist in his free hand. More touching.
“Show it to me,” Savannah demanded.
“Since you asked so nicely.” Rohan let loose of her wrist and opened his fist, flipping the necklace over in his palm as he did. He’d always had a magician’s knack for presentation.
On the back of the fleur-de-lis, there was an inscription, words engraved into the metal:
Pour celui á qui il a été promis
Pour la fille qui serait reine
“For the one to whom it was promised,” Rohan translated. “For the girl who would be queen.”
“French.” Savannah reached for the necklace again, and this time, Rohan allowed her to lift it by the chain. “What do we think the chances are that this belonged to Calla Thorp?”