Page 32 of The Temptation of Roan Island

We don’t say more as the rest of the household joins us for breakfast, everyone except for the one I want to see. Shemaiah is absent, and I can’t stop thinking about the lonely people Anna helped. I can’t let Tobias end up alone like that. I’m determined to find Shemaiah as soon as breakfast is over and make sure he’s doing everything he can to find my son. If he meets Tobias, I know he’ll want to take care of him. And then, neither of them will be alone.

14

PIPPA

Anger burns away what respect I had for Shemaiah Roan. For two full weeks, he’s skipped communal meals, left rooms the moment I’ve entered, avoided the library, and dodged me at every turn. With his superior senses, he can always tell when I’m near, so no matter how hard I try, I can’t corner him or get a straight answer about why he’s avoiding me. At first, I didn’t think it was intentional. But then other people noticed—namely Anna, who’s made it a kind of game to snark at me about it.

All I can assume is that he doesn’t want to update me on Tobias, and that makes me more concerned with each passing day.

But I have a plan.

I’ve been studying the servants. Having been one, I know what to watch for. It doesn’t take long to discover Shemaiah’s room and which of the new maids serves inside. So early in the morning—when I know he’ll still be in bed and unable to slip away from me—I ambush his maid in the hall as she comes around the corner.

“Oh!” She jumps back so quickly she drops the basket of kindling balanced on her hip.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” I pick up the basket and the matches that fell out, but I don’t give them back to her. “Let me take this.”

She gives me a puzzled look. “To Mr. Roan’s room?”

My cheeks feel hot, but I press on. “I want to surprise him.” Swallowing at my brashness, I hold out my hand for the towels she’s tucked under her arm. “Those too.”

“He’ll be… in the bath, miss.” She shakes her head. “It wouldn’t be proper for you to…”

I suck in a breath, warmth racing through my body at the thought of Shemaiah bathing. But I need answers, and Shemaiah is the only one who has them. If he refuses to see me, cornering him is my only option. “Do you think the Roans care about what’s proper?”

The girl has been here long enough to have witnessed a new moon party. She blushes and dips her chin, then hands me the towels.

“Thank you. You can go.”

She bobs a curtsy and hurries away.

I pause at Shemaiah’s door, steeling myself for what I’m about to do. Holding my breath, I enter, hoping the maid is wrong, and he’s still in bed. This will be easier if he’s not in the bath.

When I step into the room, the bed is empty.

I set the basket of kindling by the fireplace, then make my way to the bathroom door, holding the towels against my chest like a shield. What if he’s naked? I’ve seen naked men—it wasn’t uncommon when I was a maid—but it’s been a long time. And this is Shemaiah. Someone I’ve grown to consider a friend. Or at least I thought we were friends, before he started avoiding me. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, thinking of my son. I need to know if Shemaiah has learned anything more about Tobias. It’s been two weeks, and he should have heard something by now. I can do this. It doesn’t matter if he’s naked in the next room or not, I’m getting answers about my son. I won’t wait another day.

I march into the washroom.

Shemaiah’s back is to me. He’s standing beside a vanity in front of a full-length mirror. His dark hair hangs just past his shoulders, wet and dripping down his back. He’s bare but for white cotton drawers marred with water spots as if he’s just pulled them on. The moment I enter, he straightens. Every muscle in his body tenses.

He’s stronger than I would expect a man of his affluence to be—especially one who spends such large portions of his time reading. His sinew is compact and athletic, each muscle decidedly functional. I see the ripples of chording gripping his shoulder blades, riding his ribs, lining his spine. There are two dimples in his lower back just before the curvature of his muscular backside, hidden under the cloth. Through the mirror, my eyes trace the contours of his chest, the dips and valleys of his abdomen, a line of dark hair leading from his navel, down, down to a patch of hair exposed above the drawstring of his underclothes. When my gaze lifts, our eyes meet in the mirror.

I suck in a breath.

He blows one out. “Pippa.”

He spins toward me, a razor in one hand and a cloth in the other. He was shaving. Lather still speckles his face, the scent of clove and almond permeating the air. Looking at him head-on is even more overwhelming than through the mirror. He’s beautiful. An artform sculpted from clay.

I grit my teeth and grip the towels, my fire replaced by a different heat. One that smolders much lower. I swallow and hold out a towel. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

The washcloth slips from his fingers, sloshing into the sink. “I have.” He sets the razor on the vanity, then takes the offered towel and wipes his wet face, but water still glistens on his chest. “I have,” he repeats, quieter.

“Why? What have I done to you?”

“Is that what you thought? That it was you?” His dark gaze traces my features. His nostrils flare, and he turns away, clearing his throat.

“What else am I supposed to think, Shemaiah? You’re either avoiding me because of something I did, or because…” Fear wraps my chest like a vice. I can’t speak aloud the things I’ve feared might have happened to my Toby. “Do you know something about my son? Has something happened to him that you don’t want to tell me?”