by Eliza Lloyd
Love Me Once
Book Three, The Infamous Forresters
By
Eliza Lloyd
All Rights Reserved
Copyright 2021
Chapter One
Roman Forrester had few ambitions aside from the great privilege of serving king and country. He’d been soldier and spy. He’d been beaten, shot, stabbed and near hanged during the worst of those years. During the best? Ambassador, liaison, journalist, gambler.
And now, bearer of bad news.
His horse, Bronte, named after one of the immortal horses of Helios, the great sun god, carried Roman toward his destination with the slow gait of an animal past his prime. The steed had seen one too many battles and had taken one too many stumbles in service to his master. This would be one of his last rides. Roman would put the faithful horse to pasture, sending him to Long Leaf to graze on green grass and grow fat on winter oats, but sadly, Roman couldn’t imagine finding another such gallant.
But Bronte was as mortal as the two who had perished aboard the HMS Victorious, also in service to the King.
Jessum Hightower, Commodore—and father of the woman Roman loved.
Oliver Forrester, First Lieutenant—and youngest brother of the Forrester family.
A week ago, he’d gotten the horrific and unbelievable news from the Home Office. A ship had docked in Brest, France, a main military port, with the news that the Victorious had gone down in the roughest waters in the world, around Cape Horn. The waves had battered the ship, causing it to list mercilessly until finally dragged under, all hands on board.
He’d left Long Leaf late last night, dreading the next morning hours.
Roman did not want to believe, but the Victorious had been at sea for fifteen months and was three weeks overdue at Portsmouth. He didn’t want to believe but he did. Roman was in the business of bad news.
He had delivered the news to his older brother, Adam, the Duke of Sterling, and another of his brothers, Joshua, a few days ago. They’d agreed not to share the news with other family members just yet—not until Roman had a chance to investigate the veracity of the claims.
Their other brother, Nicolas, was on an expedition in the Canadas. He was Oliver’s twin. Did Nicolas already have a sense of Oliver’s demise?
Roman trusted Adam to parlay the news at the right time and with the gentleness needed for their aged mother. He’d keep Adam informed of his progress—good or bad.
But first, he had the unpleasant task of bearing the unhappy news to Shelene Hightower and her mother, Commodore Hightower’s daughter and his long-suffering wife. Shelene was his only living child.
Shelene was Roman’s only other ambition.
As Roman rode, the wretched hopelessness he carried deep in his heart spread to his belly and his head. This news would only confirm all that Shelene thought of England, its empire and Roman’s long dedication to it.
After he broke the news to her, he would travel on to Brest, France, to find the vessel and its captain who’d brought the news to shore. Roman wanted details, not some hearsay based on a possible sighting of a downed ship.
Still, the ship bearing the tidings was the Surveillante, a sixty-gun frigate of the French Navy. His suspicious mind dared to ask the question of why a French war vessel was perusing the waters of the South Atlantic. But that question would be for the War Department to examine. And maybe require him to visit the French ambassador—one never knew when a significant piece of information affected English interests. It was both his job and his nature to be suspicious of anything the French did. And the other concern was, of course, the Spanish interest in South America. Currently, there was a conflagration of independence movements and wars and other troubles in the area, which Roman would have to navigate.
But not today.
He drew Bronte’s reins and halted the horse in front of the Hightower townhouse, a modest structure of three floors. Their home in Spain was a grand mansion near a lake in Andalucía, a home Shelene would inherit someday, a gift passed from mother to daughter on the Belgrano side of the family. Roman had enjoyed many months with the Hightowers; time he considered some of the best days of his life, away from deception and war.
When Roman’s brother Oliver had found out about the commodore’s exemplary career with the Royal Navy, and his friendship with Roman, he’d begged Roman for an introduction.
And this is where it had all led. To Oliver’s death and that of the commodore.
Roman dismounted. A lad rushed up to secure his horse, and Roman dropped a coin in the boy’s hand before he headed toward the mews, Bronte blowing a satisfied snort.
A quick glance toward the drawing room window revealed a woman.
He looked once and then back again. Shelene.
Shelene.
He hadn’t seen her in two years.
Two years was two years too long. Sadly, one of many times he’d been in and out of her life. Today would be another.
The curtain was pulled back with one hand, and she was not at all embarrassed to be caught staring at him. Her glossy black hair was pulled into a severe bun. Not one loose strand. Her chin tilted upward.
Proud. Unyielding.
Vulnerable.
A quick vision assailed him—a sixteen-year-old on her family’s veranda in Spain. Wind blowing through her hair, her lips shimmered with the velvety softness of a flower petal—and such a sultry gaze. One that pierced his soul.
Immediately infatuated, he’d tumbled recklessly in love with her over the next few weeks they’d been together, under the safe supervision of her parents. But then he had to leave for an assignment and came back wounded. And it was the first of many times he’d placed duty to country over devotion to her.
But then she’d said no more. No more, Roman. Never again.
She did not wave or acknowledge him from her window perch; however, her gaze followed him as he walked up the stairs. The knocker was covered in black, which caused him a moment of concern. Did she already know about her father?
He swallowed then tugged at his jacket sleeve. To see her in any circumstance was awkward and bedeviling; to see her today would be heartbreaking.
Inside, the footman took Roman’s hat and gloves, then escorted him into the sitting room. Shelene still stood at the window, only she’d turned to watch as he entered. Her chest heaved with each breath. Was he happy to know she was as affected by the meeting as he?
Yes! In his heart of hearts, yes.
Her masked expression paralyzed him for a moment. Her beauty seared his innards and made breathing difficult. From the first moment until now. At one time, he’d thought they could not live without each other. They’d lived. Each of them a half-life. A whole lie.
Bowing, he said, “Miss Hightower. At your service.” The months and years disappeared like fog under the afternoon sun.
She dropped into a quick curtsy. “Lord Roman Forrester. A visit from the king’s man? To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
He took a few steps toward her, but she didn’t move. Finally, he was close enough to take her hand, which he brought to his lips. The kiss was imbibed with all the passion he held in reserve for her. “Shelene.”
The tension between them was less awkwardness than suppressed passion, by Roman’s way of thinking.
With no small effort, she removed her hand and waved it toward the setting of chairs near the fireplace. “Let us sit.”
There was as stillness about the house and Shelene was dressed in a dark, nearly black day dress that matched his somber blacks and brass. The only piece of jewelry she wore was familiar to him. He’d purchased the pin at a market
in Constantinople many years ago. A gift for her.
He believed the peacock was lapis lazuli, the rock for royalty in the Roman era, but the jeweled tail was sprayed with small emeralds, sapphires and rubies. Displayed as it was against the black material, the accouterment dazzled.
Strange that she should be wearing the pin today. When he was on her doorstep.
The only other color was on a table, near one of the stuffed chairs, which contained an oval frame with several glittering shades of glass scattered around. The project was nearly finished but he couldn’t see what the stained-glass design was, only that red was the predominant color.
Shelene’s artistry in stained glass was unparalleled, and in his travels, he had seen much to compare to her work. Prior to him leaving that last time, she’d just finished two windows in the church at Bornos, incorporating the view of the mountains as part of her design.
She swept her skirts away and then sat with the aplomb of a foreign princess. “You’ve come to offer condolences? I had half expected you, but with all your travels I didn’t know exactly when.”
Disappointment dripped from her words. And beneath the disappointment, hurt.
“Condolences?” Roman said, his brow pulled low. He prided himself for the control of his features. Tells caused losses at the gaming table. Tells got a man killed.
“Yes. Mother passed away six weeks ago.” She pressed her lips together. “Oh, you had not heard. It was rather sudden and most people, most nobles in London are not willing to acknowledge the Spanish wife of a sea captain. I thought that’s why—”
She sucked in a breath of air and pressed a hand to her breastbone, controlling the deep emotion inside her. He would not blame her if she broke down and cried, but Roman knew her and her monumental resolve.
“Oh, Shelene. I am so sorry. I had not heard.” He sat beside her, feeling the additional weight of tragedy. He placed his hand over her folded ones, now locked tightly on her lap.
“She went quickly. She said she wasn’t in pain. Not that I believed her. And Papa doesn’t even know. He doesn’t know.” Her eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them away. Had she been alone through this tragedy, he wondered? Was it just one more time he had not been there when she needed him?
“Shelene.”
She took a deep breath and smiled at him, timorous and cautious. “How have you been? Mama often asked about you. I never knew what to tell her.”
“She was a magnificent woman.” Gabriella Hightower nee Belgrano was honorable and kind, much like her daughter. She had not tried to convince Shelene that marriage to a man such as he was the right thing. Love or not. She’d lived without her sea-faring husband for most of her married life. She knew the pain Shelene would experience, marriage or not.
“Yes, she was. She wanted to be buried in Spain. Therese accompanied her home. I’m closing up the house, as you can see, and then I’m returning to Spain as well. Papa will find out when he returns that I’ve returned to Andalucía. I hope he won’t be too upset. How can he be? I will be home.”
Roman hadn’t noticed, his gaze was all for Shelene, but yes, the shelves had been cleared of bric-a-brac. The pianoforte was covered with a large dust cloth. The house was both clean and quiet, whispering of death and aloneness.
“Shelene.” God, could he say anything but her name. He feared once words came tumbling out, he would wind up groveling at her feet, begging her to reconsider.
“There is nothing for me here. We came because of Papa. You must know that. How would it look to His Majesty to have one of his trusted commodores reside in Spain? So soon after the wars ended and with the capture of that little man?”
Roman had his own suspicions about why Commodore Hightower moved his family to London, after all these years, and it had nothing to do with the Royal Navy or the Napoleonic Wars.
It had everything to do with a romantic soul who believed a daughter should follow the passions of her heart. The commodore was an interesting and eccentric man, full of honor and humor. Doubtless, he went down with his ship, a smile upon his face.
Roman had humored himself into believing he was part of the reason she and her family took up residence in London, though he had spent much of the past years on the continent uncovering plots against the empire and assuring friends the Crown had only the best of intentions.
He humored himself but he did nothing about it, because he had not been willing to give up the excitement and challenge, and yes, the adulation of success.
“I thank you for coming, Roman. It might be the last time I see you…here in England.”
“Shelene, there is something I must tell you. About why I am here.”
She titled her head, peering into his eyes. “Yes?”
“There has been word from the Home Office. About the commodore. And the Victorious.”
Clutching the armrest of her settee, she glanced away toward the window. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“A French navy frigate saw the Victorious go down. With all hands. I am sorry.”
Such weak, ineffectual words, but it was all he could say.
She took a deep breath, crossed herself, then folded her hands together and closed her eyes. Her lips moved in prayer. Before she opened her eyes, she said, “And Oliver?”
“And Oliver,” he confirmed with a brief nod.
She reached for his hand and gripped hard. “I’m sorry. Oh, your poor mother.” Her brow was drawn, her gaze forlorn, as if Oliver’s death were the greater tragedy. “He hadn’t begun to live his life. The baby of the family. Oh, to think how she must be feeling to lose her youngest child.”
“We haven’t told her yet. I’m traveling to France to learn more. Ships can be misidentified, especially on the water during a storm. I would give you hope even when it seems hope is impossible.” Hollow assurance, but all he could offer Shelene.
“Mama always told me this day would come. Papa loved the sea. More than anything. Perhaps we can take comfort in knowing they died doing what they loved.”
Hadn’t she said something like that to him, once and long ago. You will die doing what you love, but I won’t live waiting for that day.
“So there really is nothing left for me in London,” she added. She sighed and closed her eyes again for a moment.
The stark realization that he would lose her forever—well, he had never believed they would be perpetually apart, but the months and years had marched on. He’d always wanted her; he wanted her still.
At one time, he’d planned for their future together in Spain. He’d not told her or Commodore Hightower. Plans could change in a heartbeat, but he had hope.
He’d lived a half-life buried in intrigue and danger. She lived with her mother. Alone. Without husband or children. And that was no life at all for a vibrant woman such as she.
In Spain, she’d had their large estate in Andalucía, her horses, her gardens, her stained glass. Did she still find the time to devote to her art? The small work on the table seemed an afterthought.
Dear God, what had he taken from her?
Love wasn’t supposed to kill but they had each died in their own way. Two stubborn people. Too young and impetuous to give in to the other’s needs.
“When will you leave for Spain?”
“Soon. I-I—” Tears welled in her eyes.
This was not the Shelene of his memories. Too much weight now burdened her shoulders.
Roman had always felt powerless against such feminine delicacy. He brushed his thumb across her check but that didn’t stop the stream from falling. “What can I do for you, Shelene?”
“Nothing. Death is a part of life.” She sniffed and pulled a linen cloth from her sleeve. She dabbed it against her cheeks.
“Stay here in London until I return. My family would be happy to have you at Long Leaf. I don’t want you to be alone through this. And I don’t want you to go back to Spain. Not yet.”
“I will always be alone, Roman.” She took a deep breath.
“Tía Ana-María is expecting me in two months. It is best I am with my family. What is left of it. When will you leave for France?”
“Within the week. The War Office will have information about the Victorious’ route—where it docked and when, its mission.” And since it was likely Roman would be traveling to lands with independence in mind, he would also check with Bathurst about any assignments. One never knew when one would discover possible impediments to British interests. And Spanish colonialism in South America was of great interest to Britain.
“You are always suspicious, aren’t you? Surely England’s enemies are not so great that they also control the weather?”
He laughed. “I’m paid to be suspicious, as you well know.”
“I could pay you. Buy your fealty. I would be a much kinder lady than England. I would not require your life in exchange for your loyalty.”
England had always been the impediment to a lifetime with his beautiful Spanish girl.
“You will always have my loyalty. You and your family,” he said.
Shelene stood; Roman jumped up as well. He braced his arms behind his back and stared as she walked to the window again. It was right that he had stayed away. More extensive pain would have been the result if they had reunited. He was no more able to bear a failed attachment than she.
“It can’t be true, can it? Do you think Papa is really dead?” She traced an invisible pattern on the window glass.
Silence was often the best truth.
“Say something. You are not answering an inquiry from the Crown,” she said. She still stared out the window. He had never seen her defeated, but the slump of her shoulders and the slight downturn of her mouth, he knew she stood at the precipice of despair.
“You know I can’t answer.”
“And you wouldn’t dream of giving me false hope. At least not intentionally.”
“It is the best to be honest.” He tried to smile with some assurance.
“I hate this place. How can you stand it here with all the rain and fog and stink?” She was so near the window, her nose almost touched the pane. Her breath made a small circle of fog. The day was overcast, and outside there was a slight stench that blew off the Thames. It made no difference to him. He dwelt in the low places where smells and darkness had a way of hiding his intentions.
