Love Me Once (The Infamous Forresters Book 3)

by Eliza Lloyd

  After a few final admonitions, Bathurst lifted his glass. “Godspeed, Forrester.”

  * * * * *

  The ship to Brest bobbed on the rough waves of the English Channel, but the wild beauty of the white caps and the blue-gray depths mesmerized Shelene.

  When a flock of seagulls squawked and dived toward the ship, she stepped away from the rail as one gull came perilously close. Perhaps the ribbons of her bonnet, dancing in the breeze, attracted the bothersome bird.

  The sailors were busy taking in the sail, the shouts like a foreign language to her. She glanced at the shore as the docks and city grew on the horizon. The large naval port, a remnant of that little Corsican tyrant’s, was easily identifiable, chiseled into the rock on each side of the Penfield River.

  Roman had sent a note, apologizing that he could not attend her in person but that he was leaving for Brest on Friday and would “try” to visit before he left.

  Well, she’d made other plans, because she knew Roman Forrester all too well.

  “Try,” she mumbled. If he arrived, he was going to find a near empty house with two manservants storing the balance of the family possessions. Would he be disturbed by her departure? Or would he shrug and never think of her again?

  In the meantime, she was going to find out what happened to her father, with or without Roman’s help. That there was a delay at all on Roman’s part, meant that once again he’d placed country above his own brother’s death.

  Shelene had boarded the ship in Brighton, happier than she’d been in months. Freed, almost. She hadn’t looked back as the English shore receded and now there was a new horizon. Purpose had a way of reviving a person’s soul.

  Since Papa had carted her and Mother off to London, Shelene had been like a cork bobbing in the water. Unsure. Directionless.

  She would not credit Roman as the reason her heart beat with renewed vigor.

  The truth was she had become a dull lump in London, caring for Mother and whiling away the days, dreaming of what could not be. And for the last time, she knew, really knew, that Roman could not be.

  She had held out hope, longer than any sane woman should have. All this time she’d prayed for something to change… For Roman to change.

  But she was the one who must transform her life. Secretly pining, desperately dreaming? Hmpf. She would grow old and die before Roman Forrester’s eyes would be opened to the truth.

  Or more likely, he would be ensnared by some English beauty without an ounce of fire in her blood, only the blueness that makes her appear to be a suitable match.

  Bah! Let him. Let him live a life of compromise and capitulation under the thumb of a nagging wife.

  “Miss Hightower, we will not dock for several more hours. You may wish to retire to your quarters and rest until then.” The bright-eyed porter had been very solicitous on the hours-long journey. “We only await the proper tide.”

  Shelene had requested the room because both she and her lady’s maid were poor sea travelers. Martina was abed just now. Her moaning forced Shelene to exit the tiny cabin for fear she would end up in a worse state. Martina’s son traveled with them, curious about everything, and he currently hung off the rigging of a large wooden boom. As long as the crew was not correcting him, neither would she. Let the boy have his fun.

  But if she had her choice, she would be riding her horse over the rolling plains of her family’s estate, Andalucían breezes streaming through her hair, a stallion’s flanks heaving between her thighs.

  She shook her head, wanting to clear those recollections of Roman. In London, it had been surprisingly easy to curb such intense feelings. He was never in residence and had never tried to see her, so they had no store of memories together. But on the water, traversing the sweet-smelling earth of Spain, traveling together to Greece and Italy with her family—there she had a storehouse of precious memories.

  Just as the porter said, docking took extensive time, and the sun was just hitting the horizon when the ship bumped against the wooden pier. As she stepped from the boat, she gripped the railing and glanced around. All manner of ships filled the unloading areas, hull to hull, and they bustled with scrubby sailors and proud militia. The seagulls that had been screeching all day were finally looking to rest.

  Young Joaquin found a carriage, and they were whisked away from the cursing, crushing activity of the dock and the smell of dead fish and human offal to a snug and safe hotel away from the wildness of the peers.

  The next morning, at breakfast, the trio found an empty block slab table and filled the sturdy benches around it. A basket of black, wheat and rye breads already sat in the middle of the table, and a diligent serving girl arrived with butter, honey and a plate of soft-boiled eggs.

  “Café au lait, s’il vous plait, mademoiselle,” Shelene said. The girl bobbed and hurried away.

  “Señorita,” her duenna whispered. “It seems rather coarse, do you not agree?” She pointed with her chin.

  The room was a bit overcrowded, and aged with smoke and wear, but as Shelene glanced about she watched as several French officers, decorated in their blue and red and gold braid, pushed into the room.

  “It will do, Martina. My mission will only require a few days before we travel home.”

  “But this undertaking is unbecoming of a single woman of stature,” Martina said, followed by a reproving cluck of her tongue.

  Shelene ignored Martina for the moment but absently patted her hand in assurance. She knew she wasn’t lucky enough to have stumbled upon the exact person she needed to speak with, but it was a suitable start to her day. The four soldiers sat in a corner on the opposite side of the room.

  “Joaquin?”

  “Sí, señorita?” He stuffed buttered bread in his mouth, his gaze wide-eyed and earnest.

  He jumped, still chewing, but Shelene grabbed his arm. “Explain to the caporal, in English, that I wish to speak with him a moment. The proud one with the shako and epaulets. Go on now.”

  Joaquin wiped his sleeve across his mouth and nodded, darting across the room and around its other occupants. Shelene leaned a bit to watch the conversation and, when the caporal glanced in her direction, she smiled then demurely looked away.

  The young man took up his hat, followed Joaquin and marched toward her, ready to save the day. He clicked his heels; his bow sharp and quick.

  “Miss, how may I be of assistance?” His accent was heavy, indicative of a rural French man and not the cultured set of a well-to-do Parisian family. Perhaps he spoke Breton at home. Still, he had rank and bore himself with authority.

  She nodded, again using her gaze along with a few flicks of her lashes to hold his attention. “Caporal, I need information, please.”

  “Oui.”

  “I was given to believe a French warship arrived in port during the past few weeks with distressing news about a British vessel, the HMS Victorious. It was reported the Victorious sank around Cape Horn. I am trying to discover information. It is most urgent that I do so.”

  He pursed his lips and a humming sound emanated from his person as he considered her request. “The Victorious? And who was the commander of this vessel?”

  “Commodore Jessum Hightower. My father.”

  “I see. Toutes mes condoléances.” Anyone who traveled the high seas would know the outcome of a shipwreck. He cleared his throat, the moment of compassion gone. “Miss, I should escort you to the naval offices. They will know best and have records of those ships arriving. Cape Horn, you say? The Montebello was in the South Atlantic, I believe. Or perhaps it was the Surveillante but I could be mistaken.” He scratched at his head, doubt playing on his expression. “Well, I must see you to someone who can confirm this.”

  “Oh, but I shouldn’t want to interrupt your breakfast,” Shelene said.

  He tapped the table and smiled. “It is I who interrupt yours. Should we meet at half past the hour? I will make arrangements for a carriage and advise my shipmates.”

  “Are you
sure I am not intruding?”

  “You wound me. It is my duty and honor to assist.” He bowed again and took his leave.

  “There,” Shelene said. “It was as simple as asking, Martina. And thank you, Joaquin.”

  The young boy smiled and returned to indiscriminately eating the food on the table.

  “Your mother, God rest her soul, would have a different opinion, I’m afraid.” Martina made a little sign of the cross over her lips then kissed her fisted hand. Shelene knew there was a cross clutched between her fingers much of the time.

  Martina was her mother’s choice for Shelene as a lady’s maid and duenna. Mama was extremely traditional and pious, which led to some private struggle between mother and daughter. If possible, Martina was even more of a prudish scold, but Shelene took it all in stride. After all, she was an obedient daughter who honored her parents while they were yet alive. She was now of an age. Decisions could be made without consulting the local archbishop.

  “Martina, it is time I do something with my life. You’ve watched over me better than any mother her child, but I’m a grown woman. And I have my own destiny to fulfill.” What that destiny was, she didn’t know. Perhaps there was more freedom for her in England than in Spain, but there were the family horses and the vineyards and all the people that had relied on the Belgrano’s for decades.

  Now they would rely on the Hightowers. She could take her place in the long, illustrious and industrious family line, famous and infamous, as some of her ancestors and relatives were. And she could return to her craft, that of making stain glassed windows and other beautiful art.

  She could admit that home called to her, even if that calling involved her and Roman raising a family as she had been raised. She sighed at the vague vision. That’s all it was—an impossible dream.

  But the reality was she needed heirs—sons and daughters who would love and inherit the land.

  “Hmpf. You should marry a fine young man and have children as God intended.”

  Had Martina just read her mind? She steeled her expression. “If He intended such, should not this paragon have appeared by now?” Shelene feared he had appeared, and she’d denied him.

  “A husband should be dealing with these difficulties. Not you.”

  “I am not weak.”

  “I know, child, but who is there now to watch over you, but me?”

  Shelene knew the truth of Martina’s words, but there was her family in Spain. An aunt and an uncle, many cousins. There would be pressure to marry a local man of importance once she returned home. Was she prepared for that?

  England kept no family for her. Papa had been the last Hightower. Just as Shelene was. Though she was legally Shelene María Hightower Belgrano, in England she was Hightower, while in Spain her Belgrano heritage would not die either.

  But Spain was her future and a local Spanish man of importance seemed her destiny.

  As it turned out, Shelene’s day was fraught with delays and misinformation. Most of the problem stemmed from her stature as a single woman, but she wouldn’t succumb to despair. She wouldn’t think for one moment she couldn’t accomplish the same thing Roman would discover.

  At last, she located a commis militaire, who politely kissed her hand, holding it a bit longer than he should. “The Minister of Marine, Monsieur Jean-Baptiste, will be available to see you in two weeks, Miss Hightower.”

  “Two weeks? That is unacceptable.”

  “Nevertheless…”

  “I only need to speak with the captain of the vessel who reported the sinking of the Royal Navy vessel, the Victorious. Why is that so difficult?” She knew her voice pitched in anger. In frustration.

  “Miss, you have neither the captain’s name nor his vessel. You need only peer through this window,” he waved his hand, “to see the vast number of ships which enter the harbor every day. Your pardon, Miss Hightower, but you will need to wait until an official of our government can meet with you.”

  “I will return tomorrow at this time, and the day after that, and the day after that, until Monsieur Jean-Baptiste is here to meet with me. It is a matter of life and death.”

  “A sunken ship cannot be unsunk,” he said with an air of superiority. Or condescension, she wasn’t certain.

  “That is cruel and heartless, sir,” she said.

  He nodded, acknowledging his mistake. “I meant no offense, but it is the truth, Miss Hightower. Now, will we see you in two weeks?”

  “No, you will see me tomorrow.”

  Shelene left the office, the door shutting hard behind her, and true to her word, returned every day.

  Until the day she braved the journey from the inn to the naval yards to find Roman Forrester outside the office, waiting for her. She peered at him from the oval carriage window but did not answer his enigmatic smile.

  Ominous clouds had formed overhead, and a clap of thunder sounded as the carriage stopped. She clutched her parasol.

  The hackney coachman jumped from his seat to assist her, but Roman used his not inconsiderable presence to intimidate the man.

  “Miss Hightower,” Roman said, as he reached for her.

  “Sir.”

  She held out her gloved hand and he assisted her until she stood on the cobbled street, rough with use and age, and damp from an overnight rainstorm. Martina and her son joined them.

  “Imagine my surprise when I arrived at the Hightower townhouse to find the daughter of the house had thrown caution to the wind, departed for ports unknown, without a proper escort, when I was clear that I would keep her informed about my progress.”

  Shelene tilted her head and looked at him from beneath a stylish straw bonnet she’d enhanced with silk flowers, trying to impress someone in the marine office. It would work just as well on Roman.

  “Brest was on my way home. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She attempted to step around him, but he gripped her arm lightly and gave her a rakish smile.

  “Shelene, you are being foolish,” he said in a low voice.

  “I have an appointment, sir. Stand aside.” She used her parasol and tapped at his chest, as if she would push away from him.

  “If I understood the clerk inside, your appointment isn’t for several days, until Monsieur Jean-Baptiste returns to France.”

  “And what if it is? Is that any of your business?”

  “The answer is not with Jean-Baptiste.”

  “You are delighted to tell me thusly, are you not?”

  “Not delighted exactly. Content, certainly.”

  When Roman smiled, he could nearly slay the onlookers around him. She’d steeled her emotions, but she was still vulnerable to his charm. Another rumble of thunder caused the group to look skyward, alert to the drenching rain that seemed imminent. The crowds on the dock seemed not to notice.

  “Fine. Then I will travel the length of the docks and stop at every ship to ask for information.”

  “Will you?”

  “Yes.”

  He leaned close and whispered, “Not if I tie you to your bed and lock you in your room.”

  She gasped.

  His statement was scandalous on the surface. They had never been intimate. She had never been with a man, and there were times when she thought she would die a virgin spinster. Not that Roman hadn’t tried to entice her. And not that she hadn’t been tempted.

  He was the worst sort of temptation to a single woman. Maybe married ones too. She didn’t want to know.

  She would not think of it further. A deep breath did not soothe her ire. “I wish to know for certain, Roman. He is my father. I have no one but him.”

  “Do you no longer trust me?” He had a way of cajoling. Of moving a bit too close. She supposed he had to use several techniques to obtain the information he needed for the Crown, from those unwilling and uncooperative. She just didn’t want to be interrogated. Or manipulated.

  “I don’t know you anymore, Roman. I’m sure time has changed us both.”

  “And I’m afraid time
has changed neither of us.”

  “What do you mean?” She faced him, so in his element amongst the military set where he spent much of his time. He bore himself with such confidence. It was no wonder he could influence those around him.

  “Walk with me, Shelene. My carriage is around the corner.”

  “But—”

  “I will take you with me to visit the proper authority,” he assured, “but we need to talk, and the Brest docks are not the place to do so.”

  Roman took her hand and placed it on his jacket sleeve, his arm solid beneath. He walked slowly, allowing Shelene’s chaperones to fall in behind them.

  “Did I misunderstand? I thought you would be in London for several weeks yet,” Roman asked. Just like him to start at the beginning.

  “I changed my mind.”

  “Which you are allowed to do, but would it not have been better to wait?”

  “Until you came to the rescue?” she asked.

  “Do you need rescuing?”

  “Of course not,” she said in a huff. “I need my father. It’s a simple as that.”

  “Nothing between us has ever been simple.”

  “You think this is about us? You are wrong. When a woman is told her only surviving parent is likely gone, swallowed by the sea, that woman is compelled to know the truth. And, by God’s grace, I will.”

  They rounded the corner, putting the docks and the noise behind them. At his carriage, Roman stopped and braced his hand against the door latch. He gazed at her, a half-smile on his face. “Shelene, I know this isn’t the time or the place, but we need to resolve this matter between us. Once and for all. But I beg you, let me find out what happened first. Such a distraction allows neither of us to think clearly.”

  The weather took that moment to break overhead, and a few raindrops descended, wetting their hats and shoulders. Roman opened the carriage door, hoisted her by the waist and stuffed her inside before helping Martina. He waved the boy inside too.

  The rain came down, drenching everything, and causing a round of chatter and welcome laughter inside the carriage. The driver cracked his whip, and the horses were off.