Love Me Once (The Infamous Forresters Book 3)

by Eliza Lloyd

  Then she broke apart, hard contractions of her sheath around his erection. Strong then diminishing into sweet, achy pulses. She gasped at the end, boneless, liquid, tired.

  His weight bore her deep into the mattress. Tension filled his body, arching over her.

  Laboring a bit longer, he pushed into her and groaned out his final pleasure. This part she did not know, and she watched with keen interest.

  His breath, hot against her neck, tickled with intimacy.

  She rubbed his back, enjoying the hard feel of his muscles and the sultry dampness of his skin. His body belonged to her now. And his soul.

  When he lifted his head, he smiled into her eyes. “My wife,” he said.

  “Forever,” Shelene said.

  Chapter Six

  Addictions and obsessions could get a man killed.

  Roman knew that but pounding into Shelene for the third time in one night was a compulsion he might not be able to stop anytime soon. He’d forced his behavior to extremes working for the Crown while he kept Shelene on a throne of wholesomeness and gentlemanliness. To have her now… Well, he never meant to bring her down to his level.

  Talk wasn’t necessary. She communicated with her hands and mouth and the power of her gaze. He gave in, no longer bothering to fight his base instincts.

  He wondered again about the steel in her spine. Roman had always known Shelene loved him, but her thoughts weren’t focused on today. She’d planned for more than a roll in the hay, as it were. She wanted more. She wanted all of him and all that he could bring to a marriage, to her, to their children and to a prosperous and glowing future.

  Was that the difference? Roman could envision all those things, but he brought truth, the ugly truth about life and how happenstance and scheming could change things in an instance.

  When he heaved his final release, he rolled from her, pulling the covers over them in the process. Shelene was already asleep, her lips slightly parted and her dark lashes sweeping her cheeks.

  They were going to have beautiful children.

  Roman swore before pushing up from the bed and disentangling himself. Wasn’t that the whole point of abstinence? So that they could spend time together without the additional burden of a pregnancy. While traveling. While on this last assignment for Bathurst.

  He strolled toward the small window to see the dawn was making its first blueish-yellow appearance across the horizon.

  Soon, he’d have to leave his wife alone while he answered the summons from yesterday.

  Infinite peril was how he described the upcoming voyage. The private note he’d gotten earlier couldn’t be ignored either.

  He glanced toward the bed, Shelene a mere lump in the midst of the mussed blankets and pillows. It wasn’t just love that kept people together, but some combination of love, trust and respect.

  Trust was the one thing lacking, and she was right to suspect his motives for marrying.

  One of his finely honed instincts had told him it was now or never with Shelene. With the death of her parents, she would have to act to protect the estates and her name. Any unscrupulous caballero would seize upon her vulnerable state just to get to her wealth. Was that his reasoning? That he was protecting her fortune?

  He needed to find Jamichele, one of his trusted French contacts and the sender of last night’s note. And the earlier the better. He’d need to scout the area around the meeting point in order to avoid any potential surprises. Jamichele was reliable, but Roman’s suspicious nature was as good as any weapon.

  Washing and dressing quickly, he slipped into his clothes, threw on a jacket and buttoned up. His loaded dueling flintlock was tucked into his waistband at the back of his trousers and a sharp knife nested in a sheaf in his right boot—a faca, the knife the Spanish liked to carry to a gunfight.

  With one backward glance at Shelene, he hurried from the room and down the stairs. The inn hostess was busy kneading the breakfast bread but had croissants and hot milk waiting. He requested some black coffee instead, to wake his abused body. He slathered some fresh butter on a single croissant and downed it in two bites. He could eat fully upon his return to the inn. The coffee was bitter but served its purpose.

  Roman peered up the stairs leading to their room. There would come a day when he would not have to sneak out before dawn to answer some imperative call, important to Crown and country. He’d never uttered those definitive words to Bathurst before, that this was his last time putting his life in danger. Once Belgrano was safely returned to a Spanish prison, Roman was done. The last time he would answer to anyone but his head and his heart. The last time Shelene would be put in a position to doubt him.

  He was early, so walked slowly and with a light foot, diminishing the echoing click of his boots against the pavers. At each alleyway, he ducked in to listen and confirmed he was not being followed. After the fifth such secretive watch, he relaxed a bit. Surely Jamichele was just as careful.

  He drew near the meeting spot.

  Something caused him to stop in midstride, as if he could sense a dangerous predator about to strike. A smell? A grunt of pain?

  Yes, blood. The rich smell of iron and fear. Maybe death.

  He heard the groan again, and then, the hurried steps of someone running, the echo receding from whatever mischief was afoot.

  Roman moved stealthily, pressed against the wall of a storied house, its inhabitants still soundly sleeping. He reached behind and pulled out the gun, holding it against his leg so that it wouldn’t be easily seen. He cocked the weapon with a gentle pull.

  “Jamichele?” he whispered. His eyes had adapted to the pre-dawn light—the sky turning on the far horizon but blackness still pervading the closed streets and its hidden alleys. He scanned the square where they were to meet. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as if the danger were still present. The fountain in the middle of the square was quiet, but there was a plink, plink of water dashing against a stone.

  Too late, he realized he’d been caught.

  Heat, like a thousand flames, went through his side. He turned toward his attacker only to feel a second jab that drove the knife even deeper. The attacker whispered, “With compliments from La Vibora.”

  Pietro. A quick glance confirmed his suspicion.

  Roman grunted, then braced one hand against the brick wall. He drove his other arm back, his elbow connecting solidly in the side of his assailant. A loud grunt, a whoof of breath against Roman’s cheek then a sharp thud against his forehead. His knees gave way. The gun discharged with a loud bang, the recoil stinging his hand, the ricochet pinging away.

  When his shoulder connected with the hard street stones, he felt the jarring pain in every limb and his gaze narrowed into a hazy, black tunnel. The stone was cool and wet against his cheek. The movement above him was shadowy and indistinct—a man though.

  The pain stopped, which Roman knew was a bad sign. Maybe he had no more fight in him. Maybe this would be his last. But it couldn’t be, could it? Now that he’d finally found her.

  Blood, or maybe sweat, trickled from his forehead and down the side of his face. The sound of his heart tripped hard to the exclusion of any other sound and that, too, slowly faded to nothingness.

  * * * * *

  “Mi’lord?” Joaquin shook Roman awake, his eyes opening with the grit of a thousand sandstorms.

  “Joaquin.” His voice croaked. “I’m still alive.” He touched his side, remembering why he was still in pain and not ensconced in a comfortable bed with his wife. And were it not for said wife, he might wish he were dead.

  “The mistress is insane, mi’lord. Her worry is like the vast ocean.”

  “You didn’t tell her, did you?”

  “You told me not to, so I didn’t. But she saw that I was leaving the inn and she demanded to know where I was going. I lied to her, mi’lord. I’ve never lied to her before. She will kill me, and I will end up in hell.”

  “Help me up.”

  Joaquin took Roman’s arm
and slipped his other hand to Roman’s back. “Are you sure you should sit up? The doctor might want you to sleep more. You should be dead, he said. If you die, you will kill my mistress and then what will I do?”

  Roman grunted, then closed his eyes for a bit to stop the world from spinning. “Joaquin?” he said, his teeth gritted.

  “Mi’lord?”

  “Please stop talking.” He took a deep breath and dared to open his eyes a second time. “Did you bring my clothes?”

  “Oh, sí. All that you asked for,” Joaquin said, pointing to the valise he’d dropped on the floor.

  Roman nodded. It had been three days since he’d been stabbed. This wasn’t the first time he experienced such a gruesome injury. He hoped it would be the last, because one of these days such an injury would kill him.

  Since he’d opened his eyes, jostled by the men who had carried him to safety, only one thing had tormented him: Shelene.

  He had promised so much.

  Shelene would not forgive him for what he was about to do. But such were the decisions he had to make every day, and this one might be the most important of his life.

  Protecting her was all that mattered. Somehow, he’d convinced himself that his vocation, now in its final throes, had become less dangerous. How wrong he was.

  He reached for the two letters. “Take these. Deliver them directly and wait for a response. Come back here as soon as you can.”

  Now that Jamichele was dead, he had to reach out to other confidants to aid him. It would be weeks before he’d regain his full strength. He needed help until then.

  “Joaquin, will your mother be able to manage without you? For several months?”

  He laughed. “My mother? Mi’lord, I am the youngest of six boys. She does not need me. She only wants to make sure I avoid sin with pretty women.” He lowered his voice. “Or bonita putas.”

  “That’s not a bad thing, boy. When you return, I have a proposal for you. One your mother may find objectionable.”

  “But not your lady?”

  “Go.”

  Shelene would object most of all.

  Joaquin grabbed the letters and disappeared from Roman’s room. The door slammed behind him.

  Roman braced his hands against the mattress, wincing at the pain of his wound and the overall abuse his body had taken. He had to see Shelene today. Of course, he had sent her a note the moment he’d opened his eyes, but he had not seen her nor had he told her what had happened, only that he had been unavoidably detained—a common way to say something without it being an actual lie.

  Shelene was uppermost on his mind, causing worry and self-recrimination. He was reminded of all those reasons why they had spent so many years apart. Marriage was a special kind of trap. His reason fought with his emotion. In their case, luck or fate or whatever one wanted to call it, had been cruel, not uniting them but forever dividing them. The stars that would not align. Shadow instead of light.

  Yet he knew he would never love another woman as he loved Shelene. As he loved his wife.

  With the notes Joaquin delivered, Roman’s plan had been set into motion. He wobbled his way to the table where a late breakfast waited for him. Even though his hunger burned a hole in his gut, after a few bites, he had to lay aside his fork. Sitting caused a dull ache. Leaning back sent stabbing pains. Standing sent stabbing pains. Bloody hell.

  His ship was leaving for Argentina in four days. Shelene’s was leaving in the morning. No matter how she would hate him for it.

  A normal man would just walk away from the past. He’d given enough to England.

  A normal man would never have won Shelene’s heart.

  Once his crew arrived and agreed to his proposal, they departed to the inn where Shelene stayed. Roman took the lead since he strolled at the slowest pace. Dewey, a wiry Welshman, and Rousseau, Roman’s oldest friend in France, were the only men he would trust with Shelene’s life, and the handiest given the circumstances.

  “Do you understand what you must do?” Roman asked.

  “Oh, aye,” Dewey said.

  “You’ll have to be stronger than my wife. I expect a right proper battle of wills,” Roman said.

  “Are you sure this is the wisest course of action, friend? Few women want to be jilted so soon after their nuptials,” Rousseau added.

  “Jilting is a fairly harsh word. I’ll explain and she will understand,” Roman said, experiencing the burn of betrayal before it even happened.

  Rousseau laughed; Dewey shrugged.

  “I hope you are happy in your ignorance,” Rousseau said, imparting his French wisdom.

  “He’s only been marrit two weeks,” Dewey added thoughtfully. “But he’ll learn over time.”

  His friends might laugh, but Roman knew Shelene. Time might be the one thing he didn’t have. He’d been vague in his first note, but Shelene’s depth of perception was unmatched, even by his own mother.

  He wanted to believe he could anticipate her reaction, but he’d put Shelene through hell, loving him as she did. He was prepared for the worst. There would be a day he would make it up to her. And then some.

  A carriage waited while a servant loaded trunks, but there was no sign of Shelene or her lady’s maid. He turned to the men. “I will meet you at the dock. Not you,” he said to Joaquin.

  Roman didn’t have to take the steps to their chamber; Shelene stood in the great room, alone and pacing in front of the well-used hearth. Wafting scents of breakfast bacon and ham still permeated the air. He could not see her face, silhouetted as she was in front of the fire.

  Joaquin came barreling in behind him, knocking into Roman’s side. Roman gritted his teeth, ready to slap the back of Joaquin’s head. He bumbled a “Sorry, mi’lord,” and then grabbed his hat.

  The commotion roused her from her thoughts. When she saw Roman, she stopped in her tracks then slowly lifted her face to him. She did not run into his arms, as most women might. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, ready for battle.

  She wore her hair down with knots and weaves, hanging over one shoulder, a very English style. She’d never looked more beautiful. And she wore her wedding ring. Shelene hadn’t come to battle empty-handed.

  He hated himself for what he was about to do. Like yanking a tender flower shoot from its protected patch, left to wither on the cobble. She’d put her trust in him because he’d made promises.

  Promises he was now all too happy to break in order to protect her.

  He jerked his head to the left, ordering Joaquin away. Strolling toward her, he tried to find the words that would soften the blow.

  Tears already leaked from one of her eyes, trailing over her cheek and disappearing into the demure fichu she wore.

  “Shelene,” he said. His voice broke. “Shelene,” he said again, this time reaching a hand toward her. When she did not reach for him, he slowly lowered his arm, holding it protectively against his side. He took a deep breath, as much to strengthen his resolve as to steady the swirling unwellness caused by his injury. “You are my wife, Shelene. Forever.”

  Her rigid stillness unsettled him. Was this how she steeled herself against all life’s hardships?

  “But I have made an error in thinking my life was my own. That my past would bring no difficulties to our marriage,” he said.

  “You gave your word,” she said. Another gush of tears flowed, but she remained unbent. “Your solemn vow.”

  “Please let me explain.”

  “No. There is nothing to say.”

  “Of course there is! I’ve been gone for three days. Can I at least tell you why?”

  She laughed, then wiped at her eyes. Her hand shook. “You think I don’t know? I know you better than you know yourself, Roman. Some great catastrophe requires you to dutifully run to your master. Well, you’ve always said you loved her. Why was I so foolish to think you had changed?”

  “I have changed. And this is different. I am doing this to protect you.”

  “Sending
me to Spain is protecting me? It seems as if you are running away from me.”

  He debated the wisdom of telling her the full truth, but it was the only way she would understand his motivation.

  “Your uncle has escaped.” He waited for her reaction, but there was none. “One of his operatives killed one of my men three days ago. It is best if we are not together until I can resolve the matter. He holds me responsible, amada.”

  “So, chasing that mad hatter across Europe will be your life’s work? He would never harm me.”

  “He is insane, Shelene. He is angry and he is crazed. He’s also very powerful with far-reaching influence. I don’t think he would spare a moment’s thought to hurting you if he knew we were married. I have hired two men to escort you home. And you will not argue with me about it.”

  “Joaquin can see me home.”

  “He’s going with me. Home Office believes Belgrano fled to South America, and I will need a second while I’m there.”

  “He’s a boy.”

  “Who will never grow up wrapped in his mother’s skirts.”

  “So, it was all a ruse, looking for Papa and Oliver?”

  “You know that’s not true.”

  He’d eased closer and was able to reach her, pulling her into his arms. She resisted, braced her arms against his chest and attempted to wiggle free. He gripped her wrists. Aside from the fire in her gaze, her feelings were now hidden by a mask of apathy, accepting that he would betray her and trying her damnedest to feel nothing.

  “Don’t! Listen to me. Please. I am going to find out what happened. I am also going to do what I can to prevent Belgrano from hurting anyone else. To do that, I need you to be safe. At home, with your friends and family. It is my obligation to you as a man and as your husband.”

  “Don’t confuse me with England.”

  “He’s dangerous. Your safety is my highest concern.”

  “Your duty is to me. Only me. My uncle can rot in hell. You made a vow on our wedding day. Two weeks ago. Am I so inconsequential that now your vow can so easily be broken?”