Love Me Once (The Infamous Forresters Book 3)

by Eliza Lloyd

  He took a short breath and stared her in the eye. He rubbed the back of his hand along her jaw and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “No. Not inconsequential. You are the most important person in my life. You always have been. Especially when I am farthest from you.”

  “And how long must I wait this time? Until I hear you have died in your quest? Until I am too old to have children? Until there is no love left? I am tired, Roman. I am tired of waiting. I am tired of chasing after you.”

  “You’ve never chased after me. It might have been easier if you had.” He gave her a tight smile, but it was enough.

  She stopped struggling. He cupped her face, then slid his fingers through her hair. “That will never happen to us. We will be together. I know it is painful now. I know, and I’m sorry.”

  “Send someone else. It doesn’t have to be you,” she pled, clutching his jacket lapels and causing pain at his wound.

  “If it were anyone else, I wouldn’t have to go. But it is our family whom I now serve, not the Crown. Your father. My brother. Your uncle. Please understand. And please forgive me for breaking my word.”

  “Then let me go with you. I promise I will not be in your way. Nothing will happen to me. We’ll be together as we should be. There will be no danger. We can discover the truth of Papa’s last voyage. My uncle won’t even know we are there or that you are searching for him.”

  “No, Shelene.”

  She laughed, a struggling, choking sound that might have held a hint of mockery and much anger, then straightened her shoulders again. “I can’t do it, Roman. I won’t. I will request an annulment when I arrive in Spain. You will have no more obligation to me and what family I have left.”

  Her words stung, but he’d expected her outrage.

  “You don’t mean it. And you have no grounds for such an absurdity. You might have if you hadn’t seduced me so thoroughly.” He would have smiled and winked at her under normal circumstances. He kept a serious expression.

  She raised her chin. Tears pooled in her eyes, but they did not fall. “I mean every word. I will go, if that is your wish, but this is the last time you will see me.”

  “If you think I will agree to an annulment, you are mistaken. Besides, the church would never agree.”

  “In England, maybe not. In Spain? Money buys anything.” She shrugged, entwined her fingers and glanced down. Tears rolled from her eyes then. “Is it not time for me to embark upon my journey?”

  He reached for her, but she stepped away, giving him her shoulder. Roman tried to soothe her. “I have loved you from the first moment I saw you, Shelene, standing on the veranda. Then riding that wild sorrel over the hills near your home. Hair blowing in the wind. Too much sun upon your cheeks and nose. And the way you looked at me? You stole my heart. Please, my love, let me comfort you before we must part.”

  “It’s not love, Roman. It is heartache. It is half a life, living without you. I’d convinced myself to believe the lie. That somehow you’d changed, in spite of all the proofs otherwise. How I wanted to believe.”

  “I am coming back to you.”

  Footfalls sounded down the stairwell. Joaquin stumbled into the room, followed closely by his mother. She bobbed a quick curtsy. “Mi’lord. You are well? Shelene worried for you.”

  “I know. It couldn’t be helped.” He turned to Joaquin. “Is everything ready, as I instructed?”

  “Sí,” Joaquin said.

  “Well, good then.” Roman glanced toward Shelene, who stood stock still, staring into the low-burning fire.

  “You are not to worry.” Martina patted his arm, then whispered, “It is the right thing you do. I will take care of her, and Joaquin will take care of you, but you must promise to bring him home. He is my youngest, and the most foolish.”

  “You have my word.”

  Martina hurried to Shelene, carrying a bonnet and shawl for her mistress. Roman watched as Shelene’s lady’s maid tutted and whispered some comforting words while she tied the bonnet with a perfect bow. There were more tears now, but Shelene did not look to him for comfort.

  And might never again.

  “Come, Shelene. The carriage is ready to depart,” he said.

  She gripped a handful of her skirt and swept past him. Joaquin held her hand as she entered the carriage. She stared out the window, unwilling to speak to Roman. He wasn’t interested in continuing their argument in front of Martina and Joaquin, but he watched her, while trying to recapture the moments of their unutterable happiness the past few weeks. His, at least.

  Was his concept of duty more important than Shelene’s? He thought not, but a dark cloud would hang over his life if he did not see this through.

  Hightower and Oliver may well be dead, lost to the stygian depths of the ocean, but what if they weren’t? What if they needed help and he was the only one willing and able to provide it? And what if he could save untold hundreds from dying by ending Belgrano’s terror?

  He was not such a big believer in serendipity or fate on most days. A man made his own fate by acting in the most honorable way, whenever possible. By saying yes when the door of opportunity was in front of him. While it was painful for Shelene, it would also have been selfish of him to stay with her and ignore what must be done.

  Dewey and Rousseau were waiting at the docks, near the vessel taking Roman’s important cargo to Cadiz, and were there to open the carriage door. The docks bustled with travelers and militiamen, merchants and hoodlums—all about their business. The hum of agitated humanity caused Roman some worry, and he glanced about. He would normally approach the docks with caution, but having two of his trusted confidants with him, he was assured of safety.

  Roman jumped to the street, a spasm of pain shot through him. He hid his grimace and reached back for Shelene. He would have set his hands to her waist, but his affection was unwelcome, at the moment. He refused to believe forever. They had overcome worse.

  She briefly touched his hand, without looking at him, as she departed the carriage, then proceeded up the gangplank, Martina at her side. Joaquin followed with their trunks.

  Roman handed over several bank notes and a few gold coins along with a letter for Shelene. Rosseau stuffed it all in a leather pouch. “Give that letter to Shelene, but only if something happens to me.”

  “Aw, nuthin’ will happen, mate,” Dewey said. “There and back, quick as a wink.”

  Roman could not smile at Dewey’s enthusiasm. Just as with the Victorious, things could go wrong and often did.

  “And this.” Roman handed over another envelope. “Deliver this personally to my solicitor in Cadiz.” He had long retained Mr. Fisk’s services, since he first knew that Shelene would someday be his wife. Years ago. And since he needed someone to manage his affairs in Spain while Roman traveled, Fisk was his man.

  Years that seemed wasted by his pig-headed desire for intrigue and danger serving the Crown.

  “Rousseau. Dewey. If you foresee any danger for Shelene, you have my permission to haul her to London to my brother, Adam, at Long Leaf. Any danger.”

  “I’m thinking she won’t like that one bit,” Dewey said.

  “Neither will her family. But do what must be done to see to her welfare. Hire extra men if necessary. Employ them as groomsmen, gardeners. Ultimately, my word is law, even in Spain.”

  “You’re thinking Belgrano will return?” Rousseau asked.

  “He is the only true threat.”

  “Aye, that he is.”

  They disappeared into a nearby tavern, only to return with a jug of ale and cups, distracting Roman with a few tales of service and a few whispers of Napoleon’s exile at Longwood House. When the jug was empty, they too boarded, clomping up the worn wooden plank.

  Joaquin made a final sprint up the gangplank and kissed his mother’s cheek, lifting her from the deckboards with a final hug and receiving some last-minute admonition.

  Shelene did not reappear, either to say goodbye or press one final warm kiss to
his lips.

  Ah, she was an iron lady, his wife. If she wanted to see him, she would be on the docks, wishing him safe travels and bestowing upon him the luck of the sea. She was not.

  He would not begrudge her anger, for he had broken his word in the heat of passion and the consuming fire of loss. Losing Oliver and the commodore had cast a large shadow, making Shelene even more important. In this, he had Dewey’s enthusiasm. Shelene was his and always would be. He would no longer take her for granted, though. He would not take the risks that had imperiled him before. The throbbing wound on his side was a reminder of the dangers. Sickness stirred in his stomach at the thought of endangering Shelene.

  He would return. To the green grass and golden hills of Spain. To the horses and waters. The gardens. And her smiles.

  Roman waited on the wharf, several long minutes, before the creak of wood and the shouts of men signaled the ship was moving away from the docks.

  Then he caught a glimpse of her, just there at the below-deck door, a kerchief dabbing at her eyes. He lifted his hand to acknowledge her, content that she was sailing to safety and peace.

  Wind caught the hoisted sail, causing it to wave then billow. The seamen had their own language as orders were shouted across the deck. The ship moaned, seagulls flapped away from the moving ship and the water crashed against the barnacle-covered hull.

  Shelene disappeared inside.

  Roman pulled in a deep lungful of air and faced his new comrade in arms.

  Joaquin had turned way and blew his nose against a dirty rag. “I might never see her again,” he said.

  “Ah, boy, every man says that once in his life about his mother.” Roman clapped Joaquin’s back in encouragement.

  “It’ll happen, mi’lord. Well before I want it to. That’s sure.”

  “We leave in four days. Can you keep your wits about you until then?”

  “I was a thinkin’, maybe I could visit me a whore before we set sail.”

  “Been thinking about that for a while, have you?” Roman asked.

  “Long enough.”

  “What would your mother say? You sinning as soon as she disappears over the horizon?”

  “She won’t know.”

  “Aye, she’ll know, and who do you think she’s going to blame?”

  “She won’t know, because I won’t tell her.”

  “Ever been with a whore before?” Roman asked, already knowing the answer.

  At that, Joaquin’s face flamed red. “No.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and toed at a cobblestone.

  “I will give you this advice, Joaquin. Brest is not the place to take a whore, unless you want to die young and very horribly from some unspeakable disease that will rot your prick. Better to find you a girl you want to be with and marry her.”

  “But no good woman will bed down with me.”

  “She will if you are going to marry her. Let’s be on our way.” What did Roman know? He’d never been able to convince Shelene that she should let him have his way.

  “You don’t want to see the ship out of the bay?”

  “It is sealed in my memory, lad.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Oh, child. This is a very unwise course.”

  Shelene was happy to be home, but her aunt was determined to stop her from acting imprudently. After all, where else could she get such personal criticism about every aspect of her life? Her aunt meant well. Spanish families were infamous for their determination to meddle.

  She forced a smile, because, when alone in London, she had craved this sort of intimacy. Her aunt, her cousins, the laborers, the horses, the land.

  The warm wind blew through the open double doors, the white curtains rustling and floating as the breeze danced with the sheer lace. The finches in the birdcages sang sweetly—another thing she’d missed while in London. The carnations were in full bloom, and the sweet scent wafted into the house. Spain was all things London was not: sun, warmth, cleanliness, family. And when it rained? Sweet petrichor. Shelene could find a book and a chair on the veranda and settle for the day. Rain in Spain compared to London was the difference between good and evil.

  “Tía Ana-María, I am no longer a child.” Shelene sipped at her hibiscus tea but peered at her aunt over the golden rim of her cup. “Nevertheless, I will pursue an annulment, as I’ve said. My husband has abandoned me.” She hadn’t lost one word of her Spanish in the last two years. Both Mama and Martina always spoke to her in their native tongue when in private.

  “Shame, my dear. Shame. You should not mention such a thing outside this room.” She tchicked her tongue. “No woman in Spain would do such a thing. Think of the scandal.”

  “What else am I to do? I am without a husband. Am I to be bound to nothing?” Shelene asked.

  “I could advise you best if you would but share the whole truth.”

  What was the truth? That fate had always been unkind to her and Roman? Love wasn’t enough. If it were, they would have been together years ago.

  Aside from the joy of being home, she’d been numb and alone since she’d sailed away from Roman. Her mind raced with no clear plan; no reasonable course except the thing she’d blurted in anger.

  “I will speak with Father Etienne next week.”

  “He will tell you to say a rosary and resist the evil one.” Tía Ana-María waved her hand. “There is no rush. You’ve only just returned, my dear. If your mother or father were alive, they would advise you to take care. In fact, they would advise you to be an obedient wife and patiently wait your husband’s return.”

  “I have been the obedient daughter. I have been the obedient Spanish woman. I am not and will never be the obedient Spanish wife, because I don’t have a husband.”

  “I know you are hurt.”

  “Tía, Roman and I have always been swept away by our emotions. We married without thinking it through, without acknowledging the hurdles that would face us.”

  “That matters not. You took a vow. And recently.”

  “I can think, and do, for myself. I will do what is right.”

  “Young Spanish brides are held to a higher standard.”

  Shelene laughed lightly. “My dear tía, Spanish brides are held hostage.”

  Tía Ana-María clucked at the offense, her brows raising in alarm. “You’ve been away too long.”

  Yet it felt like a lifetime ago when she was last in Spain. Could two years bring about such change?

  No. If she was honest with herself, all the change had happened in the last month.

  Since the moment she’d first met Roman, she’d never looked at another man. This betrayal was like all the others, except she’d been foolish enough to believe him this time. Her anger would eventually melt away. Would she ever think of anyone else? Probably not. Only death would relieve her of this singular, forceful emotion and even then, she wasn’t sure the weight of it wouldn’t follow her soul to its eternal rest.

  Father Etienne was fond of pontificating on eternal peace. Her passion for Roman would transcend time and death, she feared. There would be no peace, only an eternity of longing.

  Enough! She sipped at her tea, then breathed in the fresh Andalucían air. This had always been enough. It would be enough again.

  Martina had endured Shelene’s tears for the days it had taken to sail home, but Shelene dried them as she stepped from the dock and had even smiled as she’d ridden horseback the last miles to home.

  Shelene had not had to invite her aunt. Gossip had reached her before a note from Shelene, telling the family she was home. Her aunt lived at Las Colinas during the winter but during the summer she was much the nomad, traveling to see her friends and the extended family.

  Ana-María leaned toward Shelene. “And these men? Why are they here?” she whispered. “It is not right. They are not family.” Mr. Dewey and Mr. Rousseau, though a bit rough around the edges, had secured every little thing Shelene had desired. She shouldn’t be surprised Roman inspired such devotion.

>   “They are my hired men. They will work here on the hacienda.” There was no reason to tell her family why they were here. She wondered if some of them already knew that her uncle was free again. Aside from the first day here, Dewey and Rousseau had blended into the family’s affairs as any hired help might. But they stood out to her aunt, which reminded Shelene to be careful.

  Her aunt clicked her tongue again. “I wanted your wedding to be a grand affair, when it happened. With candles, musicians, tables of food and beautiful gowns. So did your mother. And now I have missed it entirely.”

  “I’m sorry. It was a simple ceremony,” she said with a sigh, not wanting to talk about it anymore. “Let’s finish our tea then walk in the gardens. My feet have longed to stroll the paths of home.”

  “What? Not the stables? I thought you would have already been down to see Cortes. He’s done a lovely job with the new foals the last two years.”

  “That is good. The Hightower stables will become famous soon.” Shelene missed her horses. She missed the foaling, the training, the riding. All of it. She should have been happier to be home, but the dull pain in her heart, the brokenness, could not be repaired even with the beautiful Andalucíans of the Hightower stables.

  She had to practice that—everyone was used to saying the Belgrano stables. She would change the name, or would she have to change it to the Forrester stables? Ah, Roman wouldn’t care.

  “My dear, let Cortes and the stable hands take care of the horses. You are now the matriarch of the family. You must entertain. You are now the wife of an English lord. You must live up to your exalted state.”

  “It is an exalted state I will not have for long, Tía.”

  “Let us not talk of it now. You must recover from your journey and revive your spirit after the sadness of your parents’ passing. Promise me you will seriously ruminate over your future and do nothing imprudent.”

  Shelene poured another cup of tea.

  “I will pray that you are guided correctly. And for the safe return of the man I know you love,” her aunt said.