Love Me Once (The Infamous Forresters Book 3)

by Eliza Lloyd

  Roman’s reappearance was the rock in the well, disturbing the waters in untold ways. Tomorrow, he would find out how much he’d disrupted life at Las Colinas. He would have time to celebrate his son and reunite with Shelene, but like before, he had to address the danger Belgrano presented to anyone who threatened his existence.

  Of course, he could just kill the monster. A kingly pardon was a big issue, though. An English spy, a former English spy, could not easily kill a Spanish citizen without consequences for him or the English crown. Let alone how it would affect Shelene and her aunt. Commodore Hightower would spit on the body as he walked by. They’d had opportunities aplenty to discuss the man during their travel home.

  Someone poured wine. Mrs. Spencer sliced the hearty loaf, then poured some olive oil onto a few plates for dipping. There were cheeses and warm empanadas. A large crock of gazpacho sat in the middle of the table, and one of the house servants ladled that into bowls for each of them.

  “Your wife’s no fool, sir. Knowing what she knew and knowing why we’s here in the first place, she sent us away. Not that we or your missus were afraid of Belgrano. She thought it best he didn’t know we were your men,” Dewey added. “Rousseau, the clever bastard, says the estate next door is looking for laborers, so we came here, but were close enough to still keep an eye on things.”

  Rousseau laughed. “Belgrano was never the wiser.” He couldn’t fault their decisions. Belgrano’s arrival must have put everyone in an uncertain state.

  “Then word comes you be dead. And blamed if we weren’t flummoxed about what to do when Mrs. Forrester wants to marry that other bloke,” Dewey said.

  “We talked about killing them both. Belgrano and that Navarro fellow. Not your wife.”

  Oliver choked. When everyone glanced in his direction, his face was buried in a napkin. Roman thought Oliver was laughing. Roman picked up the bottle of wine and poured another round for everyone.

  “Considering the circumstances, I don’t think you could have done better. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.” Roman lifted his glass in a toast. Tomorrow would be soon enough to lift the new burdens and worries to his shoulders. “Thank you, friends, for doing your part.”

  “And to you, brother. To a new life,” Oliver said.

  * * * * *

  The walk from his home back to Las Colinas took about thirty minutes. Roman didn’t hurry. The sky was dark with no hint of the sun peeking over the horizon, only the stars lighted the way since the moon had also set. He wasn’t in the mood to hitch up the horse and carriage. An early morning walk would clear his mind.

  Sleep had been impossible, though his room and his untouched bed were both large and comfortable. Several times he told himself he wasn’t worried but knowing Shelene was sleeping under the same roof as her crazed uncle did not give him any peace.

  Worse, his son might be a tempting target for Belgrano if he had a mind to hurt Roman. He was certain Belgrano would not hurt Shelene as long as she cooperated with him. Force and fear were his primary weapons. Oh, and murder.

  Too many ifs. Too many pieces on the wrong side of the board.

  He arrived at the large house, the festivities completed, the candles doused. Roman slipped into the foyer through the unlocked front door. He removed his dirty boots and well-worn dusty jacket. The neckcloth he wore was loose, casual and a little damp. Nothing like the exquisite garb he tended to wear while in London.

  His son wouldn’t care what he wore.

  Roman crept up the staircase and walked along the interior balcony, assuming his son slept near his mother. The fountain still tinkled and there was a single candle on a table at one end of the atrium, which added a soulful ambience to the large, open area.

  He walked to Shelene’s door and then on to the next one, opening it slightly and listening. There was movement in the room and the sound of a cooing baby. My son! Our son! He’d always believed he and Shelene would have children. Many of them, he’d hoped.

  Another candle was lit and he saw the outline of his son’s nanny, rocking the baby. She gasped when she saw Roman. The chair stopped moving.

  He held out his hand, in a calming gesture and spoke quietly in Spanish, much improved over the past several months. “I am Señor Forrester. I am here to see my son.”

  “Señor, I should get Señora Forrester.”

  “That’s not necessary. She needs her sleep.”

  “But, señor, you shouldn’t be here.”

  He approached slowly. “You are Durra. Maymun’s wife?”

  “Sí, señor. How do you know?” She calmed with the casual conversation about family.

  “I remember most of Brahim and Sakina’s family. Maymun was Brahim’s oldest grandson. How could I forget? Is Antonio a healthy child?” The child was wrapped in a blanket, his face peeking from the covers. All Roman could really see was the beautiful round face and black hair. His eyes were partly open, but he did not look alert, as if he were about to go back to sleep.

  “Oh, sí. Señora Forrester treats him like the prince he is, and she’s entrusted me and my sister-in-law to care for him along with Mrs. Johns. He is a good baby.”

  “May I?” he asked, holding out his hands to take his child. My child, his heart shouted. What an amazing joy. How happy his mother would be that Roman had something in his life beside his work for the British Crown. He had not even told his mother that he had married, other than the letter he’d just sent to Adam. In a week or so, they would have some of the best news, though: Oliver’s safe return, his marriage.

  Durra handed over the baby, and Roman held him with as much delicacy as he could muster, what with his clumsy, brutal hands. He lifted him up, closer to his face. Antonio squirmed a bit and one fisted hand emerged from the blanket, which he pressed to his lips, sucking on the edge of his finger. How old was he now?

  Roman walked slowly toward the oil lamp on the table, allowing the light to shine on Antonio’s face. Roman smiled, an overwhelming rush of emotion ran through his veins, and he felt the start of tears. His son. Would he ever get used to saying that?

  “Oh, my beautiful boy,” Roman whispered.

  Durra touched Roman’s arm. “You can sit here. I will fetch a tray for you.”

  “Thank you,” Roman said without taking his gaze from his son’s face. When he heard the door shut, Roman seated himself in the too-small rocking chair and moved his son into the crook of his arm. Antonio smacked against his finger a few times then scrunched his face. Roman had a guess as to what was happening.

  He brushed his large, work-hardened finger over Antonio’s cheek. “I’m your papa. And I promise I will love you to the day I die. Whatever you need. Whatever I can give you.”

  Roman sensed he wasn’t alone—whether it was a brush of air, a scent or just a knowing upon which he’d built his life as a spy. He looked toward Shelene’s door to see her standing in the shadow. He pushed from the chair.

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “I heard we had a son. I came to see for myself.”

  She hurried to him and reached for Antonio, scooping him up with gentleness even though she was not so inclined with Roman.

  Roman breathed her in, the scent of gardenias, jasmine and roses. Not from the gardens, but her perfumes and oils and bath salts.

  “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

  She hmpfed. “Smell me.” She moved Antonio to her shoulder and rocked him while she patted his back.

  “It reminds me you are real.”

  “Why are you here? Did you even leave last night?”

  “Yes, of course, I did. But it was in the leaving, I found out about all that was really happening at Las Colinas. Things my wife should have told me.”

  “Your wife? In truth, I have never been your wife. My God, Roman, it is the middle of the night, and you want to have an argument?”

  “Me? The time of the day wouldn’t matter if we were arguing about the most treacherous man in Spain.”


  “He’s changed. And it is none of your business any longer.”

  “Is my son in any danger?”

  Roman thought he heard her swallow hard. “My uncle would never hurt my son, no matter who his father is.”

  “Is he here?”

  “Yes. He lives here. This is the Belgrano family home.” She went to the rocking chair, just as Durra returned with a tray, glancing from her mistress to the master. “It’s all right, Durra. Just set the tray on the table and return in about thirty minutes.” Antonio was snuggling against Shelene’s breast and she, with a great sigh, opened her robe to feed the babe.

  Roman turned away and walked to the table, lifting one of the pitchers. The smell of hot chocolate wafted upward from one small decanter, and there was another with tea. He took a seat and waited for Shelene, not meaning to embarrass her. He’d thought intercourse was the closest two people could be. He couldn’t have been more wrong. A mother with her child, feeding her child, was much more intimate. And he felt like the intruder Shelene thought he was.

  “He looks a lot like you,” she said quietly.

  “Poor thing.”

  He heard the briefest of snickers before she returned to her task. Those few consoling words the most she was going to offer in such circumstances. He sat at the table, pouring the chocolate and moving some of the small foods to a plate then downing several bites before he spoke.

  “Your father isn’t going to be too happy that your uncle is here.” While Hightower had never issued a decree that Belgrano was to stay away, out of respect for his wife, he’d been forceful in other ways which certainly had kept the peace at Las Colinas. Belgrano was criminal. Poison to every person he touched.

  Roman already knew that one of them would die before all was said and done. He had to make sure that Belgrano’s evil deeds did not touch Shelene or Antonio in the meantime.

  “He knows. I’ve already gotten the lecture. The words sounded like they came right from your mouth, though. My hope was that we would have a few days of peace before we had to stir the kitchen pot about Uncle Francisco.”

  “Hmm,” he said, not wanting to remind her of the bastard’s malevolent past. “Has our son been baptized?”

  Shelene fastened her robe up and lifted Antonio to her shoulder again, patting his back. “We have gone on with life,” she said. “He was christened Antonio María Forrester Hightower. Not much of a Spanish name, like mine, but I suppose he will want to visit his grandmother someday and I want him to be accepted in English society when that happens.”

  “Whether Hightower or Forrester, he will be hailed amongst the ton, beau monde and military alike.” He would still be known as Antonio Forrester, even in Spain, as the maternal family name was listed last. “I have no plans to live in England again. My home is here, with you and my son.”

  Shelene held Antonio tight and got to her feet, walking toward a raised bed where she placed him. She worked in the shadows, unknotting the cloth that wrapped his bottom. She worked quickly, removing the soiled garment, washing him with a damp cloth and knotting another piece around him.

  “I knew you would be a good mother.”

  “Good? I am swaddling my son. That is all.”

  “I am sorry, Shelene. I can grovel if you wish,” he said.

  Shelene patted Antonio then placed him in the crib, using her foot to rock it a few times. She didn’t look up. “I want the pain to end, Roman. And as long as you are here, I will never have peace.”

  “El amor es como el agua que no se seca.”

  “We no longer have forever. Our time is finished,” she said.

  “I know you don’t believe that.”

  “No, I do. My heart has no more room for you,” she said without emotion. “I accepted that you were gone. I willingly agreed to marry another man. I have a son who will require all my attention and devotion to raise to manhood. I have Las Colinas to pour all my effort into. There is no place for you.”

  “You say nothing of love.”

  “I no longer believe in love.”

  “Even for our son? Your father? My brother? Oliver wants to see you and Antonio very much.”

  “Don’t twist the meaning of my words. And of course I want to see Oliver before he returns to England.” At last, he had her interest. Oliver had been close to the Hightowers because of his relationship with the commodore. They knew each other well, but Oliver was in and out of port just like her father.

  “He’s not going home until the end of summer. He still needs to regain his strength.” Roman pulled out one of the chairs at the table, inviting her to sit. And she accepted. A good sign, he thought.

  “Where is he going to stay? Roman, he should stay here and not with some small hotelier who cannot take proper care of him.” She reached for the teapot and poured.

  “He’s staying with me. I hired a nurse for him before we left Argentina.”

  “But where? In Arco de la Frontera?”

  “No, at my home. What should be our home.”

  “In Cadiz? I don’t—”

  “Los Manantiales Azul.” He made a small gesture toward the more mountainous area to the west of Las Colinas.

  “Near Señor Bosque’s home?” She turned so that he could see the oil lamplight expose her expression.

  “Not near. At.”

  “Señor Bosque?” Shelene put her hands to her face. “Oh! There are days when I think I am clever and then there are days when I have to deal with you. Señor Forest.”

  “It was never meant to be a secret. My solicitor in Cadiz made all the arrangements. I’ve only visited twice in the years since I purchased the land. Fisk arranged for the laborers who constructed the house and the farmers who till the fields. It was to be our home. Our family’s home.”

  “Ah, Mr. Fisk. He facilitated your orders with astounding proficiency. Not that I needed him for anything.”

  “He was to assist you in legal and financial matters, not pester you about the crops you planted.”

  “I didn’t need a second spy in the family.”

  “What are we going to do about your uncle? He can’t stay here. I won’t allow it. Your father won’t allow it.”

  “I will manage my uncle. Besides, it seems you have your own estate to manage now.”

  “Ignoring him won’t make it better. There will come a time when you and he will disagree and depending on the severity of it, you may be the one to suffer the consequences. Or Antonio. He is a vengeful and cruel man, Shelene. Worse than bedding down with a viper.”

  “You should go home. Rest.” Shelene said. “I will always respect you, Roman. I know of your devotion to our family. To yours. To England. And I will never forget that you were the one who looked for and found my father. But it would be best if you left soon, taking Oliver home to England. For all our sakes.”

  “I may have been gone for several months, but I haven’t changed, Shelene.”

  “Do you want me to beg? If you ever loved me,” she said. “If you ever loved me, you would leave.”

  “That’s not how my love works.”

  She laughed. “You’ve done it before. I am not asking for something you haven’t been willing to do in the past.”

  Roman squelched the uncharitable thought that ambushed him. In England, fathers could keep their children from their mothers at will. And he, as a father and husband, could never do that to Shelene.

  “I’m a long way from agreeing to any such thing, but if I did, Antonio would have to visit me every day. Or I would have to visit Las Colinas every day to see him.”

  “That isn’t part of the plan and defeats the purpose of you not being here.”

  “My answer is no. This is my home now. England is no longer my mistress because I have a wife.”

  * * * * *

  This was how it always was with Roman. He would just show up and her life would be thrown into chaos. Roman’s life was nothing but chaos. He thought his reappearance in her life was natural and right,
and maybe for him, it was peaceful.

  He had no idea the turmoil churning inside her. The muscles in her stomach quivered. She’d been on the verge of tears, and murder, since her confrontation with Uncle Francisco. And a volcano’s worth of hot anger built inside, ready to erupt with the slightest provocation.

  Roman always said her will was made of iron. Maybe. Maybe before she had Tono. Maybe before she was a mother. Not now.

  She did not want to run into Roman’s arms; she wanted to collapse upon the floor and weep for the bitterness of it all.

  “Durra will return shortly. I would like for you to leave soon. If, as you say, you have your own home now, you should return to it. I want Las Colinas to remain peaceful.”

  “I’m not leaving until I see your uncle.”

  “You will cause the thing you seek to avoid. And I asked him to leave last night.”

  “Did he?”

  “I’m not sure. He hates you, you know.”

  “While I feel nothing for him. It was never personal. I thought you knew that. It was the work I was assigned by the Home Office.”

  “Always the Home Office. King and Country. Nothing changes.”

  “Not anymore. I’ve already notified Bathurst. If you don’t believe me, ask yourself why I have not run off to discover all the secrets of Bonaparte’s death.” He reached for her hand, but she refused to move, either in rejection or acceptance. She must remain unmoved by him. “Shelene, I do have a question. What did your uncle tell you about me being dead?”

  “Um, that you had died after arriving in Argentina. That he had associates who had passed this information to him. That he had his pardon from the king and if I said anything or accused him of anything, it could jeopardize his newfound status. That he was sorry for my loss, and he would do what he could to help me.”

  “I don’t doubt that is what he told you and I’m not going to question your trust and belief in him. He’s obviously been very convincing his entire life.”

  “And?”

  “He couldn’t have known whether I was alive or dead. I left from Nantes. I suspect he heard… I’m not sure how to say this exactly.”