Love Me Once (The Infamous Forresters Book 3)

by Eliza Lloyd

  Roman had taken the only remaining seat beside her, and cupped her hand in his, as if the years between them hadn’t past with such pain and loneliness. As if they were meant to be together.

  She stared out the window. The rain might as well have been the tears she had not shed, pouring from a broken heart and suffering spirit.

  He lifted her hand and kissed the back of it, offering her a smile and a glimpse of what she had given up. Martina kept her gaze lowered and Joaquin stared out the carriage window on the opposite side, mouth open, staring at the collection of drenched humanity still scurrying for cover along the docks.

  Shelene tried not to think about the press of Roman’s lips and the strong shoulder she bumped against with each turn of the carriage wheel.

  Roman was wrong. She had changed. She wanted him to know how being truly alone felt. He still had a large family, including his mother and brothers.

  She wanted him to know that she didn’t want to be alone any longer.

  Chapter Three

  Roman found a quiet place in the inn, above stairs, where the fire was burning and only a pair of French merchants sat over a chessboard, deliberating each move as if it were life and death. The torrential rain had slowed to a steady veil that beat a comforting rhythm against the inn roof. An occasional eruption of rain-fresh air burst through the room, reminding Roman of days past and of one particular night in Spain when he’d first kissed Shelene.

  The inside of his mouth still tingled thinking about it.

  He’d removed his jacket and tossed it over the back of a chair, but left his waistcoat buttoned in order to avoid shocking someone’s sensibilities. He took out the folio and paper he carried in his valise. The innkeeper had supplied an inkwell and quill. The first few lines came easily, but he set the quill aside as he reread the words about Commodore Hightower.

  Aside from Shelene, he and Oliver probably knew the commodore best, and it was Roman’s responsibility to honor the man by telling the world, or at least the residents of London, how the man exemplified British principle and duty. In his service to the Crown, he was an unrivaled strategist, and his commands had the least casualties compared to other naval vessels. Something few knew, except those men who so ably fought beside him.

  The Times and The London Gazette would publish the article upon his return. It would be his last tribute to a great man. The final line would be easy: He is survived by his only daughter, Shelene.

  He would forward the notice to Adam, along with a letter to update him on his progress, which wasn’t much.

  When the two Frenchmen finally stumbled from the room, Roman plucked up his quill again only to come face-to-face with Shelene, alive in his memory.

  Their day had been disrupted by the rainstorm, a meal with her lady’s maid and her son, followed by an afternoon resting. He’d excused himself for the dinner hour, spending his time visiting and drinking with those informants who provided intelligence about the French. There were many tattlers, but he chose his confidants carefully—men who provided information out of concern for the welfare of the citizenry and country, rather than just for money.

  Tomorrow they would see Michel Laurent, the midshipman on board the Surveillante. It took no time at all to find not only the captain of the ship, but the officer who had sighted the Victorious. Roman was reluctant to have Shelene hear firsthand what Laurent had to say about the ship’s sinking, without the benefit of the soft words Roman could provide.

  Without the physical restraint he’d threatened earlier, he knew Shelene would insist upon being at the appointment. Shelene should be shielded from the harshness of life, more so now that her parents were gone. He wanted to protect her, but he’d done a poor job so far.

  No treasure had been guarded with more diligence then Shelene as a young lady, thanks mostly to her mother. And today her hawkish lady’s maid’s gaze had speared him several times, doubting his intent and his sincerity, he supposed.

  “Roman?”

  Shelene stood in the doorway, a wool blanket over her shoulders. He pushed to his feet. “I thought you were abed.”

  “Sleep eluded me, no matter the number of sheep I counted.”

  “Did you count them in French?”

  “No, Spanish. I don’t suppose French sheep understood me then?”

  “How did you find me?”

  “You didn’t answer your door, so I asked.”

  It was convenient that he stay at the same inn as Shelene and her guardians, or so he had convinced himself. His selfish interest usually won out when Shelene was involved.

  He smiled and opened his hand, inviting her to sit. Had he been in his bedroom, she might have posed an irresistible temptation. The years of self-denial. It wasn’t more than he could bear, it was more than he wanted to bear.

  “And shouldn’t you be abed also?” she asked. She swept her skirt away as she sat, but her intense green-eyed gaze bore through him—the color one of the few things inherited from her father.

  “I don’t sleep much anymore,” he said.

  “Are you haunted?”

  “Haunted? About what I do?”

  Shelene lifted a shoulder but didn’t give him the chance to answer. “You said we needed to think clearly, and I feel that I am. I’ve always been honest about why we can’t be together and seeing you again reminds me that I made the right decision,” she said.

  He leaned against a wooden cupboard and shoved one hand in his trouser pocket. “And you won’t reconsider, now that your mother is gone? And perhaps your father?”

  “They are not the problem. They never were.”

  He’d left a drink on the desk near Shelene. He plucked it up and took a sip before settling at the table opposite her, where his writing utensils remained. Their chairs faced each other, his knee a mere inch or so from hers.

  The few candles about the room and the small, crackling fire lit the side of her face. Her black hair, still pulled tight and wound in a bun in the back, gleamed.

  When he first knew Shelene, she’d worn her hair loose, allowing the wind to blow through it—riding her horse, walking through the immense gardens or along the lakeshore. She was constantly brushing strands away and tucking them behind her ear. And smiling. Always smiling.

  Now, she had no reason to smile. Her mother gone. Her father drowned. And Roman, he was a heartache she had not overcome. He could see it in the lines of her face and the serious gaze in her eye.

  “You shouldn’t be alone.”

  She laughed, then laughed again before setting her fingers to her lips. “I’m sorry. And what do you propose?”

  “Marriage. You can’t be surprised that I would renew my offer, considering all that has happened.”

  “No. Flabbergasted is more like it.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, Roman, you truly believe that every woman rushes into marriage when she’s faced with such stark change? I have alternatives.”

  “It is the most likely possibility. For any woman. No matter her station.”

  “For an English girl perhaps.”

  “You’re half English. You’re not half tempted?”

  She laughed again. “You have a powerful wife who tempts you with intrigues beyond my ability. I must seem boring in comparison to England.”

  “Ah, England. More a mistress than a wife, I’ve always thought. I can leave her when it’s time. A wife is forever.”

  “No woman would marry, knowing that a mistress took up so much of her beloved’s time. At least any woman with a pony of respectability.”

  “Shelene, we can spar, or we can look at our situation honestly. You know I love you. I know that you will never marry anyone but me. Yet you resist the most obvious solution to our joint happiness.”

  “Love and marriage. They are not mutually exclusive.” They stared at one another. He tried to decide which of them was more stubborn. And which of them was right.

  She continued, “I can be alone—there are my cousins, there are
books and my glasswork, there is travel. But I wouldn’t do to my children what my father did to me and my mother. I won’t let you do it to children we might share. I can love you from afar, Roman, but I cannot love you closely.”

  The chasm seemed deep and wide at times. He could see the other side, but he could not cross over.

  He braced his elbows against his knees, his hands joined. “What will it take then? I lay my life at your feet, all my worldly goods and the honor of my words. Yet that is not enough.”

  “I cannot share you, Roman. It is as simple and as complicated as that.”

  He took her hand, entwining his fingers with hers. Her hands had always been soft and delicate. Her fingers lithe but strong.

  And her heart, stronger still.

  “Why are we talking about this now?” she asked. “All was settled between us when you last left Spain.”

  He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. “Nothing has ever been settled for me.”

  Even in the firelight, he could see the blush that heated her face.

  “I should return to my room.” She pushed to her feet, but Roman did not release her hand. Instead, he tugged and she tumbled into his lap.

  He wrapped his arms around her waist. She held his gaze, her mouth opened as she took a small breath. Her fingers brushed the skin of his neck. And their breath mingled as suppressed mutual attraction burst into an inferno.

  “Roman, I ca—”

  “Shh,” he said.

  The wool blanket was a hindrance and he pushed it down her arm, exposing the fine lines of her neck and the decorous round of a lacy bodice. He traced a finger across her collarbone, and she moaned. She closed her eyes in painful, untried ecstasy.

  Sometimes he wondered if he took her, dishonored her, would she then see the need to say yes to marriage? Or in her stubbornness would she ignore her lost virtue and turn her back on him once more?

  When he glanced at her again, her eyelids were half-masted and her gaze burned with a fire he had never seen in her. Not the fire of stubbornness, the fire of passion.

  Instead of throwing her to the floor and mounting her, as his dark self longed to do, he gently pressed his lips to hers. The velvety softness made him think of flower petals, and then the wonder of whether a petal could ever be as soft as her lips.

  He was chaste, but she strained toward him, flattening her lips, her inexperience showing…and innocently thrilling. Her eyes were clenched as if she would see something awkward and sinful. One of her hands gripped his shirt and waistcoat.

  He cupped the back of her neck, holding her still. He would lead this expedition to Elysium and teach her along the way. He tilted his head, slowing nibbling at those puffed petals, the honey-sweet fruit of the gods. She moaned and the sound vibrated against his kiss. And sizzled all the way to his groin.

  The few pecks they had shared were forgotten, time and distance dulling the memories.

  This was what was needed to change her mind. Real passion.

  She slid her arm about his neck. Roman opened his mouth over her lips and swiped his tongue along the seam, encouraging her to respond. Was she delirious? He could not tell if she knew what she was doing or if she was consumed by uncontrollable lust.

  She trembled beneath his hands and kisses. Every touch elicited a moan, until she was humming—and burning. It was a wonder she did not burst into flame. He certainly had; his cock rested hard against her thigh. She hadn’t noticed yet.

  Finally, she opened her mouth to him.

  He’d kissed other women with more abandon. He kissed Shelene as if she gave him the breath of life.

  Their tongues touched. Roman pulled her tighter against his chest, one hand fitted against her ass.

  “Ahhhem.”

  Roman opened his eyes to see the shadowed figure in the doorway, stern and unsmiling.

  Shit.

  He broke the kiss, only to glance at Shelene’s confused and embarrassed expression. She was still lost in the throes of lethargic desire.

  “Shelene,” he said, opening his leg so that her feet could touch the floor.

  Martina shook her head in disapproval.

  “Shelene, my love,” he whispered in her ear, “it is time to return to your room.”

  “Roman.”

  “Martina is here to escort you.”

  Her eyes widened, the situation becoming uncomfortably real. Couples had been required to marry for lesser indiscretions. Forced by watchful parents.

  Shelene jumped to her feet, ignoring Roman and adjusting the blanket so that she was covered once again. She hurried toward her duenna, unwilling to acknowledge what had happened in a candlelit room between two who loved each other but could not find common ground.

  Martina bestowed him a glacial stare before she turned and followed.

  He sat for a moment until he heard one door slam. He wondered if it was Shelene’s door or Martina’s which closed with such force.

  What was he trying to prove? That he could entice her into losing her virginity? Or maybe he hoped they would be caught in this public forum and be required to marry in order to save Shelene’s reputation.

  He blew a steadying breath, took the chair Shelene had so recently vacated and plucked up the quill once again.

  Should he propose marriage again tomorrow?

  For certain, he would not sleep tonight, knowing Shelene was nearby and no closer to being his. He spoke French, but he doubted whether his sheep would listen to him either.

  * * * * *

  Laurent, the midshipman from the French vessel, the Surveillante, sat across from Roman, with his cap in hand. Shelene watched as Roman worked his magic and the sailor revealed every detail of what he saw that fateful day. The conversation was in French, and Shelene caught most of the particulars.

  They sat at the same table Roman had occupied last night, only the table was cleared of writing utensils, and she was not putty in his hands. He really was not paying attention to her at all, not even a glance to see to her comfort. Could she blame him? He wanted information from Mr. Laurent, and he would get it. After Roman’s first two hard questions, Shelene was quite happy she was not on the receiving end of his interrogation.

  Martina sat upright next to her, her arm wrapped in Shelene’s. Did she think Shelene would fly into Roman’s arms were she not so tightly protected? Maybe it wasn’t such a terrible idea, considering the illicit pleasure she’d experienced with last night’s embrace.

  Roman wore a grey jacket and a new pair of grey trousers. His black hair looked magnificent against the white of his cravat. Mostly, he seemed the aristocrat he was born to be, and then with the sharp draw of his brow or the clench of his jaw, she could see why England trusted this man with its most important assignments. There was a fearless determination in him, as if he had all the answers and only needed confirmation.

  “Oh, oui, it was the Victorious, Monsieur Forrester,” Laurent said.

  “How can you be sure?”

  “We were in port together in Buenos Aires mid-November, sir. I imagine we were there for the same reason, as both vessels had dignitaries off and on the ships. ’Course, I wasn’t privy to the information passed along.” Laurent glanced toward Shelene, as if he didn’t want to say anymore.

  “Go on,” Roman prompted.

  “There is no mistaking the Victorious. A fine vessel, even if she is British. But it is my opinion Commodore Hightower wasn’t in control of the vessel when she went down.”

  Shelene must have let out a grunt of denial because Laurent glanced in her direction again and Roman turned his head slightly. Her father never lost control of his ships.

  “Why do you say that?” Roman asked.

  “While we were in port, there was a disagreement on board between the sailors. We never heard what it was about, as the Victorious left port the next morning with the tide.”

  Shelene was trying to interpret the word when she realized Laurent was discussing a fight aboard her father’s ship. Did Rom
an think that was significant?

  “But how do you know you saw her go down?” he asked instead.

  “Only one Caledonia-class vessel in the South Atlantic carrying one-hundred and twenty guns, sir. And if any commander can navigate a storm around Cape Horn, it’s Hightower. Everyone knows he was the finest sailor on the water.”

  The Caledonia ships, first-rate and three decks, were the behemoths of the Royal Navy and one of the reasons Oliver Forrester was so keen to acquaint himself with Hightower. Not only was it an exclusive assignment, but Oliver planned to be in command of his own ship someday and there was no better way than being the second in command under one of the best in the admiralty. Oliver had spent many days with the Hightowers at the hacienda, just as Roman had.

  Roman shot a half smile toward Shelene, and melancholy swept over her. Was the finest sailor.

  “So, I watched her through my glass for about a minute. They were attempting to run downwind with their mainsail dropped. She was taking on water, no doubt. They were obviously trying to get through the storm quickly, but you don’t run off when there’s land and shallow water nearby. Mon dieu. Then she was gone.” Laurent twisted his cap again, taking his anxiety out on the misshapen wool.

  “And you couldn’t mount a rescue?” Shelene asked, from behind Roman.

  “No, Mademoiselle Hightower. Our hands were full keeping our own ship afloat. I’m sorry.”

  Then Roman did what Roman does: he led the midshipman through a series of questions about their mission and their accomplishments. And the innocent sailor sang like a canary. It helped that two gold pieces lay on the table between the two men, and after the conversation, Roman slid them toward Laurent. He bobbed and bowed and thank-you-sirred as he scooped up the coins and departed.

  Shelene approached Roman. “What do we do now?”

  “You and your companions will go on to Spain,” he said.

  “That’s it?”

  “Shelene, you heard the man. He bore witness to the Victorious going down.” His words were sharper than she was used to. Had he finally come to accept the truth of his brother’s death and her father’s? He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and stared toward the hallway where Laurent disappeared.