Love Me Once (The Infamous Forresters Book 3)

by Eliza Lloyd

  “You’ve rarely spared my feelings in the past. Do you think I am not prepared to hear that he is a wicked man?”

  He pushed forward in his chair and took both of her hands. “If he knew we were married, he knew I was heading to Argentina and why. He’d assume I was coming back. He wouldn’t tell you I was dead unless he planned to make that a reality. Either there or here. The timing doesn’t work. He told you I was dead before I ever stepped off the boat in South America.”

  Only Roman could draw such parallels. And only Roman would deduce such evil intent. When she thought such wicked things, she tried to put them from her mind, wanting to trust, wanting to believe the best. It was hard to accept such truths, especially about her family.

  “What do you want me to say? A king’s pardon means nothing, and I should have ignored it?” she asked.

  “You should have at least been suspicious.”

  “Don’t you dare!” she hissed. “Don’t you dare make me feel as if I did something wrong. I did suspect he was lying, but he had a reasonable answer for every question.” She pushed from the table and away from him, back toward Tono, the purest peace and comfort in her life.

  “Shelene, that is not my intent.”

  “Whatever your aim, you’ve missed the mark.”

  “Are you saying I should not confront him? That I shouldn’t believe his past malevolence isn’t part of whatever is happening here. He can never be trusted.”

  “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if my husband, for a moment, could think of something besides intrigue and conspiracy?”

  “When a man comes home and finds his wife about to marry another, he is not so inclined to whisper words of love, especially when it seems those words are unwelcome.”

  “That would never have happened if you had taken me with you, as you promised, or if you had never left in the first place.”

  “I can’t regret my actions. After we arrived in Argentina, we left within a few weeks and it would have been impossible to take you farther. Was I to leave you alone in an unfamiliar country? And now, to know you were already pregnant when I left France. I would have never found your father or Oliver. It was the right decision.”

  “It must be very reassuring to know you are never wrong.”

  “I wasn’t wrong in marrying you.”

  A light tap on the door was enough to silence their disagreement. A rose glow had appeared on the horizon, giving the room a soft light that revealed more than Shelene wanted in front of Roman. As Durra entered and busied herself cleaning at the table they’d just left, Shelene said softly, “Breakfast should be set out on the buffet, if you are hungry.”

  He walked toward the crib and glanced at his son again. “He’s a beautiful child, Shelene. Thank you for him. He’s already given me a year’s worth of happiness. I can’t imagine the joy he will bring in the future.”

  Roman placed his hand over hers, gripped tight against the crib’s wooden railing, holding her upright. “And being home with you is… Well, there were days when I wasn’t sure we would discover anything, let alone find Oliver and your father. Or make it home, for that matter. Sometimes, I hung onto the thinnest thread of hope, and that thread was you. And only that strand, that bit of steely resolve was enough to keep me moving.”

  “Was it so hard?” she whispered, turning her hand into his and holding on as if she didn’t mean a word of what she said.

  “Like hell. If Joaquin hadn’t made me promise to bring him back and find him a wife, I might have given up.”

  She smiled. “Well then, I shall have to thank, Joaquin. For returning my son’s father.”

  “I’m staying in Spain. I will be here for you and Antonio.” So matter of fact. So sure.

  Roman departed and Shelene ached anew. He had no idea the pain he had caused. He had no idea what a normal, idyllic life looked like. But did she?

  Other than those halcyon days of their youth, there had been constant turmoil, heartache and loneliness. How had she believed Roman Forrester was the end-all be-all of her life when he’d been the source of her agony?

  The trouble was, she did not willingly choose Roman. Something in her heart had demanded she choose him above every other man. It had never been a choice.

  Was all the heartache worth her beautiful son?

  Was all the painful separation worth the return of her father?

  Was it possible their love was real and could carry them through the rest of their days?

  “Durra, I’m going to the studio for a while. Let me know when Tono wakes.”

  “Of course, señora. Do you want me to bring you breakfast?”

  “No, I expect I’ll have a troop of men tripping over themselves to make sure I slept well, that I had enough to eat and would I like a carriage ride later or perhaps a walk in the garden.”

  Durra pressed her hand to her mouth. “It is because they care.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Shelene had every right to be angry, and Roman had been prepared for it. However, her uncle complicated things in the worst way.

  Some reunion.

  While he’d intended to woo her properly, enjoy a year-long honeymoon, get reacquainted, prove to her that he was done with his work for the Home Office—love her as she should be loved. All his plans had to be reshuffled, realigned, reevaluated.

  Reckoning happened at the worst possible time.

  Damn, he was used to vipers like Belgrano, but not in his own home. Not anywhere near those he loved.

  Roman strolled along the balcony, watching morning activities that were already well underway at the estate. The finches were awake, making music and lightening the mood of the house. There were still many guests milling about, hurrying through the large open atrium, no doubt gossiping about the cancelled wedding—the event of the year in this area, he guessed.

  The first order of business was a face-to-face meeting with Belgrano. In a crowd, a crowd with the most important dons, Belgrano would be on his best behavior. Roman wouldn’t be surprised if the man had his royal pardon pinned to his chest.

  He walked back to the foyer and put on his boots. A large mirror covered one wall, with a thick green frame. Opposite there were three potted plants with tall stems and beautiful white blossoms. Hollyhocks, he thought. There was plenty of light and fresh air through the veranda and out the atrium. God, he loved everything about Spain. Hightower had had the same affliction made more acute by loving a Spanish woman. They had a lot in common.

  He pulled the well-used kerchief from his neck, snapped it out then rolled it in the opposite direction before he re-tied it into something more appropriate. He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to tame it. He looked like a well-run horse but with threadbare garments and tired eyes. Shelene had probably noticed but had forgiven him by not pointing it out.

  On the main floor, he could see several couples seated on the portico where the dancing had taken place last night. Their plates were full. There was a long buffet set up, and the smell was tempting him to pleasure rather than business.

  Belgrano was not amongst those gathered outdoors. Perhaps Belgrano had actually departed. Perhaps it was too early, but in this part of Spain, the day started before sunrise.

  Roman made his way toward the dining area next to the kitchen. Long, formal tables when needed, several small groupings during a normal day. And there was Belgrano sitting with Commodore Hightower, enjoying heaping plates of scrambled eggs, potatoes and chorizo, and myriad fresh vegetables from the Las Colinas gardens.

  Roman was not so long off the ship that he couldn’t appreciate the savory goodness wafting in the air. Rather than interrupt, he made himself visible, taking a cup of thick, black coffee and downing it in two gulps—right in the middle of the crowd. After his appearance last night, no one could be surprised to see him this morning or doubt who he was. He was just making sure of that.

  Hightower knew of Roman’s responsibilities for the crown, and he knew Roman’s feelings about Belgrano. Roma
n wasn’t worried. Hightower was the canny sort to wheedle information from the lowest deckhand to the most uncooperative officials in the admiralty.

  Once Roman knew he’d been seen by Belgrano, he proceeded to the buffet and prepared his plate. He couldn’t help himself—he loaded it with the best of the food. Mountains of it. More than he could finish in one sitting.

  He strolled to the table. “Gentlemen, may I join you?”

  They both stood and bowed. “Señor Forrester,” Belgrano said with utmost courtesy, but Roman saw the burning hatred in his gaze, along with some apprehension about what Roman intended to do.

  “Forrester,” Commodore Hightower said. “Please sit. We were just discussing the fantastical voyage that your brother and I had in the South Atlantic and our subsequent trial by fire in Patagonia.”

  “An interesting story to be sure. You and Oliver are lucky to be alive. And it seems, so am I.” Roman snapped a linen napkin over his knee and glanced up. “I can’t imagine why anyone would report such a thing unless they knew it for a fact, can you, Señor Belgrano?”

  “Es lo que es,” Belgrano said, with a shrug.

  “Or it is what you wanted it to be?”

  “What are you saying?” Belgrano asked.

  “This is a conversation for another day, gentlemen,” Hightower said. “I would like to enjoy the next few days without conflict or worry. I am home. We are safe. Let us discuss the fine crops, healthy herds or my beautiful grandson. Nothing else, if you please.”

  Roman smiled, happy to have a friend in his corner, and one who controlled much of what happened at Las Colinas in spite of his absence.

  “He is a fine boy and wonderful surprise,” Roman said.

  “Indeed.” Hightower excused himself and returned to the buffet.

  “So, Señor Belgrano, I am told you are in possession of a king’s pardon. That must be a relief.” Sarcasm dripped from his words.

  “All the better to ensure I am not unjustly persecuted by English whoresons. But, if you are interested, it has been a most beneficial year and I remain a dedicated citizen of Spain.”

  “The king must have been completely unaware of the depth of your depravity and inhumanity to other citizens of Spain. It is unfortunate I wasn’t there to provide some testimony on your behalf.”

  “He is a fair man. He would not have been so moved by your tainted words.”

  “What is your goal here? Shelene might have welcomed you and Hightower might allow you to stay, but long term, I can’t help but believe you have other plans, and this is only a short stop.”

  “Las Colinas is my family home. I was born here.”

  “I can see that you die here.”

  Belgrano smiled. “You would cause more heartache for your wife? Your son?”

  “I want you gone in the next thirty days.”

  He clucked his tongue. “You have no say here. You cannot touch me in any way.”

  Roman leaned forward and braced his arms against the table. “I know you. I’ve known countless men like you. Once someone stronger pushes back, you run and hide. Courage isn’t your strong suit. Intimidation is. And you have never intimidated me.”

  “Ah, this food satisfies every dream I’ve had in the last two years,” Hightower said as he returned to the table and took his seat. “Where were we?”

  “I was just telling Señor Forrester how very welcoming my niece has been and how moved I am to be in the family home once again,” Belgrano said.

  “It will be with immense joy that I renew my acquaintance with this wonderful land. Shelene and her mother were upset with me for moving them to England those years ago. By Las Colinas’ prosperity, I can see that I was wrong to do so,” Hightower said.

  Roman ate while the two of them talked. There was no reason for Belgrano to be here since he would never inherit the property with the line established by his father. It was Hightower’s estate now, held in trust for his daughter. He would leave it to Shelene. She would leave it to Antonio or their oldest daughter. Roman was well aware of the matriarchal nature of the Belgrano estate heritage, and it was part of the reason he built another home—for sons they might have. Why hadn’t Shelene’s grandfather planned better for his son? Roman had never asked.

  Belgrano was a vicious, unpredictable man. But in one way, he was completely reliable. Everything he did, he did for himself.

  “I’ll be leaving this afternoon for Malaga. Business, you understand. I should be home in four or five days. A week at the latest.”

  “Home? I don’t think anyone would miss you if you stayed away longer,” Roman said. “Or forever.”

  “I am so happy you two have reached a peaceable impasse,” Hightower said.

  “The king has shown me how to be diplomatic when I would rather be recklessly vindictive. I’ll be meeting him again in a month. An invitation to Madrid.”

  “Oh, so the gossip about Rafael del Riego isn’t true? Would King Ferdinand wonder who was supporting the opposition? Who would the king believe if I brought him evidence of subterfuge?”

  “Napoleon is dead. Leave Spanish problems to the Spanish. If you will excuse me,” Belgrano said, leaving the table. That was true, but that didn’t mean all the trouble surrounding Napoleon Bonaparte or his brother left Spain unscathed or without deep resentments and scores to settle.

  Roman’s attention turned to his food again while his thoughts churned on all the possibilities—none of which boded well for the inhabitants of Las Colinas or the valley.

  “You might have dazzled your wife if you had dressed in your best,” Hightower said.

  Roman glanced down, knowing he was nothing more than shabby. He’d always traveled light. One valise, a few personal items, two or three sets of clothes. And a more proper wardrobe at a few crucial places where he regularly laid his head: in Paris, in Rome, in Amsterdam. This time he’d worn his threads to threads. “This is my best. I have you and Oliver to thank for that.”

  “Maybe you should do something about that. My daughter is not known for her love of slovenly men,” Hightower said. He was dressed in a style that was neither English nor Spanish, but rather militarized with a navy-blue jacket, tan trousers and a dazzling array of brass buttons. Hightower had only mentioned it once, but there would never been any more awards pinned to his uniform as they had all gone down with the HMS Victorious.

  “I didn’t have a bureau full of clothes waiting for me. Give me time and I will. There just seems to be a few more urgent matters to attend. Your brother-in-law chief amongst them.”

  “That is the thing about Francisco. He will never hide his deeds for long. He wants people to know who and what he is. He wants people to be afraid of him. I am surprised I have to tell you, of all people, this immutable fact.”

  “Perhaps I am a little out of practice having spent so much time wondering the Pampas of Argentina looking for you and Oliver.”

  “You know I enjoy giving advice.”

  “I’m fast learning.”

  “My advice is to forget him for the time being. Your wife and son should be your priorities. That and a new wardrobe.”

  “He’s up to something, Commodore. By making Belgrano my immediate priority, I am prioritizing and protecting my family.”

  “Such men get your blood up, Forrester. It is why foreign service attracted you.”

  “I’ve resigned.”

  “So, you say.”

  “You don’t know him like I do. I may no longer be beholden to Home Office, but his stench taints everything around him. When the time comes, I will take care of business.” Roman held up his hand. “I will be careful. You have my word.”

  Hightower swallowed back the rest of his coffee. “I’m off to see my grandson. I’ve lost too much time as it is.”

  * * * * *

  While Shelene had been in London for two years, one of her favorite places was the glass factory in Whitechapel. There, she’d learned new techniques for her stained glass and had been trained on differ
ent methods of restoration. Her mother thought the factory coarse and dirty, but Shelene had never seen finer craftsman.

  The religious panel she was repairing now was for the church in Arco de la Frontera, which had been damaged during the many pseudo-wars and skirmishes and battles caused by petty tyrants and men such as her uncle Francisco. She’d dabbled with the repairs, never quite ready to devote herself wholeheartedly to its completion.

  She bent over the glass, holding a candle beneath the viewing table. The blue was such an intense color. She wasn’t sure she could match that particular brilliance with the supply she had. It would have been helpful if Father Etienne had known who’d completed the original window, or from where it had been purchased. That would have given her a clue about where to begin or who to ask. Her best guess was Murano, Italy.

  But something nagged at her. The intensity of the blue glass might have been a marker identifying its source as Bristol.

  Well, she would have to make do, and match it as best she could. Or she could take the blue out of another section—one of the robes, perhaps—and replace that robe with something she had in stock. Mary’s gown had to be blue. Joseph’s? Maybe she could go with an easy-to-obtain brown. No matter what she did, she would have to paint the pleats of the gown with a durable black.

  Shelene set the lamp aside then glanced at the outline she’d made. She drew a couple of other lines to guide her restoration.

  Her boxes of glass, sorted by size and color, were kept safely in a series of wooden boxes that one of Brahim’s sons had made for her when she’d returned to Spain. Her collection of tools lined the wall above the boxes.

  She glanced outside to see it was late morning. It was near time for her wedding! How she hoped everyone had gone home. Including Roman.

  The cool of the morning was the best time to work on the glass. Today it had been especially diverting, but it was time to face the day and she’d start with Tono. He would be just waking from his mid-morning nap.

  As she walked toward the house, she was pleased by the peaceful resonance of Las Colinas life. Animals happily going about their day in the fields along with the field laborers who clucked and yelled, the dogs that barked and that most pleasant sound of bells as the animals moseyed along the field paths in search of grass.