Page 31 of Love Me Once

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 unscrupulouscaballerowould 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—afaca, 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 andhotmilk 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 aplink,plinkof 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 fromLa 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, awhoofof breath against Roman’s cheek then a sharp thud against his forehead. His knees gave way. The gun discharged with a loudbang, the recoil stinging his hand, the ricochet pinging away.

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