AllFreeNovel
Share Us
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.
TheTimesandThe London Gazettewould 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 theSurveillante. It took no time at all to find not only the captain of the ship, but the officer who had sighted theVictorious. 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 hewantedto 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.
