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Shelene was uppermost on his mind, causing worry and self-recrimination. He was reminded of all those reasons why they had spent so many years apart. Marriage was a special kind of trap. His reason fought with his emotion. In their case, luck or fate or whatever one wanted to call it, had been cruel, not uniting them but forever dividing them. The stars that would not align. Shadow instead of light.
Yet he knew he would never love another woman as he loved Shelene. As he loved his wife.
With the notes Joaquin delivered, Roman’s plan had been set into motion. He wobbled his way to the table where a late breakfast waited for him. Even though his hunger burned a hole in his gut, after a few bites, he had to lay aside his fork. Sitting caused a dull ache. Leaning back sent stabbing pains. Standing sent stabbing pains.Bloody hell.
His ship was leaving for Argentina in four days. Shelene’s was leaving in the morning. No matter how she would hate him for it.
A normal man would just walk away from the past. He’d given enough to England.
A normal man would never have won Shelene’s heart.
Once his crew arrived and agreed to his proposal, they departed to the inn where Shelene stayed. Roman took the lead since he strolled at the slowest pace. Dewey, a wiry Welshman, and Rousseau, Roman’s oldest friend in France, were the only men he would trust with Shelene’s life, and the handiest given the circumstances.
“Do you understand what you must do?” Roman asked.
“Oh, aye,” Dewey said.
“You’ll have to be stronger than my wife. I expect a right proper battle of wills,” Roman said.
“Are you sure this is the wisest course of action, friend? Few women want to be jilted so soon after their nuptials,” Rousseau added.
“Jilting is a fairly harsh word. I’ll explain and she will understand,” Roman said, experiencing the burn of betrayal before it even happened.
Rousseau laughed; Dewey shrugged.
“I hope you are happy in your ignorance,” Rousseau said, imparting his French wisdom.
“He’s only been marrit two weeks,” Dewey added thoughtfully. “But he’ll learn over time.”
His friends might laugh, but Roman knew Shelene. Time might be the one thing he didn’t have. He’d been vague in his first note, but Shelene’s depth of perception was unmatched, even by his own mother.
He wanted to believe he could anticipate her reaction, but he’d put Shelene through hell, loving him as she did. He was prepared for the worst. There would be a day he would make it up to her. And then some.
A carriage waited while a servant loaded trunks, but there was no sign of Shelene or her lady’s maid. He turned to the men. “I will meet you at the dock. Not you,” he said to Joaquin.
Roman didn’t have to take the steps to their chamber; Shelene stood in the great room, alone and pacing in front of the well-used hearth. Wafting scents of breakfast bacon and ham still permeated the air. He could not see her face, silhouetted as she was in front of the fire.
Joaquin came barreling in behind him, knocking into Roman’s side. Roman gritted his teeth, ready to slap the back of Joaquin’s head. He bumbled a “Sorry, mi’lord,” and then grabbed his hat.
The commotion roused her from her thoughts. When she saw Roman, she stopped in her tracks then slowly lifted her face to him. She did not run into his arms, as most women might. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, ready for battle.
She wore her hair down with knots and weaves, hanging over one shoulder, a very English style. She’d never looked more beautiful. And she wore her wedding ring. Shelene hadn’t come to battle empty-handed.
He hated himself for what he was about to do. Like yanking a tender flower shoot from its protected patch, left to wither on the cobble. She’d put her trust in him because he’d made promises.
Promises he was now all too happy to break in order to protect her.
He jerked his head to the left, ordering Joaquin away. Strolling toward her, he tried to find the words that would soften the blow.
Tears already leaked from one of her eyes, trailing over her cheek and disappearing into the demure fichu she wore.
“Shelene,” he said. His voice broke. “Shelene,” he said again, this time reaching a hand toward her. When she did not reach for him, he slowly lowered his arm, holding it protectively against his side. He took a deep breath, as much to strengthen his resolve as to steady the swirling unwellness caused by his injury. “You are my wife, Shelene. Forever.”
Her rigid stillness unsettled him. Was this how she steeled herself against all life’s hardships?
“But I have made an error in thinking my life was my own. That my past would bring no difficulties to our marriage,” he said.
“You gave your word,” she said. Another gush of tears flowed, but she remained unbent. “Your solemn vow.”
