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She’d brushed her fingers over her brooch, the last gift he’d given her. As he took the steps, she froze in anticipation—only the knock at the door brought her to awareness.
Roman Forrester. An heir of Sterling.
The owner of her heart.
And touching him after all this time was so painful; not touching him even more so.
She patted his chest again and forced herself away from him. It was simplistic to say he was an attractive man—broad-shouldered and tall, yes, and with a face that would silence a bevy of sirens. But he was also loyal, fierce and proud. A man who placed the greater good above his own needs.
There was so much good in him. So many absolutes and moral imperatives. Yet Roman made everything difficult.
“You will let me know if there is new information before you leave?”
“Of course.”
The news he had delivered seeped through her in slow, painful surges. First Mama and now Papa. Even seeing Roman again, after so many, many months, muted the emotional pain she would experience when he walked out the door.
When she saw him dismount from his horse, she hadn’t even smiled. He was a dream now. He was her first love, and she knew no other man would make her happy.
Was she wrong? Was she wrong to believe that she couldn’t share him with England?
Was being with him forty or fifty days a year better than none at all?
She sat again, her limbs quivering, her nerves jagged. A crack pierced through her being. Roman stood like a statue beside her. “How have you been, Roman? No new wounds? No spectacular escapes or daring rescues?”
“A few. None that I can talk about.”
She smiled, a quick painful thing, as his statement brought back memories of arguments and stubbornness. “But we are no longer at war. Surely you can tell me something without the threat of imprisonment.”
“Pax Britianica, yes. Only the world is still changing in unpredictable ways.”
“Dare I hope you’ll become redundant someday soon?”
“You’ll be the first to know.” His smile warmed her and gave her courage.
“He cannot be dead, can he?” She whispered the words again. She could only ask about Papa in small increments. Little doses of truth. One question at a time.
He dropped to one knee and cupped her hands. A lock of hair curled at his temple, one of the few reminders of the young man he’d been. If he hadn’t held her hands, she would have brushed the hair back and caressed the round of his ear.
“Let me do what I do best. If there is a grain of truth, I will discover it. Otherwise, it will only be a matter of tracking their movements. The Royal Navy has a certain vaunted reputation for organization. I will find out what happened.”
“Happened? Past tense?”
His telling silence concerned her. Omissions weren’t the same as lies and he was careful not to utter a single falsehood.
“So, you will be gone for many months?” she asked. She dared not hope for anything else. This was Roman, after all.
“I don’t know. I won’t know until I get to Brest.”
She leaned forward and gripped the armrest. “Let me go with you. There’s no reason for me to stay in London, other than the house. The land agent can take care of closing it up. I can’t sell it without Papa. Or without at least knowing…what has happened to him. And Brest is on the way to Spain. Then I wouldn’t sit around fretting over dreadful outcomes. I would know what you know.”
He stood again and turned his back. His jacket stretched taut across his shoulders. “No. Such things always have hidden dangers. I’d rather you stayed in London. As I said, my family is here for you.” He’d glanced over his shoulder, appearing so earnest but so determined. “No,” he said, his voice softened. “I need to know you are safe here while I do what I must do. Besides, you know how difficult I can be when duty calls.”
“Difficult? Impossible is more like it.”
“Shelene…I-I wanted to tell you why I haven’t been to see you.”
“No. Please don’t say anything. I’ve made peace with how my life has turned out.” No parents, nearly a spinster. Some peace it was.
