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“But, señor, you shouldn’t be here.”
He approached slowly. “You are Durra. Maymun’s wife?”
“Sí, señor. How do you know?” She calmed with the casual conversation about family.
“I remember most of Brahim and Sakina’s family. Maymun was Brahim’s oldest grandson. How could I forget? Is Antonio a healthy child?” The child was wrapped in a blanket, his face peeking from the covers. All Roman could really see was the beautiful round face and black hair. His eyes were partly open, but he did not look alert, as if he were about to go back to sleep.
“Oh, sí. Señora Forrester treats him like the prince he is, and she’s entrusted me and my sister-in-law to care for him along with Mrs. Johns. He is a good baby.”
“May I?” he asked, holding out his hands to take his child.My child,his heart shouted. What an amazing joy. How happy his mother would be that Roman had something in his life beside his work for the British Crown. He had not even told his mother that he had married, other than the letter he’d just sent to Adam. In a week or so, they would have some of the best news, though: Oliver’s safe return, his marriage.
Durra handed over the baby, and Roman held him with as much delicacy as he could muster, what with his clumsy, brutal hands. He lifted him up, closer to his face. Antonio squirmed a bit and one fisted hand emerged from the blanket, which he pressed to his lips, sucking on the edge of his finger. How old was he now?
Roman walked slowly toward the oil lamp on the table, allowing the light to shine on Antonio’s face. Roman smiled, an overwhelming rush of emotion ran through his veins, and he felt the start of tears. His son. Would he ever get used to saying that?
“Oh, my beautiful boy,” Roman whispered.
Durra touched Roman’s arm. “You can sit here. I will fetch a tray for you.”
“Thank you,” Roman said without taking his gaze from his son’s face. When he heard the door shut, Roman seated himself in the too-small rocking chair and moved his son into the crook of his arm. Antonio smacked against his finger a few times then scrunched his face. Roman had a guess as to what was happening.
He brushed his large, work-hardened finger over Antonio’s cheek. “I’m your papa. And I promise I will love you to the day I die. Whatever you need. Whatever I can give you.”
Roman sensed he wasn’t alone—whether it was a brush of air, a scent or just a knowing upon which he’d built his life as a spy. He looked toward Shelene’s door to see her standing in the shadow. He pushed from the chair.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“I heard we had a son. I came to see for myself.”
She hurried to him and reached for Antonio, scooping him up with gentleness even though she was not so inclined with Roman.
Roman breathed her in, the scent of gardenias, jasmine and roses. Not from the gardens, but her perfumes and oils and bath salts.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
She hmpfed. “Smell me.” She moved Antonio to her shoulder and rocked him while she patted his back.
“It reminds me you are real.”
“Why are you here? Did you even leave last night?”
“Yes, of course, I did. But it was in the leaving, I found out about all that was really happening at Las Colinas. Things my wife should have told me.”
“Your wife? In truth, I have never been your wife. My God, Roman, it is the middle of the night, and you want to have an argument?”
“Me? The time of the day wouldn’t matter if we were arguing about the most treacherous man in Spain.”
“He’s changed. And it is none of your business any longer.”
“Is my son in any danger?”
Roman thought he heard her swallow hard. “My uncle would never hurt my son, no matter who his father is.”
“Is he here?”
“Yes. He lives here. This is the Belgrano family home.” She went to the rocking chair, just as Durra returned with a tray, glancing from her mistress to the master. “It’s all right, Durra. Just set the tray on the table and return in about thirty minutes.” Antonio was snuggling against Shelene’s breast and she, with a great sigh, opened her robe to feed the babe.
