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Chapter Eleven
Shelene had every right to be angry, and Roman had been prepared for it. However, her uncle complicated things in the worst way.
Some reunion.
While he’d intended to woo her properly, enjoy a year-long honeymoon, get reacquainted, prove to her that he was done with his work for the Home Office—love her as she should be loved. All his plans had to be reshuffled, realigned, reevaluated.
Reckoning happened at the worst possible time.
Damn, he was used to vipers like Belgrano, but not in his own home. Not anywhere near those he loved.
Roman strolled along the balcony, watching morning activities that were already well underway at the estate. The finches were awake, making music and lightening the mood of the house. There were still many guests milling about, hurrying through the large open atrium, no doubt gossiping about the cancelled wedding—the event of the year in this area, he guessed.
The first order of business was a face-to-face meeting with Belgrano. In a crowd, a crowd with the most important dons, Belgrano would be on his best behavior. Roman wouldn’t be surprised if the man had his royal pardon pinned to his chest.
He walked back to the foyer and put on his boots. A large mirror covered one wall, with a thick green frame. Opposite there were three potted plants with tall stems and beautiful white blossoms. Hollyhocks, he thought. There was plenty of light and fresh air through the veranda and out the atrium. God, he loved everything about Spain. Hightower had had the same affliction made more acute by loving a Spanish woman. They had a lot in common.
He pulled the well-used kerchief from his neck, snapped it out then rolled it in the opposite direction before he re-tied it into something more appropriate. He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to tame it. He looked like a well-run horse but with threadbare garments and tired eyes. Shelene had probably noticed but had forgiven him by not pointing it out.
On the main floor, he could see several couples seated on the portico where the dancing had taken place last night. Their plates were full. There was a long buffet set up, and the smell was tempting him to pleasure rather than business.
Belgrano was not amongst those gathered outdoors. Perhaps Belgrano had actually departed. Perhaps it was too early, but in this part of Spain, the day started before sunrise.
Roman made his way toward the dining area next to the kitchen. Long, formal tables when needed, several small groupings during a normal day. And there was Belgrano sitting with Commodore Hightower, enjoying heaping plates of scrambled eggs, potatoes and chorizo, and myriad fresh vegetables from the Las Colinas gardens.
Roman was not so long off the ship that he couldn’t appreciate the savory goodness wafting in the air. Rather than interrupt, he made himself visible, taking a cup of thick, black coffee and downing it in two gulps—right in the middle of the crowd. After his appearance last night, no one could be surprised to see him this morning or doubt who he was. He was just making sure of that.
Hightower knew of Roman’s responsibilities for the crown, and he knew Roman’s feelings about Belgrano. Roman wasn’t worried. Hightower was the canny sort to wheedle information from the lowest deckhand to the most uncooperative officials in the admiralty.
Once Roman knew he’d been seen by Belgrano, he proceeded to the buffet and prepared his plate. He couldn’t help himself—he loaded it with the best of the food. Mountains of it. More than he could finish in one sitting.
He strolled to the table. “Gentlemen, may I join you?”
They both stood and bowed. “Señor Forrester,” Belgrano said with utmost courtesy, but Roman saw the burning hatred in his gaze, along with some apprehension about what Roman intended to do.
“Forrester,” Commodore Hightower said. “Please sit. We were just discussing the fantastical voyage that your brother and I had in the South Atlantic and our subsequent trial by fire in Patagonia.”
“An interesting story to be sure. You and Oliver are lucky to be alive. And it seems, so am I.” Roman snapped a linen napkin over his knee and glanced up. “I can’t imagine why anyone would report such a thing unless they knew it for a fact, can you, Señor Belgrano?”
“Es lo que es,” Belgrano said, with a shrug.
“Or it is what you wanted it to be?”
“What are you saying?” Belgrano asked.
“This is a conversation for another day, gentlemen,” Hightower said. “I would like to enjoy the next few days without conflict or worry. I am home. We are safe. Let us discuss the fine crops, healthy herds or my beautiful grandson. Nothing else, if you please.”
Roman smiled, happy to have a friend in his corner, and one who controlled much of what happened at Las Colinas in spite of his absence.
“He is a fine boy and wonderful surprise,” Roman said.
“Indeed.” Hightower excused himself and returned to the buffet.
“So, Señor Belgrano, I am told you are in possession of a king’s pardon. That must be a relief.” Sarcasm dripped from his words.
“All the better to ensure I am not unjustly persecuted by English whoresons. But, if you are interested, it has been a most beneficial year and I remain a dedicated citizen of Spain.”
“The king must have been completely unaware of the depth of your depravity and inhumanity to other citizens of Spain. It is unfortunate I wasn’t there to provide some testimony on your behalf.”
