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Shelene had boarded the ship in Brighton, happier than she’d been in months. Freed, almost. She hadn’t looked back as the English shore receded and now there was a new horizon. Purpose had a way of reviving a person’s soul.
Since Papa had carted her and Mother off to London, Shelene had been like a cork bobbing in the water. Unsure. Directionless.
She wouldnotcredit Roman as the reason her heart beat with renewed vigor.
The truth was she had become a dull lump in London, caring for Mother and whiling away the days, dreaming of what could not be. And for the last time, she knew, really knew, that Romancould not be.
She had held out hope, longer than any sane woman should have. All this time she’d prayed for something to change… For Roman to change.
But she was the one who must transform her life. Secretly pining, desperately dreaming?Hmpf. She would grow old and die before Roman Forrester’s eyes would be opened to the truth.
Or more likely, he would be ensnared by some English beauty without an ounce of fire in her blood, only the blueness that makes her appear to be a suitable match.
Bah! Let him. Let him live a life of compromise and capitulation under the thumb of a nagging wife.
“Miss Hightower, we will not dock for several more hours. You may wish to retire to your quarters and rest until then.” The bright-eyed porter had been very solicitous on the hours-long journey. “We only await the proper tide.”
Shelene had requested the room because both she and her lady’s maid were poor sea travelers. Martina was abed just now. Her moaning forced Shelene to exit the tiny cabin for fear she would end up in a worse state. Martina’s son traveled with them, curious about everything, and he currently hung off the rigging of a large wooden boom. As long as the crew was not correcting him, neither would she. Let the boy have his fun.
But ifshehad her choice, she would be riding her horse over the rolling plains of her family’s estate, Andalucían breezes streaming through her hair, a stallion’s flanks heaving between her thighs.
She shook her head, wanting to clear those recollections of Roman. In London, it had been surprisingly easy to curb such intense feelings. He was never in residence and had never tried to see her, so they had no store of memories together. But on the water, traversing the sweet-smelling earth of Spain, traveling together to Greece and Italy with her family—there she had a storehouse of precious memories.
Just as the porter said, docking took extensive time, and the sun was just hitting the horizon when the ship bumped against the wooden pier. As she stepped from the boat, she gripped the railing and glanced around. All manner of ships filled the unloading areas, hull to hull, and they bustled with scrubby sailors and proud militia. The seagulls that had been screeching all day were finally looking to rest.
Young Joaquin found a carriage, and they were whisked away from the cursing, crushing activity of the dock and the smell of dead fish and human offal to a snug and safe hotel away from the wildness of the peers.
The next morning, at breakfast, the trio found an empty block slab table and filled the sturdy benches around it. A basket of black, wheat and rye breads already sat in the middle of the table, and a diligent serving girl arrived with butter, honey and a plate of soft-boiled eggs.
“Café au lait, s’il vous plait, mademoiselle,” Shelene said. The girl bobbed and hurried away.
“Señorita,” her duenna whispered. “It seems rather coarse, do you not agree?” She pointed with her chin.
The room was a bit overcrowded, and aged with smoke and wear, but as Shelene glanced about she watched as several French officers, decorated in their blue and red and gold braid, pushed into the room.
“It will do, Martina. My mission will only require a few days before we travel home.”
“But this undertaking is unbecoming of a single woman of stature,” Martina said, followed by a reproving cluck of her tongue.
Shelene ignored Martina for the moment but absently patted her hand in assurance. She knew she wasn’t lucky enough to have stumbled upon the exact person she needed to speak with, but it was a suitable start to her day. The four soldiers sat in a corner on the opposite side of the room.
“Joaquin?”
“Sí, señorita?”He stuffed buttered bread in his mouth, his gaze wide-eyed and earnest.
He jumped, still chewing, but Shelene grabbed his arm. “Explain to thecaporal, in English, that I wish to speak with him a moment. The proud one with theshakoand epaulets. Go on now.”
Joaquin wiped his sleeve across his mouth and nodded, darting across the room and around its other occupants. Shelene leaned a bit to watch the conversation and, when thecaporalglanced in her direction, she smiled then demurely looked away.
The young man took up his hat, followed Joaquin and marched toward her, ready to save the day. He clicked his heels; his bow sharp and quick.
“Miss, how may I be of assistance?” His accent was heavy, indicative of a rural French man and not the cultured set of a well-to-do Parisian family. Perhaps he spoke Breton at home. Still, he had rank and bore himself with authority.
She nodded, again using her gaze along with a few flicks of her lashes to hold his attention. “Caporal, I need information, please.”
“Oui.”
“I was given to believe a French warship arrived in port during the past few weeks with distressing news about a British vessel, theHMS Victorious. It was reported theVictorioussank around Cape Horn. I am trying to discover information. It is most urgent that I do so.”
