Triumph and Treasure (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Book 1)

by Collette Cameron

  Afterward, Fleming sent Flynn a missive. The agreement was ironclad. The duke couldn’t renege on so much as a farthing.

  The cleric slapped his hand on his desk, the sound startling Flynn from his reverie.

  “That’s exactly what I was going to recommend, lad.” He stood and ushered Flynn to the door. “Ask the lass what she wants. I think ye’ll be surprised.”

  Before he realized what Reverend Wallace was about, Flynn had been nudged through the doorway and found himself staring at the closed wooden expanse an inch from his nose.

  A week later, Flynn sat at Sethwick’s desk, a composed and somber Angelina sitting across from him.

  “You don’t want an annulment?” He forced the words from his dry mouth.

  Seizing the quill atop the desk, he tapped the tip sharply on the surface, desperate to release some of the tension flooding him.

  Blast, what a deuced, complicated mess.

  An annulment was possible, if Angelina remained in Scotland. The marriage hadn’t been consummated, and more than a dozen witnesses could testify to that fact.

  If not an annulment, a divorce was certainly feasible, wasn’t it? He hadn’t discussed that option with the reverend. The wise thing to do would have been to investigate the Church of Scotland’s marriage laws more thoroughly before toddling off across the border for a hasty wedding.

  Idiot.

  The knowledge Renault snooped about, trying to find Angelina, added danger to the already simmering situation. To keep her safe, Flynn must make haste.

  His gaze caressed her. Lord, she was beautiful. How could he let her go? Yet he would, to allow her the happiness she’d been denied.

  If Angelina was, in fact, bound to him for life, she would be beside herself. Her terms had been quite specific.

  One year.

  He’d never be able to convince her he hadn’t deliberately deceived her.

  Shifting his attention, Flynn scrutinized the rather austere study. He doubted Sethwick spent much time in the dismal room. Dark and drafty, even in the summer, the chamber was tomb-like with its stone walls and high, narrow windows.

  The library was brighter and more welcoming. Besides, Yvette used a desk located there. She and Sethwick were as inseparable as a turtle and its shell.

  Flynn hadn’t dared hope for something as wonderful. Still, he hadn’t expected to pursue a means to terminate his marriage after a mere week either.

  He learned Angelina intended to leave her chamber today and had asked her to join him in the study. Except to attend a short funeral for her son, she’d not ventured below stairs.

  He was convinced her self-imposed isolation was as much to avoid the other curious residents of the keep as to mourn her loss. Lydia and her entourage were in residence indefinitely, and it appeared Devaux-Rousset had settled in for an extended visit as well.

  Upon learning the baron’s mother had been a girlhood friend, Aunt Giselle insisted he remain for as long as he desired.

  God rot good manners.

  There’d be no getting rid of the man until he had his discussion with Angelina. And since she wasn’t receiving visitors, the Frenchman would be loitering about the place and poking his nose into Flynn’s private affairs.

  Namely, his marriage.

  Reverend Wallace believed—given the events of the wedding day—an annulment would likely be granted, and possibly quite speedily. The Church of Scotland was considerably more lax than England’s regarding such matters. His and Angelina’s wasn’t the typical annulment situation which required several months’ residence in Scotland.

  So now Flynn sat in this gloomy crypt of a study, trying to decide the best course of action. Words didn’t usually fail him. Perhaps because nothing ever mattered this much before.

  Asking Angelina what she wanted to do was the hardest thing he’d ever done. Truth to tell, he didn’t want an annulment. Contemplating her walking out of his life, when he’d only begun to know her, left him destitute. Beyond a doubt, he’d never treasure in his heart again what he felt for her.

  Pretending absorption in the quill, he observed her through half-closed eyes. He ran a finger the length of the feather, ruffling its stiff edge.

  She’d yet to answer his question about the annulment. Her green gaze roved the study, avoiding him. Was she nervous? It reminded him of her first, her only, visit to Lambridge.

  Angelina finally looked at him full on, cocking her head and studying him with her usual honest appraisal. A reddish-gold curl lay against her neck.

  A wave of envy swept him. He ached to take the strand’s place and touch her silken, ivory skin.

  Despite bluish shadows beneath her eyes, which only served to make them appear a more remarkable shade of sea green, she was radiant. She wore a simple morning gown of russet and peach, the colors highlighting the burnished hues in her hair. Even after losing the babe, she’d not returned to mourning garb.

  He was glad.

  A treasure, Angelina deserved to wear finery enhancing her loveliness. Once again, she wore no jewels.

  He’d have to see about that.

  A yellow topaz and emerald necklace with matching drop earrings belonged to the marquisship. His mother had worn the set a number of times. The gems were perfect for Angelina’s coloring.

  Fiend seize it, he concocted plans as if she’d remain his marchioness.

  Flynn balanced the pen between two fingers. Trying to sound nonchalant, he repeated, “You don’t want an annulment now?”

  “I never said that.” Angelina traced her armchair’s satin piped edge with her fingertips. “I simply want clarification. Are you assuming I expect an immediate annulment because my reason for marrying you no longer exists?”

  Other than a slight catch when she spoke the last words, her voice remained strong. She fiddled with her wedding band, twisting it round and round. It slid with ease, attesting to the weight she’d lost in recent days.

  “I do understand if you wish to pursue other . . . ventures, and that’s why you wish to seek a prompt end to our marriage.”

  Barely audible, Flynn strained to hear her last words.

  Dropping the quill, he stood. He raked a hand through his hair and stared at her.

  Angelina regarded him calmly, yet he detected a hint of apprehension in her expression.

  What was she about? Did she or did she not want to terminate their union?

  No longer encumbered with a child, she could move on. The babe was the only reason she agreed to their union. She’d made that abundantly clear in England.

  He’d see her well settled. She’d want for nothing until she married again, for he had every confidence she would.

  Strikingly beautiful, as well as witty and intelligent, some lucky sod would snatch Angelina up the moment she ventured into the Marriage Mart.

  Flynn hadn’t the faintest notion what he’d tell his family. He’d concoct some believable balderdash. Maybe even the truth. It was as farfetched and implausible as any tale he’d ever heard spun.

  Except for Father’s death, of course.

  They mustn’t ever know the whole of that ugliness.

  “What if I don’t want to pursue other ventures, but would prefer to remain wed to you?” He laid it out quite plainly, as obvious as a wig on a pig, as Grandmamma would say.

  Here was her chance.

  Angelina’s gaze flashed to his. The vulnerability in her eyes twisted his heart and hitched his breath.

  “I thought . . . that is . . .” She clamped her lip between her white teeth, her eyes huge and hopeful. “Do you not intend to wed Miss Farnsworth?”

  Flynn drew Angelina to her feet, his fingers enfolding her small hands as if they’d been sculpted to fit neatly within his palms.

  “I th
ought I did, until I met you.”

  Delighted surprise illuminated her face.

  He kissed her hand. “You snared me the moment I spied you perched in that old oak tree.”

  “I did?” Her wondering eyes searched his. “Barefoot and a disheveled mess?”

  “And completely charming with dirt smudged on the tip of your nose.”

  He could see the turmoil churning in the depths of her eyes and could almost read her mind.

  She doesn’t know if she dare trust me and doesn’t know if I’m telling her the truth or wrapping her in another web of deceit.

  Her hesitancy was tangible. How hard it must be for her to put her faith in a man again.

  “We could go on as we intended.” Her gaze sank to his mouth, and her pink tongue peeked out to wet her lips. “Stay together the designated year and see what might develop between us.”

  A rosy hue tinted her high cheeks. She valiantly met his eyes. “That is, if you’re quite sure . . .”

  Uncertainty mingled with hope tinged her words.

  In that moment it struck him. Gaining her trust would be a monumental undertaking. Not only didn’t she trust men, even more significantly, she didn’t trust herself.

  Renault had done that to her. Had the blackguard been present, Flynn would have rearranged his face, after pounding an apology from him.

  Stepping nearer, Flynn drew Angelina ever closer until his thighs and chest brushed hers. “I’d like nothing better, I assure you.”

  Her tongue dampened her lip once more.

  With a small groan, he claimed her sweet mouth, crushing her against him.

  She responded timidly at first, almost as if she afraid to relinquish control.

  “Open to me,” he whispered against her soft lips. He teased the seam of her mouth with his tongue.

  Her lips parted on a sigh.

  Flynn plunged his tongue into her honeyed depths.

  Angelina leaned into him, draping her arms about his shoulders and angling her head to give him deeper access to her mouth.

  Desire, at first a glowing ember, burst forth into a consuming fire of want and passion. Flynn ravaged her mouth, reaching behind her to grasp her lush derrière and lift it, pressing her insistently against his hardness.

  She squirmed, tightening her arms around his neck and wriggling to get closer, her kisses every bit as voracious as his.

  Yet, even in her hunger, an innocence prevailed he couldn’t ignore. How knowledgeable was she about these matters?

  He trailed his mouth along her jaw and, feathering tiny nipping kisses the entire way, ventured to the juncture of her neck and shoulder. He’d yearned to kiss the silky flesh since seeing her in that green gown on their wedding day.

  Clutching his shoulders, Angelina moaned and sagged against him. Her breasts surged above her gown, begging to be kissed. Her perfumed skin taunted him unmercifully.

  Flynn sank his face between the velvety mounds, almost overcome. He inhaled deeply, her subtle scent intoxicating him.

  God, if she hadn’t recently been through the trauma of losing a child, he’d be hard pressed to not lift her skirts and take her against the desk. Pressure surged in his loins, threatening to explode in sweet release.

  Flynn returned his attention to her mouth, nibbling and sucking, while he struggled to get his rampant lust under control. His rigid cock-stand could shatter bricks.

  Three bold raps upon the door interrupted them.

  Breathing heavily, Flynn stepped away from Angelina.

  Eyes closed, her lips parted and ruby-red, she bore a bemused expression on her face.

  He ran a finger along the edge of her bodice, before adjusting the fabric to completely cover her once more.

  Her eyes opened languidly, a nascent smile of sensual delight framing her mouth.

  Two knocks rang again, this time more insistent.

  Flynn brushed a kiss across her lips. “Methinks someone without is quite desperate to disturb us.”

  “Yes, except they don’t know what they’re interrupting, do they?” Her voice husky, she peered pointedly at the swell in his trousers.

  Ye gods. Who is this sultry siren?

  His manhood flexed in response. He closed his eyes and groaned.

  Minx.

  A seductive chuckle rippled from her. “Shall I answer while you seek privacy behind the desk?”

  He forced his eyes open.

  Angelina had already taken half a dozen steps in the door’s direction.

  He gulped and hastily strode to the desk. Once seated, he checked to make sure she faced away before adjusting himself. Attempting to woo her to his bed would wreak havoc on the unhappy comrade in his trousers. Maybe he’d take to bathing in the frigid loch.

  Angelina grinned coyly before opening the door and revealing the baron. A startled expression skittered across her face, promptly replaced by leeriness. “My lord?”

  “Please excuse my intrusion.” Lord Devaux-Rousset bowed. “As I explained when I arrived, it’s imperative I speak with you, my lady. I’ve dallied in Scotland too long, and there are pressing matters I must attend to in England and at home.”

  Flynn stood, and waved the man in. Best to let him have his say.

  Angelina dipped her head and stepped aside, allowing the baron to enter.

  Devaux-Rousset’s mustached mouth tilted a fraction. “Merci.”

  “Would you care for a glass of wine or brandy, or do you prefer whisky? Sethwick boasts a fine Scotch.” Flynn gestured to the liquor cabinet, reluctant to cross the room in his still-aroused state. Instead, he regained his chair.

  “Non, I’d rather get to the point of my visit.”

  “Of course. Please, have a seat.” Flynn indicated one of the comfortable chairs before the desk.

  Angelina remained poised beside the closed door, indecision in her stance, almost as if prepared to flee.

  Flynn extended an arm, inviting her to stand beside his chair. “My lady?”

  Her lips curved in gratitude, and she hastened to his side.

  He took her hand in his at once.

  Ice-cold and faintly damp, her trembling fingers clutched his.

  He gave her a reassuring smile.

  “So, my lord, what matter could possibly be of such urgency, you’d venture to Scotland to speak with my wife?”

  Flynn relaxed against the worn leather chair. “Actually, I’d like to know how you located her in the first place.”

  Angelina shivered slightly, and Flynn squeezed her hand.

  The baron inclined his head. “A reasonable question. I have a network of associates adept at locating persons I seek.”

  He cut a glance toward Angelina. “As Lady Bretheridge may have told you, I’ve had the unfortunate task of finding my mother’s wayward husband more than once using such measures.”

  The baron’s voice and eyes grew hard and cold. The steely glint glimmering in his dark gaze gave no hint of the amiable man entering the study moments before.

  Angelina paled and swayed.

  Swallowing a sailor’s foul curse, Flynn stood. He wrapped a bracing arm about her shoulders and led her to the chair beside the baron. “Sit, please.”

  She sank onto the cushion, murmuring, “He tracked Charles and me to the Plaza Hotel in Boston.”

  “Truth to tell, I’d lost Pierre’s trail. I didn’t learn of your sham marriage until I traced him to the hotel, an hour after you arrived.” Devaux-Rousset swept her with a compassionate gaze. “I regret I didn’t arrive earlier.”

  Angelina’s face flamed crimson. She averted her eyes.

  Devil it. Devaux-Rousset needn’t have brought up that unpleasantness.

  “Rather an odd sort of occupation, clandest
inely pursuing people.” Flynn stepped back until his hips rested against the desk’s edge. He folded his arms, waiting for the baron to explain.

  “Non, not really, and please, call me Devaux. My complete name is a mouthful.” Devaux shrugged, adding, “Surely you have men of business whom you trust to procure information for you, non? It’s the same for me.”