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

by Collette Cameron

  Angelina took a breath and rushed on. “I told her I wasn’t interested in marrying again. Please believe me, when I tell you I never—”

  “I believe you.”

  “Oh. You do?” Her gaze sank to the floor. She seemed at a complete loss as to how to respond.

  Flynn rose and set aside his glass. Taking a few steps, he stood before her and took her hands in his. He kissed the knuckles of each. “I know you didn’t scheme to marry me.”

  Believing her proved easy. Flynn knew firsthand her reluctance to wed him. That seemed to be changing, however.

  He prayed he was right.

  This past week, Angelina had been preoccupied caring for her mother. The distraction gratified him. Her business helped to take her mind off Davy.

  Had she told her family about her son?

  He didn’t think so.

  Too considerate to add to their burdens, Angelina carried her afflictions alone, without complaint. That was too much for anyone to bear. He hoped in time, she’d learn to trust him and share everything.

  Such as why she picked the particular scent she did for her perfume. The fragrance lingered in the room long after she left and drove him near to distraction with want every time he caught a whiff.

  Or why she sang when she bathed. Or if she would like to have him teach her French. Did she like champagne or peaches? Did she enjoy riding or theater?

  Could she be happy with me—for the rest of her life?

  “A penny for your thoughts,” Yancy prompted kindly, rather than in his usual bantering fashion.

  So absorbed in his musings, Flynn had forgotten his friend waited for an answer.

  “It’s of no consequence now. I’m good and bound to Angelina. Had I this in my possession,” Flynn lifted the card and waved it, “beforehand, I’d have pursued the issue and seen Waterford destroyed. The cheat may not have pulled the trigger. Nonetheless, I hold him solely responsible for Father’s death.”

  He quelled the wave of black rage that seized him.

  “But the point is moot. I have a wife I care deeply for. In fact, I supposed I owe that old bear a debt of gratitude for introducing us, though it galls me to the soles of my feet to admit it. She’s worth far more to me than my fortune or reputation. Even my pride.”

  He tossed the card away.

  Yancy leveled him a contemplative stare. He raised his glass in a mock toast. “For where your treasure is, there your heart shall be also.”

  “Exactly so.” Flynn smiled widely, truly optimistic about his marriage for the first time.

  What irony. The reasons compelling Angelina and him to marry no longer existed. Convinced they’d never have met otherwise, he would not regret his lack of choice in the beginning. Flynn couldn’t imagine his life without her.

  In a few short weeks, she’d become an integral part of his existence. How she managed to do so, he couldn’t say, and the reason really didn’t matter. He wasn’t one to question his good fortune or a blessing once disguised as a curse.

  He touched his coat pocket, Angelina’s belated birthday present tucked within. She wouldn’t mind his tardiness. Before they dined tonight, he’d give her his gift.

  Flynn turned his attention to his friend. “Will you stay and sup with us?”

  Shaking his head, Yancy stood. “No, I promised Harcourt and Faulkenhurst I’d venture to some of the gaming hells with them this evening.”

  “They’re also in Town?”

  Flynn advanced to the door, holding it open as Yancy passed through. “I’ll never understand why you three loiter in London’s stench when you have comfortable country estates far more pleasant this time of year.”

  “There are still some amusements to be had for an unshackled chap, my friend. Besides, my dear stepmother is in residence at Bronwedon Towers, which means Matilda—”

  “Is there too,” Flynn finished. “I take it Cecily and Matilda are bent on making the chit the next Countess Ramsbury?”

  Poor Yancy. Since he unexpectedly came into his title four years ago, his stepmother plagued him incessantly about a match between him and Matilda.

  “How old is Matilda now, anyway?” Flynn squinted at Yancy.

  “Old enough to try and corner me in the solarium the last time I ventured to Bronwedon. And I don’t believe it’s the first time she’s engaged in such behavior.”

  Yancy grimaced. “That was no inexperienced miss, I tell you.”

  He gave a dramatic shudder before slapping Flynn on the shoulder.

  “Don’t bother calling for Jeffers, I can see my way out.” Yancy pointed. “It’s there. That garishly painted pinkish door.”

  “It’s not pink—it’s puce. Mother picked the color.”

  Despite Yancy’s needling, Flynn followed him from the study, their boots clicking in unison on the parquet floor. “I’ll walk you to the door. I wouldn’t mind a breath of fresh air.”

  He scraped a hand through his hair. “By God, I’m glad the rain has stopped. Typical of London. Fog or rain, when the rest of the country enjoys sunshine.”

  Yancy retrieved his hat and cane from the table beside the entrance.

  Flynn had just grasped the latch when someone knocked briskly.

  “Were you expecting somebody else?” Raising a brow, the earl donned his beaver hat.

  Jeffers hurried to the entrance, tugging on his white gloves. He slowed to a stop, uncertainty etched on his austere features upon spying Flynn already at the door.

  He waved the butler away. “I’ll answer, since I’m seeing Lord Ramsbury out.”

  “I think I’ll linger and discover why someone’s calling right before dinner, no doubt expecting an invitation to dine.” A sardonic smirk arced Yancy’s mouth. “That’s what comes of having such an accomplished chef.”

  Flynn snorted, drawing the door open.

  “Don’t judge everyone by your own boorish behavior, Yancy.”

  A rather chipper Lord Devaux greeted Flynn. Behind the baron a handful of his men loitered, some near a carriage and others holding their horses’ reins.

  “Are you in the habit of answering the door yourself, my lord?” The baron arched an eyebrow.

  Chuckling, Flynn shook his head. “No, hardly ever. I was bidding Ramsbury farewell. I believe you met in passing at Craiglocky.”

  “Is that what you call that disaster?” Yancy pushed his way ahead.

  The earl and baron grinned in apparent mutual understanding. They’d each been on the receiving end of the Ferguson misses’ less than cordial hospitality.

  Introductions were made in short order.

  Yancy took his leave, whistling a jaunty tune as he strode along the sidewalk, swinging his cane. His residence wasn’t more than a half-mile away, which at times could prove annoying.

  Flynn never knew when the chap would pop in for a dram of brandy or dawdle about and irritate him with nonsensical twaddle.

  Jeffers hovered nervously in the corridor pretending to straighten the already perfect-as-a-painting bouquet of roses displayed on a narrow table.

  “Do come in, Devaux, before my majordomo thinks I don’t have need of his services any longer.” Flynn scanned the men lingering on the street. “Would they care to visit the servants’ quarters for some refreshment?”

  “Non, there’s no need. I’ll only be a moment.” Devaux stepped neatly across the threshold and dutifully moved aside so Jeffers could close the door.

  “Your hat and gloves, sir?” The butler waited expectantly beside Lord Devaux.

  “Sorry, Jeffers. The baron won’t be staying.” Flynn bit back a guffaw at the affronted pout the majordomo’s mouth formed.

  With a hurt sniff, Jeffers staidly marched to the end of the hall. With a last disapproving glower, he jutted
his chin, looking rather like an oversized turtle, and vanished into the dining room.

  “I’d say he’s peeved at you.” A distinct hint of humor edged the Frenchman’s voice.

  Flynn grimaced. “He usually is. If you please, my study is this way.”

  He headed to the room he’d occupied a short while ago.

  Devaux’s footsteps echoed behind Flynn. “Bretheridge, I wanted to make you aware. Pierre’s ship, Ange de la Mer, sailed with this morning’s tide.”

  Halfway to the study, Flynn spun about. He narrowed his eyes, fresh wrath whipping his fury. “His ship is named Angel of the Sea?”

  His lips clamped in a thin strip, the baron nodded. “A coincidence I cannot deny. I swear to you, she was named thus before he met your wife. Rather ironic when you consider his cargo.”

  “Indeed.” Flynn rested his hands on his hips. “And Renault sailed? You know this for certain?”

  “Oui.” Devaux strode farther into the entry. He rubbed his fingers along the brim of his hat. “I checked with the port officer myself. Pierre was seen boarding the vessel last night and standing at the bow when she sailed at dawn.”

  Heady relief surged through Flynn.

  Angelina is safe.

  “I showed the official an image to make sure. The man was positive Pierre walked up the gangplank.” The baron reached into his coat pocket.

  Flynn could no more deny himself a perusal of Angelina’s tormentor than he could ignore his growing feelings for her.

  The man gazing out from the miniature portrait was irrefutably handsome, except for the aloofness in his eyes and a cynical curl to his lips.

  With a sharp nod, Flynn indicated he’d finished studying the image. “Where’s the ship bound?”

  “She’s to pick up goods in France. Nantes, to be precise.” Devaux slid the miniature into his pocket. “She’ll sail to Gibraltar and from there, Bombay.”

  Flynn briefly scanned the entry and corridors, assuring himself they were alone. This conversation would be better served in the privacy of his study. No telling how Angelina or the twins would react should they come upon him conversing with Devaux.

  “Are you certain you won’t join me in my study?” Flynn gestured toward the open door.

  “Non, I wish to be on the next ship to France, and I’ve much to do before I sail with the tide this evening.”

  He put on his hat. “That bâtard doesn’t bear discomfort well. A voyage of that length is beyond him. I’d swear upon my mére’s grave, he’ll disembark in France.”

  His eyes hardened, not a hint of mercy in their icy depths. “I intend to seize him in our homeland. I aim to have charges brought against him for her murder, and if I can prove it, abducting women.”

  “Add bigamy to that list, will you?” Flynn asked, not a little discomfited by the knot of hatred in his gut toward a man he’d never met.

  Devaux turned toward the door. He paused, shifting to face Flynn once more. “If you have no further use of my men, I’ll take them with me. You still have the Scots here?”

  “Yes, by all means, take them.”

  Flynn couldn’t wait to tell Angelina. Her relief would be profound, as would her family’s. “With Renault gone, we have no further need for guards. I’ll send the Scots home tomorrow, as well.”

  “Come in.” Angelina balanced on one foot, a hand on her dressing table for stability. She bent to tug on a beaded slipper. She would be late to dinner again if she didn’t hurry.

  A rumble of thunder announced the arrival of the storm that portended all afternoon.

  Giving a firm yank, the shoe slid onto her heel.

  Three times this week she dashed to the dining room to see the others seated there ahead of her. Flynn always gave her a patient smile. She checked on Mama each evening before dining, and sometimes it took longer to get away than Angelina anticipated.

  She straightened and released a startled yelp when she bumped into a solid male body. She twisted to peer behind her.

  “Flynn, I thought you were one of the girls.”

  She laughed at the absurdity of the statement. The body pressing into hers was anything but feminine. She tried to turn around, but he stilled her by putting his hands on her bare shoulders.

  A rush of desire nearly had her bones melting against him.

  As thunder rocked the house again, he dropped a kiss onto her nape.

  She jumped. Dear God, she was in danger of dissolving at his feet, like Devonshire cream on a warm tart.

  He touched the sleeve of her turquoise gown. “I’m very glad you’re wearing this color tonight. I have something for you.”

  “You do?” She craned her neck to peer behind her.

  He slipped a long black velvet box from inside his coat.

  She wriggled in an attempt to push him away so she could turn around. He didn’t budge, but remained pressed firmly to her backside.

  A very naughty image shoved its way into her mind.

  Surely, that wasn’t possible.

  Or is it?

  For the first time, she noticed he wasn’t wearing black. He’d donned a smoky blue tailcoat. The color darkened his eyes to a rich, divinely sensual sea green.

  “Bend your neck,” Flynn whispered, his warm breath caressing her.

  Her breath caught.

  Lord help me.

  She dipped her chin to her chest, as much to oblige him as to hide the flush coloring her cheeks.

  Draping a necklace onto her bosom, Flynn gradually drew the pendant up until the cool stones rested an inch above her cleavage.

  “Happy birthday, Lina.” His knuckles caressed her nape. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

  “Oh, Flynn, I didn’t expect anything.” She touched the smooth gem. “Is it an emerald?”

  “It is indeed. A rare blue one, though you can see a hint of green within its depths too.”

  He secured the clasp, and the necklace sank lower. So did his hands until they rested on the curve of her ribs, a hairsbreadth from her breasts.

  If she sagged the slightest amount . . .

  A strand of the finest, perfectly matched pearls she’d ever seen rested against her bosom. A triangular gold inlay lined with diamonds attached a tear-shaped emerald as big as her thumb to the pearls.

  “It’s brilliant. Thank you.” She touched the beads at her neck. “I’ll treasure it always.”

  “There are also ear bobs.” He released her.

  Opening her hand, he dropped a pair of teardrop pearl and emerald earrings onto her palm.

  She placed them on her ears, adjusted a few dangling curls, then surveyed the result in the looking glass. She fingered the vibrant stone at her breast again.

  “I’ve never seen anything half as lovely.”

  “I have.” He stared at her reflection, possessive pride darkening his eyes. His smile was both seductive and triumphant. “The emerald is the same color your eyes are after I kiss you.”

  She swallowed an unladylike gulp. “It is?”

  Bother. Was she incapable of acting the least bit sophisticated? Her voice sounded like a frog croaking, for pity’s sake. A half dead frog, at that.

  “It is indeed.” He trailed a finger from her neck, across a shoulder, and then to the treasure nestled between her breasts. “I confess, I’m curious.”

  Oh, dear God.

  She stifled a moan.

  “Curious?” she managed, sounding almost normal.

  If breathy and sultry and utterly wanton are normal, that is.

  He turned her in his arms. His dark head inched lower until his lips hovered above hers. “Yes. I wonder what color your eyes will be while I make love to you. And afterward when I’ve brought you to completion.”

  Th
e scent of his subtle, spicy cologne wafted past her nose. She clasped his lapels to stay standing. Her dratted knees were of no use at all, ridiculous, weak things.

  Then his lips met hers. All sensible thought flew in the face of her passion.