Yancy immediately sent two naval vessels to Caldey Island.
The Ange de la Mer relinquished the women without a fight, and her crew had been taken into custody.
Flynn would never ridicule the fussy butler again.
He’d flattened Renault the instant the Frenchman pointed his gun at Angelina. Jeffers caused Pierre’s mark to hit high, saving her life.
The bullet had lodged in her shoulder, requiring surgical removal. Forbidden to lift so much as a hairpin lest she rip her stitches, the surgeon had ordered her to rest.
Flynn never wanted to feel that kind of dread again.
To hear her passionately moan his name while they made love and less than twelve hours later, fear she’d never speak again. No, his heart couldn’t stand it.
He raised her hand and kissed the back of it.
Angelina turned her head and brushed a lock of hair off his forehead. “You look tired. That’s what comes of sleeping in a chair.”
He pressed her palm to his face. “I couldn’t leave you.”
“I know, my love.” She caressed his cheek with her thumb. “I knew you were there. I cannot explain it. Even when I slept, I sensed your presence beside me.”
She turned her attention to the window again.
A smattering of snowy clouds floated in the brilliant blue sky, and the gladiolas had finally bloomed. They stood, bunches of colorful sentinels, basking in the morning sun.
“I never asked you how you discovered Pierre was here.” Angelina continued to gaze at the garden.
“I bumped into a man on the walkway when I left. I didn’t realize it was Renault until I arrived at White’s.” Flynn wrapped an arm around her shoulders, mindful not to jostle the bandage bulging from beneath her nightgown.
“Suddenly, I remembered where I’d seen his face before. I dashed inside, snatched the others, and we sped here, neck or nothing.”
Angelina rested her head against his shoulder. “But I thought you’d never seen Pierre. How did you know what he looked like?”
“Devaux showed me a miniature portrait.” Flynn kissed her head, running a hand through the curls draped about her shoulders. He adored her hair.
Of a sudden, Angelina leaned forward, the tartan sliding to the floor.
He reached to steady her. “Careful, Lina, your shoulder.”
“Flynn.” She pointed to the hedge. A pair of birds cuddled close, preening and billing one another. “What kind are they?”
He bent to see where she stared.
“Turtledoves. I think they’re called mourning doves in America. They mate for life. If one dies, the other remains alone until it, too, dies. Rather sweet, isn’t it?” He traced her jaw with a finger.
She gasped and covered her face, weeping softly.
What had he said?
“What’s wrong? Is your shoulder hurting?” Flynn turned her face to his. He couldn’t bear to see her cry. “Shall I call for Gregor? Do you need more of the pain tonic he’s been giving you?”
“No.” She pressed a swift kiss to his lips. “I was terrified to trust you. So, I asked God for a sign, to show me I could let myself love you.”
Understanding dawned. His gaze veered to the doves once more. One rested its head against the other’s neck.
“The doves? Was that the sign you asked for?”
She gave him a tremulous smile before she sought the birds again. “I asked for something simple, like a triple rainbow or doves sitting on a hedge.”
“Ah, well, He gave you half of what you asked for. I’d say that’s not bad at all. A triple rainbow would be rather hard to come by.” Flynn chuckled, wiping a tear on her cheek away with his thumb.
She shook her head. “No, He did both. There was a triple rainbow the day Pierre shot me.”
“You actually saw a triple rainbow?” He caressed her ear and grinned.
“Yes, and now the doves.”
She met his eyes, hers shimmering with unshed tears. “Do you think it’s possible we were meant to meet?”
Gently, so as not to disturb her wound, Flynn gathered Angelina into his arms. “I’ve never been more convinced of anything in my life.”
Epilogue
Brooke Tweadle
May 1820
“Oh, Flynn, do be careful. I nearly tripped.” Angelina pointed to a gnarled, moss-covered root.
His attention dropped to her rounded belly. “Don’t worry about me. Just make sure you don’t fall.”
She laughed lightly. “I’m fine.”
Flynn held Paisley in one arm and Peyton in the other, as Nurse trundled behind, her arms full of necessaries for the twins.
They’d chosen to name the girls old Scottish names in honor of the Scots heritage on both sides of their families. The toddlers, a scant two months past their first birthday, fussed at not being allowed to run to the creek.
Angelina neatly stepped over another root. “Are you sure you don’t want me to carry one of them?”
“No, the blanket and basket are enough for you.” Flynn walked the last few feet to the embankment.
After spreading the plaid, Angelina laid out their food. This had become her favorite pastime. She and Flynn began these excursions right after they married and he’d purchased Wingfield Court.
Nurse busied herself arranging the girls’ items, though she eyed the cattle warily every now and again.
“I’m glad you bought Wingfield from Waterford. Mama’s been happy there. And now, we can come here as often as we like.” Angelina settled herself on the ground and gathered Paisley close.
Her independent daughter promptly wiggled from her arms and began tottering around on pudgy legs.
“So long as Deamhan doesn’t break through the fence again,” Flynn drawled.
The disgruntled bull eyed them from between the slats of the newly built structure. Giving a low moo, he turned away and trudged across the field. His faithful harem trailed him.
Flynn lowered Peyton to the ground before sitting himself.
She wobbled for a moment, then followed her sister.
“I’ll mind the darlings.” Nurse hurried after the twins.
Angelina chuckled. “They’re so much like Lily and Iris.”
In temperament only.
They possessed Flynn’s chestnut hair, Angelina’s curls, and their eyes were green.
How could they not be?
“Are you sure you don’t regret not going to London for the Season? Most of our families are there.” Flynn removed his coat before laying his head in Angelina’s lap.
“Not at all.” She ran her fingers through his burnished strands with one hand and patted her stomach with the other.
“I’m as big as a walrus and about as graceful. Besides, we saw everyone for the girls’ birthday celebration in March.”
Flynn caught her hand and kissed it, then pressed his lips to her distended belly. “Who’d have thought Isobel and Seonaid would both be married and happy as grigs. And Harcourt too?”
“True. The girls certainly gave Yancy and Jacques fits.” Angelina giggled. “Though, the duke had the worst of it, poor man.”
Flynn turned onto his side and relaxed onto one elbow. “Do you remember that day I found you in that tree?”
He angled his head in the direction of the stately oak.
Angelina smiled and nodded. “Of course. I’ll never forget it.”
“I think I fell in love with you before you even clambered to the ground.” He reached and grasped a curl, gently tugging the strands until she lay beside him.
Angelina giggled when his practiced fingers skimmed her ribs. “You didn’t.”
“No, I did. One glimpse into your eyes, and I was lost.”
; He pressed his lips to hers, and as always, Angelina melted into his arms.
If you enjoyed Triumph and Treasure,
be sure to read Collette Cameron’s
Castle Bride Series,
now available from
Soul Mate Publishing at Amazon.com:
HIGHLANDER’S HOPE
Not a day has gone by that Ewan McTavish, the Viscount Sethwick, hasn't dreamed of the beauty he danced with two years ago. He's determined to win her heart and make her his own. Heiress Yvette Stapleton is certain of one thing; marriage is risky and, therefore, to be avoided. At first, she doesn't recognize the dangerously handsome man who rescues her from assailants on London's docks, but Lord Sethwick's passionate kisses soon have her reconsidering her cynical views on matrimony. On a mission to stop a War Office traitor, Ewan draws Yvette into deadly international intrigue. To protect her, he exploits Scottish law, declaring her his lawful wife—without benefit of a ceremony. Yvette is furious upon discovering the irregular marriage is legally binding, though she never said, "I do." Will Ewan's manipulation cost him her newfound love?
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THE VISCOUNT’S VOW
Half Romani, noblewoman Evangeline Caruthers is the last woman in England Ian Hamilton, the Viscount Warrick, could ever love—an immoral wanton responsible for his brother’s and father’s deaths.
Vangie thinks Ian’s a foul-tempered blackguard, who after setting out to cause her downfall, finds himself forced to marry her—snared in the trap of his own making. When Vangie learns the marriage ceremony itself may have been a ruse, she flees to her gypsy relatives, declaring herself divorced from Ian under Romani law. He pursues her to the gypsy encampment, and when the handsome gypsy king offers to take Ian’s place in Vangie’s bed, jealousy stirs hot and dangerous.
Under a balmy starlit sky, Ian and Vangie breech the chasm separating them, yet peril lurks. Ian is the last in his family line, and his stepmother is determined to dispose of the newlyweds so her daughter can inherit his estate. Only by trusting each other can Ian and Vangie overcome scandal and murderous betrayal.
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THE EARL’S ENTICEMENT
She won’t be tamed.
A fiery, unconventional Scot, Adaira Ferguson wears breeches, swears, and has no more desire to marry than she does to follow society’s dictates of appropriate behavior. She trusts no man with the secret she desperately protects.
He can’t forget.
Haunted by his past, Roark, The Earl of Clarendon, rigidly adheres to propriety, holding himself and those around him to the highest standards, no matter the cost. Betrayed once, he’s guarded and leery of all women.
Mistaking Roark for a known spy, Adaira imprisons him. Infuriated, he vows vengeance. Realizing her error, she’s appalled and releases him, but he’s not satisfied with his freedom. Roark is determined to transform Adaira from an ill-mannered hoyden to a lady of refinement.
He succeeds only to discover, he preferred the free-spirited Scottish lass who first captured his heart.
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Triumph and Treasure (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Book 1) Page 31