Table of Contents
TRIUMPH AND TREASURE
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
TRIUMPH AND TREASURE
ROMANCING A SCOT SERIES
COLLETTE CAMERON
SOUL MATE PUBLISHING
New York
TRIUMPH AND TREASURE
Copyright©2014
COLLETTE CAMERON
Cover Design by Christy Caughie
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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ISBN: 978-1-61935-637-5
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Also by Collette Cameron
CASTLE BRIDE SERIES
Highlander’s Hope
The Viscount’s Vow
The Earl’s Enticement
HIGHLAND HEATHER,
ROMANCING A SCOT SERIES
Triumph and Treasure
Acknowledgements
At the top of my list of wonderful people who must be thanked are my Regency critique partners: LS, EQ, VR, JR, CC, and BSM. I’ve grown so much as a writer with your invaluable input. I find it humbling and somewhat amazing that I’ve only met EQ in person. Yet for the past couple of years, you have been my rudders, my go-to-gals for questions, and my cheerleaders.
I treasure each of you.
I also have to give a shout-out to my daughter, Brianna, who despite being named for a heroine in a romance novel (yes, she really was) has always encouraged my writing. Her words of wisdom have anchored me more than once when I questioned whether or not I should continue along the writing journey.
My neglected husband deserves a medal for his patience, tolerance, and minimal complaining as I taught full-time and squeezed in writing every free minute I could glean. Many were the nights he cooked our dinner!
I’d be remiss if I didn’t thank Amylynn Bright for Triumph and Treasure’s wonderful cover quote and for being such a great long-distance friend. We share mutually quirky senses of humor and our birthdays are only one day apart which created an instant bond between us.
Of course, I must sing accolades to Christy Caughie for her brilliant cover! It’s as if she read my mind.
Finally, to Char Chaffin, editor extraordinaire, for her enthusiasm and excitement when I told her I had a six-book series planned. She said she’d contract the books before she’d even seen a word. I am so grateful for her confidence and faith in me and that she makes me dig deep to get it right!
Chapter 1
Boston, Massachusetts
Late March 1818
Angelina Ellsworth—no, she was Mrs. Moreau now—cast her husband of six hours a look of adoration as he escorted her across the marble floor of the luxurious Plaza Hotel. She resisted the urge to dance a giddy jig.
She was really married.
Angelina tried not to gawk at the immense glittering eight-foot crystal chandeliers, marble pillars and life-size, almost nude—er, make that entirely nude—statues of mythical gods and goddesses. Cherubs, their chubby feet and legs immersed in the water, edged a towering fountain burbling in the center of the lobby.
“Rather dazzling, chérie, non?”
Meeting Charles’s amused expression, heat tingled her cheeks. She’d been craning her neck, staring at the trompe l'oiel ceiling depicting gods and other immortals, also bare as Norfolk dumplings. Papa would have been scandalized. Nudity, mythical gods, vulgar displays of wealth. Blasphemous.
And utterly splendid.
She released a happy sigh.
If Papa had been alive, he’d never have consented to Charles courting her. Papa had been determined she marry a gentleman of his ilk. A staid, devout, boring fellow. Better yet, a man of the cloth. And with dowries the size of thimbles, Angelina and her sisters had few suitors, let alone debonair young men such as Charles.
Thank goodness, Mama entertained her own ideas, and after Papa’s passing, voiced and implemented them with complete disregard as to what her husband would have preferred. A romantic at heart, once Mama realized Angelina loved Charles, she consented to the match.
Angelina shook off her dreary thoughts. This was her wedding day. A rush of excitement caused her breath to quicken. In two days, they’d sail to the Continent for a lengthy honeymoon in Italy by way of France, Charles’s homeland.
Prior to meeting Charles, Angelina only dared hope that perhaps someday she might visit her aunt and uncle, the Duke and Duchess of Waterford, in England. She’d never met them. Aunt Camille was her mother’s twin, and they exchanged correspondences on occasion.
“Here’s your room key, sir.”
The skeleton key clinking on the countertop reined in Angelina’s ruminations.
“Thank you.” Charles slipped the key into his coat pocket before taking her arm. “Is the room prepared?”
“Yes, sir. Everything is as you requested.” The clerk smiled. “May I offer my congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Moreau?”
“Thank you.” Angelina and Charles spoke simultaneously.
He patted her arm, giving her a crooked grin.
Her stomach wobbled with that peculiar flip-flop it did whenever he smiled at her.
Angelina cast Charles a sidelong peek as he guided her toward the curved staircase. Three months ago this splendid man entered her life.
If it hadn’t been for Mama’s insistence that Angelina attend the Dennison’s Yuletide ball, she might never have met him. Aware her father’s cohort, horrid yellow-toothed Abraham Stockton would be there, she hadn’t wanted to
attend. The paunchy man always smelled of garlic and sweat.
And he was five and forty, if he was a day.
Despite Mama’s adamant refusal to allow him to call upon Angelina, he’d been trying to court her the three years since she turned seventeen. Mama claimed the man was dicked in the nob.
Angelina suspected, had he lived, Papa would have arranged a match between her and Mr. Stockton. She shuddered at the notion. She’d been hiding from him in a curtained alcove at the Dennison’s when a man darted into the enclosure.
Unaware she huddled on a sofa tucked in the corner, Charles peeked between the heavy velvet panels, muttering, “A more persistent match-making maman I’ve never encountered, and four plainer, pudgier mademoiselles—”
Angelina had erupted into laughter. “Mrs. Twiggels and the quartet, I’d wager.”
Charles spun around, peering into the shadowy nook. He’d chuckled, a wonderful low vibration deep in his chest. “Twiggels? Please tell me you jest, non?”
Yes, indeed, God had smiled on her that evening. Brought to Salem on business, Charles had arrived in Massachusetts that day. His presence at the ball had been pure chance. His associate had received an invitation and insisted Charles join him for the festivities.
Angelina swept Charles another love-filled gaze.
His lips skewed into a devilishly wicked smile, and the glint smoldering within his tawny eyes caused her heart to patter in anticipation.
With his black hair and high cheekbones, he cut a dashing figure. The navy blue of his coat enhanced his unusual brandy-colored eyes and emphasized the breadth of his shoulders.
Shoulders she itched to feel beneath her fingers.
Despite her gloves, her palms dampened. Angelina brushed her hands against her champagne-colored silk gauze gown, allowing herself to imagine Charles’s hands caressing her.
Soon, they would be.
They’d shared several fervent kisses during their short courtship, and once betrothed, he suggested they become more intimate. Raised by her zealot father, Angelina couldn’t bring herself to sin that way.
Not that she wasn’t anticipating the marriage bed.
She most definitely was.
Followed by four porters carrying their luggage, she and Charles climbed the arched risers. Their trunks had been sent to the ship.
Charles’s fingers caressed her spine.
A delicious tremor spiraled outward from where his palm lingered. She suppressed a slight gasp. Something more than curiosity stirred, making her impatient for his touches and kisses.
And he was a most skilled kisser.
Forced at the tender age of twenty to marry a much older woman to save his family’s estate, in the seven years since, he’d become a widower and made a fortune in commerce.
Angelina held no doubts his handsomeness availed him of many a willing bed partner, though she wasn’t supposed to know of such things. If the Dennison’s ball was any indication, women threw themselves at him in droves. However, much to her astonishment, he’d chosen to make her his wife.
Charles vowed he’d never loved another and that Angelina would be his until the day he died. She had no misgivings about his affection. A man couldn’t pretend the warmth in his amber eyes or the husky timbre of his voice when he spoke of his adoration.
She pressed her fingers against the ruby and diamond ring encircling her finger.
Yes, this is real.
“Happy, mon ange?” He gave her waist a slight squeeze.
His angel? She smiled and nodded, releasing a contented sigh. “Yes, blessedly and deliriously happy.”
She’d found love, something her parents’ marriage lacked. Angelina hadn’t been altogether certain love even existed outside her novels.
“Here we are.” Charles’s hand rested on the curve of her ribs, his thumb rubbing against her gown.
She bit her lip to keep from giggling.
He waited for the attendant to unlock their suite. The door swung open, revealing a room resplendent with roses of every imaginable shade.
Stepping farther inside, she spun in a slow circle, her skirts swishing about her ankles. The heady perfume of a hundred blossoms permeated the air. She sniffed in appreciation. Surveying the chamber, she spied flowers in the adjoining bedchamber and dashed to the parted door.
After peering within, she sent a glance over her shoulder. “What in heaven’s name?”
Speaking to the porters, Charles didn’t hear her.
Untying the ribbons at her chin, Angelina removed her bonnet. Her spencer followed. She placed both on the table beside the door, adding her reticule atop the pile.
She studied the bed dominating the room. A monstrous thing with carvings on the bedposts and along the canopy from which hung scarlet bed curtains, it was a blessed wonder the frame supported the oversized mattress.
She stepped closer and inspected the engraved posts.
Oh, my.
Nude forms entwined in various acts of intimacy coiled around the wood.
Good heavens.
Similar images of Greek and Roman gods adorned the walls and ceilings. Wicked as Sodom and Gomorrah. For the first time since entering the dazzling hotel, she experienced a twinge of discomfit. She wandered to the bedchamber’s entrance.
Charles finished speaking to the remaining attendant and passed the young man a coin.
“Of course, sir. Right away.” The porter smiled widely and stepped into the corridor. He hesitated, staring at the luggage piled about the entrance. “Do you wish me to have a maid sent to unpack?”
Charles shook his head. A strand of midnight hair fell across his forehead. “No, we’re only here two nights. We sail the day after tomorrow. I’m sure my wife and I can manage.”
He turned to wink at Angelina.
She grinned. Incorrigible rogue. But he was her rogue.
He closed the door before crossing to her in several elongated strides. Sweeping her into his arms, he nuzzled her neck.
She adored how she fit beneath his chin. At five feet eight inches, she stood taller than most woman of her acquaintance. Yet, within Charles’s embrace, she felt dainty and feminine.
Angelina laughed huskily. “My goodness, why all the roses?”
“For you mon ange rose. I wasn’t able to fill the room with angels, but roses, that I could arrange.” His eyes darkened to nearly black. “I’ve imagined you naked, lying on a bed scattered with rose petals.”
Should she be shocked? For the life of her she couldn’t summon a jot of chagrin.
My, I’ve become scandalous since meeting Charles.
He stepped away, and unbuttoned his cutaway coat. The gleam in his eye caused her pulse to do all manner of odd things. Surely he didn’t intend to . . .
Making love was most improper during the daytime. Wasn’t it? She glanced to the window, searching the sky. Enshrouded in a smoky violet-gray, dusk had scarcely fallen.
Charles wound his arms around her once more, reining in her wayward thoughts. He kissed her like a man long-starved.
Looping her arms behind his neck, Angelina returned the kiss.
He nudged his hips against her belly, his desire evident. “I simply must have you now, mon amor. I cannot wait.”
She hadn’t expected he would be quite so eager to bed her-and before dinner, it would seem. The knowledge both thrilled and disconcerted her.
“Help me with the hooks, will you?” She made to turn her back, needing his assistance to unfasten the gown.
“Non, that will take too long.”
Before she knew what he intended, he scooped her into his arms. In two strides, he reached the bed, then laid her upon the lush counterpane. Charles shoved her skirts to her thighs, and after fumbling with the falls of his
trousers, parted her legs.
Apprehension swept her. “Charles, I’m not . . . This is so sudden, I don’t . . .”
She gasped on a cry.
“Mon Dieu.” Lips pressed to her neck, he groaned as he thrust his hips.
Blinking back tears and biting her lip against the stinging pain, Angelina stared at a lurid picture on the wall. Was coupling supposed to hurt this much?
Charles stiffened and gave a final moan before collapsing atop her.
That’s it?
All the whispered fuss was about that? Awash in disappointment and miffed at his callousness, she barely took note when he rose from the bed and fastened his trousers.
Triumph and Treasure (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Book 1) Page 1
