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

by Collette Cameron

  She risked raising her eyes to Lord Bretheridge’s. No condemnation sparked there today, just warm patience. She shifted her attention to the rose beds. Two birds hopped about beneath the canes, occasionally pecking the ground as they hunted for a meal.

  “I met Charles Moreau last December. I later learned that wasn’t his real name. I was smitten from the moment I met him, as I believed he was with me.”

  Charles’s husky professions of love still rang in her ears. Why did remembering sting so?

  Wounded pride.

  She definitely retained no tender feelings for him, which proved all the more she didn’t understand the first thing about love—only that affection shouldn’t be so short-lived.

  “We enjoyed a whirlwind courtship and married three months later.” Angelina shifted her weight, trying to alleviate the persistent throb in her back.

  She sighed. How many of the unpleasant details did she want to share with this stranger?

  “Charles is French. Did I mention that?”

  “No.” His lordship’s gaze probed hers. “What is his real name?”

  “Pierre Renault.”

  Lord Bretheridge stiffened and sucked in a ragged breath.

  Stomach clenching, she regarded him. “Do you know him?”

  How utterly discomfiting, if so.

  His lordship pursed his lips together in a small grimace. “No, we’ve never been introduced. I’ve heard of him in passing. His profession is somewhat . . . questionable.”

  Staring at her hands, she nodded, regretting the movement instantly as it worsened the unpleasant pulsing in her skull. “Yes, I know. He’s a slave-trader. I learned that moments after I discovered Charles—I still cannot think of him as Pierre—was already married.”

  “The devil you say!” Lord Bretheridge struck his palm with his fist.

  Startled, Angelina turned to him.

  The oddest expression shadowed his face. A combination of compassion, disbelief, pity and fury. He acted livid.

  At Charles? On my behalf?

  Gratitude engulfed her. She swallowed a sob. He’d taken her at her word.

  “Go on.” His expression remained grim, a strained look about his eyes and mouth.

  “We arrived at the hotel and . . .”

  She couldn’t share that. Heat flooded her face. No doubt her cheeks glowed crimson as cherries.

  “A short while later, there came a knock at the door. It was Lord Devaux-Rousset, Charles’s stepson.”

  “Stepson?” A perplexed frown creased Lord Bretheridge’s brow.

  She focused her concentration on the gardens once more. “When Charles was quite young, he married a French woman several years his senior. The baron, though the same age as Charles, is his stepson. He’d been searching for Charles for some time. Evidently, the man I thought I married has a history of reprehensible behavior.”

  She shut her eyes. A fresh wave of humiliation and anguish encompassed her. How could she have been so naïve? There must have been signs, hints, something to alert her to Charles’s duplicity.

  “Words cannot express the measure of my regret.” Lord Bretheridge covered her clenched hands with one of his, giving hers an encouraging squeeze. “How is it you came to be in England?”

  “I couldn’t very well toddle back to Salem.” She gave a watery laugh. “Everyone believed me married. Mama and I decided a trip to Aunt and Uncle’s would be just the thing. No one would know I’d been a fool.”

  Angelina relaxed against the tree. “During the voyage, I suffered from mal de mer and continued to experience malaise once I reached England. A physician was consulted and my pregnancy confirmed.”

  Removing his hand from hers, the marquis finished for her. “And that’s when your uncle concocted the widow tale and hied you off to Wingfield Court.”

  “Yes.” She drew in a steadying breath. “So there, you have the whole ugly lot of it in a nutshell.”

  “Mrs. Thorne—”

  “Please, don’t address me as such. I loathe living that lie.” Angelina touched his arm. The firm flesh rippled beneath her hand. “When we’re alone, might you not call me something else? I know it’s improper.”

  As is clasping his arm.

  “And I suppose forward, too, except every time I hear that wretched name . . .”

  She tucked her hand beneath her leg to alleviate the burning on her palm.

  The marquis slanted his head, reminding her of a contemplative owl. After a protracted moment he smiled. “What about Rose?”

  Angelina chuckled, sending him a glance before continuing to observe the birds searching for insects. “I prefer Lina, although Rose is quite appropriate.”

  “How so?” He, too, leaned against the trunk, his long legs stretched before him and crossed at the ankles. “Oh, because I raise roses?”

  Must he wear his trousers so formfitting? She found the sight most distracting.

  “No, although that is rather ironic.”

  A twig dropped onto her skirt. Thankful for a diversion, she brushed the stick from her dress. She examined the branches above her head, seeking the culprit.

  “Our father named my sisters and me, and he’s the only one who addressed us by our first names.” She glanced at Lord Bretheridge, careful to keep her attention on his face and off the bulge prominently displayed in his loins at the moment.

  She had his full attention.

  “Mine is Temperance, and I told you before, my sisters are Patience and Prudence. Mama’s of a more romantic bend. She gave us our middle names.”

  Angelina pointed to herself. “I’m Angelina-Rose, and my sisters are Angelisa-Lily and Angelica-Iris.”

  Humor danced in his eyes, and Lord Bretheridge appeared to valiantly fight the amusement tugging at his lips.

  Angelina giggled. “Go ahead and laugh. It’s really quite awful. I’ve always wondered what in the world she would have named a son. Angelo?”

  “Whatever possessed her?” He chuckled, a low and pleasant rumble.

  She shrugged. “I’ve no idea. Mama calls us her three angels. With their pale hair and cornflower-blue eyes, Lily and Iris do, indeed, resemble angels. I on the other hand, have green eyes.”

  Angelina wrinkled her nose and motioned toward her hair. “And distinct coppery streaks in my hair. Papa thought I looked anything but saintly.”

  A stab of familiar pain gripped her.

  Many Godly men believe red hair is stolen hell-fire, Temperance. And with your green eyes . . .

  Papa would shake his balding head in disapproval and mutter some nonsense about witches before taking himself off to pray for her soul.

  “I think you have the most magnificent hair I’ve ever seen. The color is very unique.” Lord Bretheridge touched a curl near her ear.

  “Thank you.” A delicious warmness swept her, replacing the pain of her father’s rejection with a sense of happiness.

  Angelina ducked her head, breaking the contact. She needed to change the subject. Now. “In any event, the twins are called Lily and Iris. I’ve always been Lina.”

  “Not Rose?”

  “No, though I never questioned why. Mayhap because I was the first born, and Mama thought it would be too confusing to call my sisters Lisa and Lica.” She crinkled her forehead. “Lica sounds rather odd. I expect that’s why.”

  The marquis snorted. “Your uncle couldn’t fabricate anything better than Thorne for a fictional name for you?”

  “I suppose he imagined himself clever.” A grimace touched her lips. She shifted to stand. “I’m positive more than five minutes have passed. We shouldn’t remain here alone.”

  He touched her shoulder, staying her.

  “I beg you. Please grant me a few more moments.” Lord B
retheridge straightened and motioned toward the house.

  “Besides, the drawing room window faces directly this way. I’m sure Grandmamma and Her Grace have their eyes trained on our every move.”

  Angelina swung her gaze between his lordship and the house.

  Through the sun glaring on the beveled glass, two indistinct figures were visible. Whether they directed their attention toward her and the marquis was difficult to determine at this distance. However, their presence, though separated by a large expanse of lawn and French windows, did add a level of respectability.

  She acquiesced with a sideways nod. “All right. What is it you wish to say?”

  “I’ve put a great deal of thought into this—your uncle’s proposal.”

  Lord Bretheridge gave her an apologetic smile. “I’ll be perfectly honest. I don’t have the means to pay my father’s gambling debt. To not do so would mean absolute ruin of a different sort. The sum is an astronomical amount. But, Waterford’s willing to cancel the obligation if we marry.”

  Angelina puckered her brow. “I’ve already told you, I cannot—won’t—marry you.”

  “Please, hear me out.” Such earnestness and humility gleamed in his eyes.

  Why wouldn’t he listen? His tenacity drove her to distraction. She released along breath and started to shake her head.

  The marquis shifted to face her. “I’ll do anything to protect and care for my family. And yes, I’m willing to agree to Waterford’s insane scheme—especially after hearing the truth of your situation.”

  Now he believed her?

  “How do you know it’s the truth?” Angelina arched an eyebrow. “I might be lying.”

  His gaze roved her face. “You’re not. Some people are consummate liars—”

  “Such as Charles.” She scowled, recalling the lies which so easily poured from his mouth. Like grains of sugar spilled from a spoon. Sweet and too numerous to count.

  “Yes, such as him, but others, like you . . .”

  Lord Bretheridge hesitated, gazing deep into her eyes. “Your eyes reveal everything. I don’t have a single doubt you have told me the truth.”

  “Come now, my eyes?” She peered at him, trying to read his. “Surely you cannot be persuaded simply by gazing into my eyes. Yesterday you believed me a party to this whole sordid affair.”

  Reading my eyes. How ridiculous.

  “Oh, but I can.” He flicked his hair off his forehead.

  “When you’re happy, your eyes are a bright, ocean green, and the blue flecks within them shimmer. When you’re upset or worried, they darken to a mossy jade, and when you’re angry, they become a fiery emerald with gold shards.”

  Dash it all, now he waxed poetic.

  How could she resist such romantic discourse? Her lips curved of their own accord but slid into a disapproving line almost at once.

  Charles also possessed a knack for prose, and a more deceitful tongue she’d never encountered.

  Rule number . . . How many had she now? It mattered not.

  New rule.

  Men who spout poetry are to be shunned like the plague.

  “I expected green sparks to shoot from them and incinerate me in your uncle’s drawing room yesterday afternoon.” His lordship’s face creased in merriment.

  Angelina squirmed beneath his penetrating stare. Was she that transparent?

  “I concede that I can appreciate how our marriage might be of some benefit to you. But frankly, my lord, why would you saddle yourself with a woman who is expecting? No one who can count will believe the child is yours, and the stigma will be profound.”

  She touched her stomach, her heart aching for the suffering her innocent child would endure throughout his or her life.

  His attention fixed on the house, Lord Bretheridge nodded. “True. For the babe’s sake, we’ll have to continue the widow charade.”

  “No.” She gasped and her hands tightened atop her belly.

  “Let me explain.” He lifted one of her hands. Cradling it in his, he ran his thumb back and forth across her palm. “Please?”

  Through the material of her glove, delicious frissons erupted under his touch.

  She should tell Lord Bretheridge to stop. Instead, she stiffly inclined her head.

  This was ridiculous. Sheer lunacy to even listen. Marriage between them would never work.

  “Once the debt is canceled, I’ll be extremely wealthy again.” His thumb stilled, as if he suddenly realized what he did. “I’m certain there’s nothing in the contract Waterford had drawn that stipulates a time period we are required to remain together. It’s simply not done.”

  Angelina stared at their joined hands. “I’m sorry, I don’t follow you.”

  What did he imply?

  “We marry, my fortune is restored, and I can care for my family. If you don’t want to remain wed, after a year we can attempt to have the marriage annulled. I’ll settle a substantial amount on you. You and the child will live comfortably the rest of your days.”

  Had he lost his mind? Maybe the strain had addled him. Perhaps madness was a family tendency. His father had taken his own life, after all.

  “After I’ve given birth?” She choked on a scoffing laugh. “Surely you jest. No one will believe the marriage wasn’t consummated.”

  Lord Bretheridge shrugged. “Well then, I’ll petition for divorce. If that’s what you want.”

  “If a divorce is granted, and we both know that’s an almost insurmountable if, you’ll be ruined.”

  Why couldn’t he let it go? Desperate with no other recourse available, wouldn’t she do the same? The women of his family did present quite a burden.

  He released her hand before crossing his arms.

  “You face far more ruin. I understand how abhorrent marriage must be to you right now. I’m only asking for a year. Who knows?” He winked, mischief lurking in his eyes. “We might find we’re compatible.”

  As compatible as a fox and a hen.

  Yet, the idea did have merit, especially since she didn’t care a whit about the scandal. “What grounds will you give for the divorce? You cannot claim you were cuckolded.”

  He didn’t answer her. Instead, he stared at her a lengthy moment before his beautiful eyes shifted slightly lower.

  “What if you agreed to stay with me until you provide me with an heir? Afterward, we’re both free to go our individual ways.”

  An heir? Good heavens. It mustn’t come to that.

  She’d never be able to walk away from a child she’d given birth to. Ever.

  Angelina surveyed the gardens and greens. A lovely estate, Lambridge Manse would be an ideal place for her babe to begin its life.

  Lord Bretheridge’s family losing their home, and those sweet women forced to live in poverty, didn’t bear contemplating. By agreeing to wed the marquis, she could prevent that very thing.

  Lord Bretheridge would likely be gone to London and his other holdings a great deal of the time. Angelina harbored no serious notion of remaining with him. What would it hurt to agree to a year?

  He could have his annulment or divorce, or if both proved unachievable, she would simply leave. They wouldn’t be the first husband and wife to live apart.

  He did need an heir, however. That particular they’d have to discuss further.

  Angelina turned to face him. “My lord, may I ask you something?”

  “Of course. Anything.” He flashed his ever-ready smile.

  “I, at least, have experienced what I believed was love. What of you?” She gestured toward him, searching his face.

  “In all likelihood, your lordship, you’re relinquishing your only chance to love someone and be loved in turn.”

  Chapter 13

  Angelina tried to read
Lord Bretheridge’s emotions.

  “Are you quite certain that is what you wish to do? There is no going back, reversing our decision, once the deed is done.” She glanced away for a moment before leveling him with a carefully bland stare. “It’s only fair to tell you, I don’t believe myself capable of loving again.”