Angelina blanched and clutched her throat.
Flynn feared she’d topple if someone so much as sneezed.
The desperate plea in her eyes knotted his gut.
“No. You. Won’t.” The duchess’s strident tone sliced through the tension.
In less than a half dozen strides, Flynn stood before the duke. Taller by several inches, he forced the annoyed man to peer up at him.
“You will not intrude upon our wedding. You’ve meddled quite enough already. I’ll bring a letter from the officiating cleric that included the signatures of at least three witnesses.”
Wan and wilted, Angelina slumped onto the settee again.
“You’re hardly in a position to stop me,” Waterford sneered, daring to poke Flynn in the chest.
“But I am.” Fury crackled in Her Grace’s eyes as she grasped her husband’s arm and fairly dragged him, protesting loudly, from the room. “Have you forgotten, Waterford, who holds the winning cards this time?”
What the devil?
Chapter 15
“I do.” Angelina stood before the ornate alter in the Craiglocky’s quaint chapel.
Bright morning sun shining through the stained glass windows offered the only light. The beams blanketed her and Flynn in jeweled tones as they bowed their heads for the cleric’s blessing.
The final flicker of a girlhood dream withered within her. She’d done it—married for convenience rather than love. The irony didn’t escape her. Her second marriage in less than four months. Only this time, uncertainty and wariness filled her.
And a keen sense of loss and loneliness.
Unable to meet Flynn’s eyes, she stared at the emerald and garnet cluster ring he’d slipped on her finger moments before.
“It belonged to my grandmother. She insisted I give it to you.”
What a dear lady.
The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur except when the clergyman said, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
The declaration yanked Angelina’s attention rudely back to the present.
“How about a kiss from my bride?” Flynn’s seductive voice caressed her.
Her gaze raced from the floor, past his thighs encased in form-fitting cream trousers and an equally snug black tailcoat emphasizing his much-too-broad shoulders, before coming to rest on his strong mouth.
He wouldn’t dare kiss her in front of everyone.
Would he?
She’d hoped only the man of God and the witnesses Uncle Ambrose required would be present for the exchanging of vows.
That wasn’t to be.
Flynn’s family at Craiglocky Keep, at least a dozen of them, insisted on attending the simple ceremony.
She’d stopped short upon entering the chapel and seeing them already assembled.
Flynn reassured her. “They only wish to show their support.”
Her stomach fluttered. Or did the babe move about?
Would Flynn kiss her as he had in the corridor at Lambridge Manse? Heavens, she prayed not.
Angelina wouldn’t be able to stand without assistance if he did. Her lips, not to mention other parts of her, tingled for an hour afterward. She wouldn’t have believed it possible if she hadn’t experienced it herself.
For pity’s sake. She wasn’t some innocent miss ignorant of the marriage bed. She’d been with a man and understood what the overheard whispers referred to.
Highly overrated and exaggerated by her measure. Why must people make such a fuss of it?
Still, the way Flynn made her feel . . .
That certainly hadn’t been in any of the romance novels she read. And there’d been no powerful, sensual craving, with Charles. Ever.
“Lina, look at me.” Flynn tenderly tilted her chin until her eyes reluctantly met his.
She flushed at the heated expression in his eyes. Why must he be so devilishly handsome?
He bent his neck, his lips grazing her ear.
She inhaled his heady aroma.
Another rule.
Stay clear of men who smell extraordinary and make one’s legs turn to jelly.
Except, her foolish rules had been for naught. She’d violated the majority of them when she married Flynn. No doubt she would suffer more heartache as a result.
“Lina.” His mouth touched her again, his warm breath tickling her ear.
Drat. Pinpricks shot along her nerves once more. Angelina’s traitorous body’s responsiveness mortified her.
“I was teasing about the kiss. Try not to appear so frightened.”
“I’m not afraid. It’s just that your kisses cause all sorts of—”
The clergyman gave an exaggerated cough.
Her new husband grinned like a hound with a cornered fox.
He did mean to kiss her.
Cupping her cheek, he caressed it with his thumb.
Angelina’s eyelids fluttered closed. She parted her mouth in anticipation and clutched his shoulders to remain upright.
Flynn didn’t disappoint. He pressed a soft, sensual kiss upon her lips. Though brief, it held a delicious promise she yearned to have him fulfill.
Impossible.
The very terms she dictated in their contract specified no intimate relations for at least two years, and only if the union couldn’t be dissolved.
The thought cooled her ardor.
How crass, contemplating a termination of the marriage mere minutes after speaking her vows.
She opened her eyes and stepped away, conscious of the speculative onlookers.
More than one male sported a wide grin. Oh, they were curious, all right. However, not an unkind or prying word had passed their lips.
At least within earshot of her.
“See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Flynn gave her waist a squeeze. His handsome mouth tilted into a lopsided grin, and a satisfied gleam shone in his eyes as he perused those assembled.
No, it was wonderful.
Momentary regret swept her. Neither his closest family members nor hers were here to witness their union. Just as well since the occasion was hardly celebratory.
She pasted a pleasant expression on her face. No sense giving anyone cause for additional speculation as to why they’d arrived unannounced last evening and married before breaking their fast this morning.
“Yer lordship, I’ve the letter ye requested.” Reverend Wallace patted his coat. “The witnesses need only pen their signatures.”
Flynn nodded. “Can it wait until after we have eaten?”
“Aye, of course.” The reverend winked. “I heard there be an entire roasted hog.”
Angelina fought a wave of nausea. Her agitated stomach would be lucky to keep a dry roll down. “Come, I’m famished, and I know Aunt Giselle and Yvette rose at dawn to oversee the wedding breakfast.” Flynn grasped her elbow and guided her the length of the short aisle.
Angelina’s mind raced.
Aunt Giselle. That was Lady Ferguson. Her mammoth Scots husband was Sir Hugh, and Yvette was the Viscountess Sethwick, though here, her husband, Ewan, usually went by his Scots title, Laird McTavish.
Gads, this is so confusing.
In America, there hadn’t been as great a need to know how to properly address the nobility and gentry. Angelina’s head spun from trying to recall their names and how they were related to Flynn.
Miss Isobel, Lord Sethwick’s sister, was easy to remember. The most exquisite woman Angelina ever laid eyes on, she possessed Laird McTavish’s turquoise eyes. And the younger brother, Dugall, was the male equivalent of his sister’s goddess-like beauty.
So many stunning people in one family could hardly be considered fair. One had to wonder if God did indeed play favorites.
Another huge Scot winked at Angelina. She passed by the pew he and his brother sat in, along with a handsome couple in their middle years.
She grinned at him.
“Flynn, who are those two large, blond Scots again, and how are you related to them?”
“That would be Gregor and Alasdair McTavish. They’re Sethwick’s cousins on his father’s side. I’m not related to them. That’s their parents, Duncan and Kitta, sitting beside Gregor in the pew. Duncan is Sethwick’s uncle. Kitta is Norse, which is why the sons are fair and enormous,” Flynn added with a wry chuckle.
“I’ll never manage to keep them straight.” Angelina blew out a little huff and blinked as they emerged from the chapel’s dim interior into the brighter corridor of the castle.
Flynn chuckled in merriment. “It may take you a while, but you will. This isn’t all of Sethwick’s kin either. He has two more sisters. Seonaid is in France visiting an aunt, though she’s due to return any day. Adaira lives in England with her husband, the Earl of Clarendon. Then there are the clan members.”
“No more.” Shaking her head, Angelina groaned and covered her face with her hands.
Flynn kissed the top of her head.
“Did I tell you how beautiful you are in that gown? The color matches your eyes.”
She peeked at him between her fingers. Feeling silly, she lowered them, ridiculously pleased with the compliment. “Thank you.”
“I prefer you dressed in something other than widow’s weeds.” His eyes darkened as he stared at her. He flicked the ruffle of one of her sleeves, though his attention seemed trained on the low neckline of her gown.
Her breasts pushed against the fabric. They’d grown larger in recent weeks and threatened to spill from what once had been a modest neckline. She hadn’t thought to include her hand-made fichu when she’d rushed about, gathering items to pack for their trip.
Angelina refused to wear black for their wedding. She’d had enough of the widow farce.
Gratified the garment still fit, she donned one of her favorite gowns, a Pomona green with a gold lace overskirt embroidered with tiny leaves and a thin gold braid beneath the bosom.
Murphy had twisted her hair into an intricate Grecian knot, entwining green ribbons and a gold beaded circlet into Angelina’s curls. Green satin slippers embroidered with gold rosettes cocooned her feet.
Other than the slightly loose wedding ring, she wore no jewelry. She wasn’t about to wear the gems Charles had given her, and she didn’t own any other jewels.
Flynn’s gift of his grandmother’s ring meant a great deal. Perchance he held her in some small regard after all.
“Thank you for the ring. It’s exquisite.”
“You’re welcome.” Flynn responded somewhat perfunctorily.
Angelina fingered the band. She preferred this ring to the one Charles chose. Curious. Flynn already knew her taste better than Charles.
Had Flynn told his family she was a widow? Or that she expected a child? She hoped not. Shame pricked her, humiliation’s ruthless claws scratching away her confidence. She didn’t know these people, yet she loathed for them to think poorly of her.
The butler stood in attendance beside the entrance to the hall, waiting for them to approach. “My lord, my lady, if you please.”
My lady? I’m a lady now.
With a sweep of his arm, he indicated they should enter.
“Thank you, Fairchild.” Flynn guided Angelina into the great hall, his hand pressed to the small of her back.
Such a natural gesture. In fact, whenever he touched her, she sensed a completeness she didn’t understand. When her mind wasn’t running amuck, imagining him doing all kinds of unmentionable things to her with his hands.
Overwhelmed by fatigue and nervousness, Angelina hadn’t paid much attention to the keep last night. Today, she tried not to gawk. She’d never seen anything so rustic, almost medieval, yet splendid.
The great hall, dominated by an enormous trestle table situated at the other end of the room, was huge. Easily seating fifty or more, it abutted a dais reserved for the laird and others holding positions of honor.
Towering bronze candelabras perched atop the heavy table. Dozens of unlit sconces lined the twenty-foot walls, except where a minstrel’s gallery balanced. Several shields boasting the McTavish crest, as well as various pieces of ancient weaponry, streaming pennants, and intricately woven tapestries adorned the aged stones.
Encased in elaborate frames suspended from silken burgundy cords, at least two dozen fierce Scots stared at their decedents below.
Angelina imagined the triumphs and tragedies those ancestors had witnessed throughout the decades.
The keep was centuries old, yet oddly enough, the great hall exuded a friendly, welcoming atmosphere.
Due to the residents more than the structure she suspected.
Three gigantic, charcoal-colored dogs, wrapped together in a comfortable tangle, slept before the hearth.
Boarhounds? She’d never seen one before.
The size of small ponies and reputed to be gentle, devoted beasts, they appeared impervious to the chaos around them. Two more dogs, these black and white, speckled spaniels, lay sprawled in the vibrant rays of sun pouring in the mullioned windows.
Last night, after the briefest of introductions, she’d been hustled to a cozy chamber for a hot bath. A tray of steaming venison stew, oat rolls, something sinfully delicious called clootie dumpling, and strong, aromatic tea arrived soon after.
The tea might very well have contained a draught of whisky.
Less than an hour after arriving, she’d crawled into cool, heather scented sheets and drifted to sleep without seeing Flynn again.
He waited near the dais as a footman pulled a chair out for her.
“I thought you’d be uncomfortable sitting on the platform, on display for all. I asked Sethwick if we might sit here.”
He knew that about her already as well? Never before had a man considered her needs or treated her as thoughtfully.
A sweet warmness spread around her guarded heart. “Thank you. I don’t care to be the center of attention.”
“Neither does Yvette. Sethwick happily honored my request.”
“Flynn, why do you address the laird as Sethwick, even in Scotland? Answering to different titles must be confusing.”
Angelina found the whole title business rather baffling, truth to tell. She worried she’d commit some social faux pas and address someone incorrectly.
“It’s habit, I suppose.” Flynn took the seat the footman indicated beside her. “I see far more of Sethwick in England than I do here. There, he’s only addressed by his British title.”
Flynn scooted his chair in a fraction, his thigh brushing her skirt.
One of those wonderful little tremors careened along Angelina’s senses. She unfolded her napkin. Placing it in her lap, she eyed the entrance through lowered lashes. The chapel crowd had swollen in number and now included a small army of clan members.
“What did you tell them? About us?” She bobbed her head toward the jovial throng billowing into the hall.
Did her voice reveal her anxiety? No, to her ears, she sounded quite calm. She was anything but. “I woke in the middle of the night and realized I had no idea what to expect this morning.”
Flynn offered a contrite smile. “I apologize. I meant to check on you before you retired. Once I realized the late hour, you were already abed.”
He cast a swift gaze about, as if to make sure no one eavesdropped. “In any event, I told them I’d met a magnificent woman who fate decreed I marry at once. I let them make assumptions as to what that meant.”
Placing his hand atop hers, he gave it a comforting squeeze.
Another sensual shock stabbed her.
Isobel took the seat opposite her.
Triumph and Treasure (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Book 1) Page 19
