One of the burly blond Scots—Gregor?—nudged his handsome brother aside to sit beside Isobel.
She giggled, impishness glimmering in her spectacular eyes.
“Behave, you two.” She admonished them as only someone on intimate terms would do.
The brother shrugged his massive shoulders and winked at Angelina before tromping a few feet farther along the table and finding a seat.
Evidently the Scots didn’t stand on protocol when it came to dining, or perhaps the group’s intimacy attributed to the casualness. At least two-thirds of the seats surrounding the table remained empty.
“Have ye tried the smoked salmon, my lady? I caught it meself.” Gregor pointed to the fish, a grin tilting his mouth.
It took Angelina a moment to realize he spoke to her. That my lady business would take some getting used to.
“No, not yet, there’s so much food.”
Normally, she would have indulged. Smoked salmon was a particular favorite of hers. However, as expected of late, her stomach objected. Fish most definitely wasn’t on the menu today.
Neither was the enormous hog displayed on a side table where a footman carved great slabs of meat from the wretched beast. She suppressed a shudder and clenched her napkin, waiting for a wave of nausea and a spasm to pass.
Her back had been a deuced nuisance almost from the moment they’d left The Fox’s Lair. Flynn’s comfortable carriage boasted thick squabs and fine springs. The journey hadn’t been an overly strenuous, either, yet the dull ache persisted.
He speared a mouthful of the flakey copper-colored fish with his fork. “Superb as usual. There’s nothing quite like fresh salmon.”
“Aye, that be true.” The Scot dove into his meal with gusto.
More than once, Angelina caught Flynn surveying the hall.
His gaze briefly met several men’s, including the laird’s penetrating stare, as if in silent communication.
She felt all the more an outsider.
She should have been relieved at the vague excuse Flynn gave his family for their hasty marriage. Worry teased her, nonetheless.
Flynn acted distracted. He exuded a tension, an edginess she’d not noticed before. Not even at Lambridge when he worried she might change her mind about marrying him or when Uncle Ambrose had insisted he attend the nuptials.
Thank God that hadn’t come to pass.
Flynn told her Uncle Ambrose had signed the contract at Wingfield Court without incident. Later, after requesting she accompany him for walk about the gardens, Flynn smuggled her a copy of their private agreement.
At the inn, Murphy hustled straight to the kitchen to brew mint tea and oversee a light repast for Angelina. By the time the maid returned to the common room, the document had been signed and lay neatly tucked in Mr. Fleming’s pocket.
Flynn included every stipulation Angelina requested and bestowed a generous monetary settlement on her as well.
Still, her unease lingered.
Nibbling a piece of dark bread, she observed Flynn through her lashes.
His lips tilted occasionally, but restraint shadowed his eyes. His attention repeatedly shifted to the hall’s entrance. As the meal progressed, his eating slowed, and he spoke less and less.
The slightest crease marred Isobel’s brow, as if something troubled her, and numerous times, Angelina caught one of the Scots staring at her. They’d dip their head or smile, then their gaze would shift away, often toward the entrance as well.
Something wasn’t right.
Well of course not, ninny. Everything about this isn’t right.
Nevertheless, Angelina remained convinced something else was afoot. Even the dogs sensed it, raising their heads and looking expectantly at the double doors framing the entry.
“Flynn, what’s wrong?”
“Wrong?” Fork midway to his mouth, he paused. His eyes were shielded green shards. “What makes you think something is amiss?”
“I may have only known you for a couple of days, but I recognize uneasiness when I see it.” Leaning nearer, she turned her head and dropped her voice, cautious no one overheard.
She laid her hand on his arm. “Can’t you tell me what bothers you?”
Face reserved, his gaze flitted to the other diners.
“It’s us. Of course. This must be awkward for you.” Suddenly uncertain, Angelina lowered her hand to her lap and wadded her napkin. She lifted her gaze and perused the table. “And them too. I’m sorry, I don’t know what . . .”
What could she say?
“No, never think it. That’s not the cause.” Flynn released a slight huff and patted his mouth with his napkin. After taking a lengthy drink of ale, he put the tankard aside.
“There’s unrest between some of the northern clans. I learned of it last night.” He drummed his fingertips on the tabletop as if to alleviate some of the tension he suppressed. “In recent years, such incidences are rare and typically occur amongst the remoter tribes.”
His fingers stilled, and he toyed with his fork instead. “We have arrived at such a time. Sethwick has invited important members of another band to stay here until matters are settled, and it’s safe for them to return home.”
“I take it they are expected at any moment?” Angelina skipped a glance to the entry.
Nodding, Flynn took a bite of grouse. “Sethwick has sent several men to act as an escort. A messenger arrived late last night. The party will be here this morning.”
“Is there need for concern? From the rival clan, I mean.” She frowned slightly. “Forgive me. Although I’m Scottish by birth, I have no real knowledge of their ways.”
Flynn shook his head.
“No. Sethwick seems to think this matter will subside quickly.” He turned to examine her more fully. “You’re pale. Would you care to take a turn about the bailey or stables? Sethwick boasts some of the finest horseflesh in the country.”
He searched her face. “Or would you rather rest when we’re finished—”
A commotion in the outer hall proclaimed the arrival of the expected guests. The butler stepped through the doorway and opened his mouth. Before he uttered a sound, like a river breaching its banks, the newcomers flooded into the chamber.
Several Scots boasting McTavish plaids trooped in, followed by a tall, serious gentleman and a lovely brunette in a violet traveling ensemble.
Her eyes locked on Flynn. Joy swept her face. Stopping abruptly, she mouthed his name.
Behind her, five Scots wearing a different patterned tartan, plowed into one another, muttering low curses.
It’s her.
The woman Flynn wanted to court before his father’s death.
Angelina knew it beyond a doubt.
Barely visible behind the wall of Highlanders forming a semi-circle around the young lady and her companion stood two more men and another female.
Even from across the room, Angelina recognized the adoration shining in the woman’s eyes. She’d regarded Charles like that. A lifetime ago.
The poor thing stared at Flynn, her heart on her sleeve for everyone to see. She’d be crushed when she learned he’d spoken his wedding vows less than an hour before.
Angelina turned to Flynn. She couldn’t read his shuttered expression.
Jaw clenched with suppressed strain, his fingers flexed around the tankard.
She’d never seen him this way—like a tightly coiled spring or an adder ready to strike.
A fresh blow of betrayal slammed into her.
He’d known.
And he hadn’t told her. Warned her. Prepared her.
Her gaze raced around the room. His family must have been informed as well. A dizzying rush of shame suffused her.
Now would be another good time for the floor to open and
swallow me, God.
Gripping the table, Angelina stood, shoving her chair away from the table as she did. She searched for another exit.
“I . . . I need . . .” She couldn’t finish, fearing she was about to vomit. Her back pained her something fierce.
Flynn whipped his head her direction. “Angelina?”
“No.” She tightened her hold on the table and refused to look at him. “Not now. Not here,” she managed, her voice scarcely more than a whispered rasp.
You should have told me, she screamed silently, swallowing convulsively as what little she’d eaten threatened to reappear.
Dear God, don’t let me be sick in front of everyone.
She couldn’t bear more humiliation.
Eerie silence hung thickly in the room. Their faces constrained, even the newcomers seemed to sense something amiss.
The kitchen.
Angelina made for the nondescript door on the opposite side of the hall she’d seen the servants using this morning. She kept one eye on the young woman the whole while.
Confusion and uncertainty marred the girl’s refined features as she stumbled toward Flynn.
One of the other men pushed his way to the front of the crowd gathered at the hall’s entrance.
Desperate to escape, Angelina trained her entire focus on her means of escape.
Put one foot in front of the other. Keep your head up. Breathe. Keep going. Ignore the pain.
“Mademoiselle Ellsworth, it’s imperative I speak with you at once.”
Angelina went rigid, halting in mid-stride and swaying.
Dear God, it cannot be.
“Ellsworth?” someone whispered.
“I thought her name was Mrs. Thorne.”
So, Flynn had spread the widow falsehood.
She closed her eyes, the bile rising in a searing flood against the back of her throat. Agony lanced her middle, spreading in a crushing wave to her spine and pelvis. That she still stood upright could be attributed to sheer stubborn pride.
This horror replicated another ghastly wedding day. What else could possibly go wrong?
Well, Charles could pop in for a chat.
She stifled a hysterical giggle.
Slowly, her legs and heart leaden, she turned to the center of the room. Fisting her hands in her skirt, Angelina strove for a poised comportment. She feared the tenuous grasp on her emotions would dissolve like a lone snowflake on a blazing hearth.
“You do have an unfortunate habit of appearing at the most inopportune times, Lord Devaux-Rousset.”
Chapter 16
Flynn tossed his napkin on his almost full plate and lurched to his feet.
As if things aren’t complicated enough, Renault’s stepson totters in on Lydia’s heels.
His presence meant one thing.
Given the stricken expression on Angelina’s face, she’d guessed the truth.
The slave-trader must know her whereabouts. It mattered not; she was Lady Bretheridge now. The scurrilous bounder she’d first married would find it most difficult to approach her.
Flynn flexed his fingers. God, for the opportunity to have a go at Renault.
Skirting the table, his boots clicking unnaturally loud on the stone floor, Flynn sensed more than thirty pairs of eyes boring into him.
The meal and conversations forgotten, everyone’s attention had fixated on him and Angelina.
Aunt Giselle and Uncle Hugh traded worried glances.
Yvette laid her hand on her husband’s arm and whispered urgently into his ear.
Lydia took a couple more steps his direction, before coming to a faltering stop. Her fine eyebrows furrowed. Appearing totally lost, she considered him and Angelina. “Lord Bretheridge?”
Flynn would have spared her this hurt and humiliation. He’d asked to be informed the moment she arrived in order to speak to her privately.
Tricky business, that . . . excusing oneself from one’s wedding breakfast to tell another woman you couldn’t pursue her any longer.
Fate possessed a cruel streak.
Perhaps Sethwick had overlooked advising Fairchild of Flynn’s request. Or more likely, the majordomo hadn’t been able to get a word in edgewise when the exuberant party descended upon the keep.
Fairchild had been Yvette’s butler in America before she married Sethwick. The poor man still hadn’t become unaccustomed to the forwardness of some Scots.
Angelina raised eyes laced with pain and accusation to Flynn’s.
Guilt coiled sharp and intense in his gut.
Blinking slowly, she turned away and once again drifted toward the other side of the great hall, her pace stiff and controlled, as if each step cost her monumental effort.
She’d been through too much already.
He should have told her Lydia was expected. It would have been the decent thing to do. He’d acted a coward.
He hadn’t been altogether certain of his feelings until this very moment. Of the two women he owed explanations to, Angelina mattered more. That astounded him. How had she gotten beneath his skin—no, wormed her way into his heart—in such a short period of time?
Perhaps, because she needed him the most. Needed his name, needed his protection, needed a man she could depend on and trust.
He’d made a merry mess of that last bit. Hell, she might never trust him again. And rightly so.
The baron strode toward Angelina, resolution in each step. “Mademoiselle . . .”
By God, the man was persistent as flies on manure, and brazen as hell.
Gregor and Alasdair rose from their seats, no doubt prepared to intervene.
Sethwick descended the dais in two quick steps.
Flynn halted them with a raised hand. “Lord Devaux-Rousset, as I’m sure you can see, she isn’t feeling up to scratch.”
Devaux-Rousset stopped but narrowed his black eyes at Flynn.
Flynn spared Angelina a hurried glance. Blister it. She appeared about to cock up her toes. “I’d be happy to discuss whatever it is you find so pressing. First, I must tend to my wife.”
“Your wife?” The baron arched a brow in incredulity and eyed her. “Since when?”
“Your wife?” Lydia echoed, her gasp ricocheting about the hall.
Flynn set his jaw, meeting her stricken eyes.
“Yes, this,” he gestured at the table, “is our wedding breakfast.”
Her face crumpled. She clapped a gloved hand to her mouth and spun on her heel, tearing from the hall.
The tall man accompanying her glowered at Flynn and Angelina before rushing after Lydia.
Another man and a stout woman parted from the rear of the crowd and trailed behind them.
Flynn stepped forward intending to follow Lydia, to explain the situation. Common sense jerked him to a stop. He couldn’t clarify anything to her. Not without betraying Angelina’s confidence.
“Ah.” The baron smoothed his mustache. “I certainly can wait to have an audience with you and your new bride.”
He wandered to peer out one of the windows facing the bailey.
The bugger seemed far too pleased by the news. How had he found Angelina anyway? That bore investigating. Until Flynn extracted some credible answers from the baron, he wouldn’t trust Devaux-Rousset a quid more than Renault.
Flynn flicked a pointed glance to Sethwick, and then once more to the Frenchman.
Sethwick gave an almost indiscernible movement of his head in understanding.
The baron wouldn’t be able to scratch his bum or fart without his actions being reported to Flynn.
“Lady Bretheridge?” Alarm sharpened Yvette’s voice.
Flynn wrenched his attention to his wife.
She’d stopped a fe
w yards from the kitchen door. Ashen as the snow at dawn, she stood hunched, her eyes squeezed shut, clutching her stomach.
My God. The babe.
Triumph and Treasure (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Book 1) Page 20
