Time ceased as he explored the depths of her mouth. She caressed his tongue with hers, matching his gentle jousts. It was difficult to tell whose harsh breathing echoed louder in the chamber.
The man certainly knew how to seduce. Every nerve in her body sang. He played her senses like a maestro’s bow upon a violin’s strings.
Angelina was ready to toss up her skirts and let him have his way.
At the unbidden thought, another day and another similar memory jarred her rudely into lucidity once more.
No, this is Flynn. He isn’t anything like Charles.
Her door whipped open with a resounding thud.
They sprang apart guiltily.
Iris stood in the entrance panting, her face ghastly pale. “Lina. Come quickly. Something’s wrong with Mama.”
Chapter 21
Angelina tore from her room, her skirts hoisted knee-high.
Flynn’s thumping footsteps echoed behind her.
Fear hissed horrible conjectures in her head as she dashed up the flight of steps. Careening around the corner, she spied Martha, tense and distraught at the foot of the bed.
Lily wept into her hands, Martha’s arm about her shoulders.
Gregor bent near Mama, holding a steaming bowl. “Mrs. Ellsworth, ye need to calm yourself. Inhale this. It’ll relax ye, so ye can breathe.”
Tears streamed from Mama’s eyes. She struggled to draw in the tiniest breath. She only managed short, wheezing gasps.
Iris scooted past Angelina and rushed to her twin.
“What’s happening? Why can’t she breathe?” Angelina ran to her mother.
Gregor’s attention remained trained on Mama. “She be having an asthma attack. Combined with her respiratory ailment, she canna draw air into her lungs.”
He swung his gaze to the frantic women at the end of the bed.
“Miss Iris, I be needing a towel and,” he pointed to a table, “that tonic I made yesterday. Mrs. Gibson, fetch more hot water and a larger basin, please. Miss Lily, get some air in here. This room be stifling. Open the drapes and window.”
The women scrambled to do his bidding.
“What can I do?” Angelina took Mama’s hand. Her stomach flipped at the terror on her mother’s face.
“You’re going to be fine, Mama. You must do as Gregor asks. Try to breathe in the medicine.” She gently urged her mother nearer the bowl. “Come now, that’s it.”
Gregor took the tonic and pointed to the towel Iris grasped. “Drape it about yer mother’s shoulders.”
“Bretheridge, I have need of me plants and herbs.” He looked to Flynn. “Can ye fetch them for me?”
“At once.” Giving Angelina a quick, reassuring smile, Flynn strode from the room.
The distinct tramp of him breaking into a run shook the corridor. Warmth spread through her again, immediately erased by the damp air wafting into the room.
Lily scuttled from the yawning window to Iris’s side
They clasped hands.
Martha huffed into the room, appearing as if she’d run the entire way to the kitchen and back. She carried a kettle in one hand, its handle wrapped in a towel. Hurrying to the table, she set the pot upon another folded towel. She dashed to snatch the basin on the washstand.
Flynn pounded into the chamber carrying two oddly shaped leather bags.
“Me lady, can I get ye to hold this for me?” Gregor passed the bowl to Angelina.
One arm supporting her mother’s shoulders, Angelina sat beside her on the bed. “Deep breaths. I know it’s hard, Mama. Try to relax. Why, I think you’re sounding better already.”
A few moments later, Gregor removed the towel and offered a half full eggshell thin teacup. “Can ye drink this? The mix be a tonic for asthma.”
Mama nodded weakly. She didn’t try to speak.
Angelina held the cup to her mother’s lips.
Her breathing, though ragged, had ceased to whistle. A speck of color returned to her cheeks.
Angelina helped her mother relax onto the pillows, assuring she sat upright.
Lily drifted to the table, silently studying the assortment of plants Gregor had arranged. She picked up a dried sprig. “Can you teach me about them?”
The Scots’ mouth dropped open, but his eyes lit up. “Aye, I be happy to teach ye.”
He seemed almost shy as he scooted nearer and began explaining the different herbs to Lily.
Angelina exchanged a quick glance with Flynn.
Did his lips twitch?
How old was Gregor anyway? Apparently not too old, from the enamored way Lily looked at him.
Egads, wouldn’t that be something?
“Li—?” Mama cleared her throat and tried again. “Lina?”
Angelina leaned in to better hear. “Yes, Mama?”
“I need to speak with you. Privately.” Her voice scarcely a whisper, Mama’s eyes remained closed.
Everyone turned to stare at her.
“Of course.” Angelina patted her mother’s hand and gazed round the room. “Would you mind giving us a moment?”
Gregor and Lily promptly began tucking away his medicines while Iris and Martha collected the other items scattered about the chamber.
Flynn gathered the towel from the chair. “I’ll meet you below. I’ll have Cook hold dinner.”
He stared pointedly at the pendant, before raising his eyes to meet hers. With a wink, he quit the room along with Gregor and the twins.
He’d done that on purpose—reminded Angelina of their enticing conversation. Despite the blush heating her face once more, her heart fluttered happily.
Charming scoundrel.
And he’s mine.
Where had that come from? She didn’t mind the notion in the least. Maybe, just maybe, she could trust him not to break her heart.
“Lucille, I’ll come and sit with you, when you’re done speaking with Lina.” Martha hesitated at the door. Her gaze skimmed Angelina, and her hazel eyes crinkled with affection. “I’ll bring some of that chicken soup Cook has simmering on the stove. There’s fresh bread too. It smells divine.”
“Thank you, my dear friend.” Mama gave Martha a wan smile.
Martha closed the door softly.
Angelina shifted into a comfortable position beside her mother. “What is it you wanted to say?”
Mama pushed herself more erect. She pointed to the wardrobe. “There’s a valise in there. At the bottom, beneath some clothing and other things, is a small, locked chest. Will you fetch it for me, dear?”
“Are you sure you’re up to this?” Angelina touched her mother’s hand. “Can’t whatever’s in the chest wait?”
Mere minutes ago Mama so labored to breathe, Angelina feared she might die.
“No. I’ve put this off far too long.”
Mama reached into the neckline of her nightgown and withdrew a chain. A key dangled from the end. She rubbed it between her thumb and forefinger, a melancholy expression shadowing her face. “Go on, get me the box.”
Mama could be most stubborn when she set her mind to something.
Angelina suppressed a sigh as she slid off the bed. Rummaging in the wardrobe, she found the valise. After removing several items and placing them on the floor, she uncovered the wooden box; a charming old thing adorned with fine floral etchings.
She carried the container to her mother. “Here you are.”
Did her mother need privacy?
“Do you wish me to remain?”
Mama sent her a surprised look. “Why, yes dear. This is about you, after all.”
Placing the chest on her lap, she searched the table across the room and frowned. “Where’s that brew Gregor told me to drink?”
“Ri
ght here.” Angelina scooped the cup off the bedside table.
Mama took a long swallow. “I wish I’d had this concoction all along. My breathing has eased a great deal already.”
Lily must never know. She’d feel awful and blame herself for Mama’s lack of recovery.
“Sit, Lina. You make me nervous hovering about. You’re worse than a mama cat with newborn kittens, for pity’s sake.” Her mother took another sip.
Sighing contentedly, she returned the cup to the table.
Angelina drew a chair up beside the bed. She thankfully sank into the padding. Her mother’s incident had taken a toll on her nerves.
Trying to insert the key into the lock, Mama fumbled for a moment. She laughed self-consciously. “I’ve not opened it in some time, and my eyes aren’t what they used to be.”
At last the lock gave way with a soft click. Her expression solemn, Mama stared at the case. She ran a thumb along its scalloped edge.
“I thought I was going to die tonight.” She lifted tear-filled eyes to Angelina’s. A haunted glint hovered in their depths. “And I realized I couldn’t go to my grave without you knowing the truth.”
“Don’t speak of dying. You’re going to get better. You just said you’re feeling improved already.” Angelina scrunched her forehead while patting her mother’s arm.
“I’m sure there’s nothing in there that’s of such importance, you cannot wait until you’ve recovered to show me.”
She eyed the box. Some inner voice told her she didn’t want to know what the unpretentious chest held.
Sometimes secrets were better left undisclosed.
Davy.
Angelina hadn’t been able to tell her mother about her son yet. She might not ever. “Why don’t we wait until tomorrow?”
“No, I’ve been selfish and let fear keep me silent these many years. You deserve to know the truth. What you do with it,” Mama raised a frail shoulder, “well, I suppose that’s up to you.
“Mama, please—”
“I cannot carry this burden alone, Lina. I’m not strong enough. Not anymore.” Once more, tears welled in her mother’s eyes.
Angelina squeezed Mama’s frail hand. “It’s all right. You can tell me. We can be strong together.”
Though, how she would garner more strength, she didn’t know. Her reservoir was tapped. Empty. Depleted.
Flynn’s face floated into her mind, bringing a poignant sense of peace. Strong and powerful, he’d lend her strength.
No, she’d asked too much of him already.
Mama inched the lid open. She cautiously withdrew a thin stack of letters tied together by a faded and tattered scarlet ribbon.
“These are from your father. I met him when I was almost eighteen. He came to Ayrshire to hunt with friends one weekend.” Her mother brushed her fingers across the yellowed papers. “I was recuperating at my grandparents’. My family had gone to London to prepare for Camille’s coming out, though she’d already accepted an offer of marriage.”
“Recuperating? You’d been ill?” Angelina kicked off her slippers.
“No. I’d been thrown from my horse and struck my head on a fence. I nearly died. The doctor ordered me to take to my bed for six weeks.”
Mama untied the frayed ribbon.
“Nothing more strenuous than a sedate fifteen-minute walk was permitted afterward. That restriction lasted for several weeks, so traveling was out of the question.” Her mother touched the side of her head. “That’s why I get those dreadful headaches sometimes.”
“Oh, Mama, how awful.” Angelina couldn’t suppress her gasp.
Why hadn’t she been told this before? There didn’t seem any need for secrecy about the matter. She toyed with the gem hanging from her neck.
“Aunt Camille was betrothed before her first Season?”
An expression of pain etched her mother’s haggard face. “Yes, it had been arranged between the families when they were young children.
“You know fathers.” Mama released a despondent sigh. “Manipulating their offspring for their own benefit.”
Yes, that sounded like Angelina’s father as well. He would have bound her to his repulsive chum, Mr. Stockton without a second thought.
“I think it rather boorish of your family to toddle off to London and leave you behind.”
Angelina shifted on her chair and waved her hand. “Surely, Aunt Camille’s come out might have waited, especially if she was affianced already. It should have been your first Season as well.”
“I didn’t mind. The idea of a Season terrified me. In any event, I fell madly in love with your father the moment I saw him by the loch.” Mama relaxed against the pillows, her fatigue obvious.
She fingered the chain at her throat. “I was no promiscuous miss, I tell you. I insisted we marry before we . . .”
A pink hue swept her mother’s face, hinting at the young, vulnerable girl she’d once been.
Although she found the revelations rather perplexing, Angelina attempted to digest what her mother shared. She rubbed her bare arms against the room’s coolness and glanced over her shoulder.
Yes, a draft entered through the two inch crack beneath the open window. She huddled further into the chair.
This was the first she’d heard of Papa ever hunting. Fiddling with her wedding ring, Angelina searched her mind. She couldn’t recall a single instance of him handling a firearm. And, she didn’t mean to be unkind, but she simply couldn’t imagine Mama ever having been madly in love with him.
Angelina had long been aware her parents’ marriage lacked something. Though always impeccably polite, no fire, no passion simmered between them.
No arguments.
No stolen embraces.
Nothing.
Although she never voiced a disrespectful word against him, her mother hadn’t been brokenhearted when Papa died.
Relieved better described her reaction.
Mama closed her eyes, her momentary embarrassment seemingly behind her.
“We married right away. It’s easy to do in Scotland. Your father insisted we keep the marriage a secret until my parents returned from England so we could announce our joyous news together.”
Her lips bent into a tremulous smile, and her lids flickered open. Sadness and resignation resided there.
“See, it’s not as bad as all that, Mama. Everything worked out.”
Did her mother care so very much that she married secretly? Heavens, it wasn’t a sin and by no means a novelty, then or now—especially in Scotland.
“No dear, you misunderstand.” Sagging into the pillows, that distant glint crept into Mama’s again.
“Richard wasn’t your father,” she whispered, frail and exhausted. “I knew the man who fathered you simply as Edward Pennington. I didn’t learn his full name until later.”
Papa wasn’t my real father?
Tears slipped from beneath her mother’s sparse lashes.
“Ambrose James Simon Edward Penn—”
Ambrose?
“No, not . . .” Angelina leapt from the bed, one hand at her throat.
“Good God. Not Uncle Ambrose!”
Where was Angelina?
Flynn flicked his pocket watch open for the . . .
Confound it. He’d lost track of how many times he’d checked the timepiece.
She hadn’t come below stairs.
After waiting a full half hour, he ordered dinner served. Another three quarters of an hour passed.
Her seat remained vacant.
The clanking of utensils as those seated around the table dined was only interrupted by the respectful queries of the footmen when a new dish arrived or one needed clearing away.
Gregor and the twins seemed as di
sinclined to talk as he. Their worried gazes strayed to the dining room entrance at regular intervals.
Triumph and Treasure (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Book 1) Page 27
