When people ask me my favorite holiday, like many, many others, I confess Christmas takes the lead by far, but not for the typical reasons.
I’ll admit I like the sparkly decorations. We go all out with several trees inside, and hubby spends days putting up the outside lights. I also love the goodies I bake for the holiday, and yes, I eat too many. Most of the treats, like toffee, thumbprints and Russian tea cakes, are reserved just for Christmastime. Hubby and my youngest son have already wiped out my first round of baking for this year, so I’ll have to leave my writing to spend another day crafting goodies in the kitchen.
Oh, the sacrifices one must make to ensure a brilliant Christmas.
But those aren’t the reasons I love the holiday so much. Nor are the presents, stockings stuffed to overflowing, family gathered together, or that I had my youngest son on December 12th. He was late by almost two weeks!
No, even though those are all wonderful, the reason December is especially meaningful to me is I met my hubby on a blind date in December. His very first gift to me was a bottle of perfume he left in my mailbox in the middle of the night. He’d swiped it from his Mother’s Mary Kay stash. I never could stand the stuff, but don’t tell him!
Mr. Romance continued to dazzle me with romantic gestures. My first bouquet consisted of a handful of pheasant tail feathers, and when he came to my tiny apartment for dinner the first time, did he bring wine? Oh no. He toted in a half gallon of milk. To this day, the man drinks more milk than any other person I know.
He asked me to marry him just over 2 weeks after our first date.
Actually, it was more of a mumbled, “So when did you want to get married?”
I didn’t realize he was proposing. My engagement ring in a box of McDonald Land Cookies was a surprise as well.
I can almost see your jaws sagging!
I call him my red-neck rogue. Though he’s not the suave, debonair type, and compliments me by saying things like, “I love your stench,” (translation: he likes my perfume) we must have seen something special in one another. We’ve been married over thirty years now, so maybe there was a bit of magic present that December we met.
That’s a perfect segue to chat about one of my December releases, Triumph and Treasure (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series.) My hero, Flynn meets Angelina when a nasty-tempered bull trees her. They’re married shortly afterward, and though it’s not December, there’s definitely some magic between them.
A disillusioned Scottish gentlewoman.
Angelina Ellsworth once believed in love””before she discovered her husband of mere hours was a slave-trader and already married. To avoid the scandal and disgrace, she escapes to her aunt and uncle’s, the Duke and Duchess of Waterford. When Angelina learns she is with child, she vows she’ll never trust a man again.
A privileged English lord.
Flynn, Earl of Luxmoore, led an enchanted life until his father committed suicide after losing
everything to Waterford in a wager. Stripped of all but his title, Flynn is thrust into the role of marquis as well as provider for his disabled sister and invalid mother. Unable to pay his father’s astronomical gambling loss, Flynn must choose between social or financial ruin.
When the duke suggests he’ll forgive the debt if Flynn marries his niece, Flynn accepts the duke’s proposal. Reluctant to wed a stranger, but willing to do anything to protect her babe and escape the clutches of the madman who still pursues her, Angelina agrees to the union. Can the earl and his Scottish lass find happiness and love in a marriage neither wanted, or is the chasm between them insurmountable?
Enjoy an Excerpt
Angelina had no business taking note of any gentleman’s appearance, especially his mouth. And what in heaven’s blessed name was she doing sitting in a tree, talking with him as if they were making polite conversation in a drawing room? She didn’t even know his name, for pity’s sake.
“Can you get down yourself?”
He dismounted. After removing his gloves and hat, he placed them on the same boulder she’d used for her stockings. He spied her discarded belongings, his gaze pausing on a stocking dangling from a bush. A purely masculine smile bowed his mouth.
Mortification swept her.
He held his riding crop as he purposefully made his way to the tree. He placed a booted foot atop the branch resting on the ground. “Here, I’ll come up.”
“No, I can manage perfectly on my own. You assure that devil keeps his distance.”
Sure-footed, Angelina edged along, her bare feet gripping the limb beneath her. Her injured toe protested, but the pain was unimportant. She must make haste. It wouldn’t do to be discovered with a man without a chaperone present.
The stranger released a hearty chuckle and raised the crop. “That’s what this is for. One or two sound smacks on his muzzle usually does the trick nicely.”
Usually?
“And what happens if it doesn’t do the trick?” She maneuvered the last few inches to the fork in the tree.
The gentlemen pointed the crop at the tree. “We run for it. He’s not named Deamhan for nothing.”
She sniffed. “Deamhan? Oh, that’s Scottish?”
“Yes, Gaelic for demon.”
“A most fitting name. Only Satan would be more appropriate.”
Shoving hair off her face, she stepped onto the lowest limb and hesitated a moment before taking his outstretched hand. She nearly jerked hers away when a jolt of sensation vibrated clear to her shoulder.
Once safely on the ground, she disengaged her hand. “Thank you.”
“I’d bow before I introduce myself, but I don’t trust him.” Gesturing toward the dozing bull, the man flashed perfect white teeth.
Of course they were. Just like Charles’s. And what a bounder he’d turned out to be.
New rule.
Don’t trust men with nice teeth.
She met the gentleman’s curious perusal.
Or beautiful eyes and sinfully thick lashes.
“I’m Flynn, Ear””” A grimace shadowed his face. “Marquis of Bretheridge. My estate, Lambridge Manse, borders these lands.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Should she curtsy? A little late for conventions. Best to get on her way as soon as possible.
Not trusting the behemoth resting a stone’s throw away, Angelina warily gathered her belongings.
The marquis’s focus sank to her bare feet.
Muddy toes, one bloody, peeked from beneath her soaked and soiled skirt.
She swore his mouth quivered in amusement.
The first English peer she’d met besides her uncle, and she resembled a street urchin. Aunt Camille would have apoplexy if she found out. And Uncle Ambrose?
Gads.
Angelina didn’t want to imagine his reaction. His response would be unpleasant to be sure.
She made to turn toward the house. “Thank you, again.”
“Aren’t you going to tell me who you are?” Lord Bretheridge regarded her expectantly.
In another time and in another place, she might have””before she learned not to trust.
A bit about Collette
Award winning, multi-published historical romance author, Collette Cameron, has a BS in Liberal Studies and a Master’s in Teaching. A Pacific Northwest Native, Collette’s been most of her life, has three amazing adult children, and five dachshunds. Collette loves a good joke, inspirational quotes, flowers, the beach, trivia, birds, shabby chic, and Cadbury Chocolate. You’ll always find dogs, birds, quirky””sometimes naughty””humor, and a dash of inspiration in her novels.
Her motto for life? You can’t have too much chocolate, too many hugs, or too many flowers.
She’s thinking about adding shoes to that list.
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Go to her website for the links, her email address and mailing address.
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