Page 19 of The Highlander’s Improper Wife

He started to kneel. Caroline didn’t move, and he yanked her down so hard he was forced to grab her waist to keep her from tumbling onto her rear. She scowled. He lifted a brow and she fisted her hands with the full intention of landing a blow to his belly before thinking better of it.

“Let us pray,” the minister began. Yes, Caroline needed a prayer because in another moment she would be wed.

Chapter Eight

Taran hauled his wife to her feet, placed his hands on her shoulders, and bent to kiss her. Her brow creased in confusion, then her green eyes narrowed. She slapped his chest and jerked back as if he had sprouted horns. He forced back a laugh. The lass had grit.

He pulled her against him, stopping an inch from her face. “I have grit as well,” he murmured, and kissed her.

Her lips weren’t pliant like the she-devil last night, but they were soft and warm. He touched his tongue to the seam. She gasped and he slipped inside for a taste. Caroline held her posture rigid and her mouth unyielding. He wrapped an arm around her back, then with the barest of whimpers, she relaxed.

She wasn’t his Aphrodite, but he sensed passion simmering in her kiss. Her full breasts nearly spilled from her dress. He imagined her hardened nipples prodding into his chest. Tonight he would touch and taste them. He groaned low in his throat, tantalized by the way her belly cradled his stiffening cock. At least he could feel desire for his wife.

Taran released her and caught sight of the black handkerchief peeking out from her fisted hand. If the tenacity she’d shown with her inconsequential, but amusing, rebellions were any indication, their children wouldn’t be the mewling creatures he’d feared they might be. He’d underestimated Caroline Wilmont. She wasn’t the quiet schoolgirl he remembered. Amusement vanished. John had been a fool. Taran would bed his wife and bring her the pleasure she deserved. Caroline would want for nothing. He would provide husband, home, and children. However, when the time was right, he would seek Aphrodite. And, like all wives of society, Caroline would seek her interests elsewhere.

Taran linked his wife’s arm in his and glanced at her face. Her eyes narrowed and her lips remained set in a thin line. Everyone rose. Caroline stiffened, her stare straight ahead. Taran tensed. Had he misjudged her? He hadn’t mistaken the passion hidden in her kiss. Tonight would tell him if she was a bitch or just a woman protesting the only way she could. He started down the aisle. For better or worse, they were wed, though he would prefer a woman he could respect to one he hated.

Guests tossed shoes and slippers after them as he hurried them down the aisle and out the chapel doors to his waiting carriage. Taran opened the door and helped her inside, then leapt up and slammed the door shut as he dropped onto the seat opposite her. The carriage lurched into motion.

Her glare turned to him and he read fury in her eyes. “What kind of fool are you?” she demanded.

Despite her clipped tones in the chapel when she’d repeated her vows, the husky note in her voice incited a sense of desire that he found oddly comforting. Her raven hair contrasted with the emerald green eyes with startling clarity far more than he remembered. But he remembered a child, and wagered the woman was having none of his admiration, at least not yet.

“Not the insipid fool you take me for, madam.”

Her lips pursed and he couldn’t help wondering if she were going to punch him. She had clearly intended to do just that in the chapel. He deserved a good right to the gut. He was little better than his brother—or father. He fully intended on producing the needed heir, then leaving his wife to her own devices. As long as she was discreet, he wouldn’t take her to task. He convinced himself that she too would prefer to do as she pleased. Clearly, she would have chosen not marry him at all.

She leaned forward. “I had no desire to marry your brother, and I have even less desire to marry you.”

This time, Taran couldn’t prevent a laugh. A mind reader for a wife was the last thing a man needed. She threw herself back against the cushion and a black stockinged ankle showed beneath the hem of the black underskirt.

“If I am not mistaken, that was Mrs. Henderland who wailed at sight of your black undergarments,” he said. “I believe our good minister is certain a demon possesses you.”

His wife eyed him. “Something far worse than a demon possesses me.”

Taran blinked, then realized he shouldn’t be surprised. In fact, he should be surprised if she stopped at such paltry attempts to dissuade him as wearing mourning black to their wedding. He had underestimated her a second time. He would not do so again.

“Then our minister has a great deal of work ahead of him.”

She shot him a disparaging look that said he had a great deal of work ahead of him.

He forced the twitch at the corner of his mouth into a frown. “I had not realized you grieved so deeply for my brother. I only hope he does not become a barrier between us.” Taran shifted on the seat. “I shall do my best to rise to his stature.”

She gave an abrupt laugh and clamped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide. Taran snapped to attention. What was this? She had a sense of humor? His gaze caught on the long, slim fingers still covering her mouth. Memory of last night and Aphrodite returned with a sharpness that bordered on pain. Her warm fingers wrapped around his cock, the pebbled peaks of her nipples, hard, yet pliant beneath his tongue, the tight sheath that surrounded him when he entered her. Taran shifted his attention to the window and onto the townhouses as the carriage rolled past. He’d been a fool to allow Aphrodite to persuade him to take her maidenhead. He couldn’t regret having her, but if she bore her husband a son anytime soon, she would live the pregnancy—and years beyond—wondering if the boy would in some way resemble another man. Would that pain and guilt rob her of happiness?

Despite the fear, he couldn’t help wondering how many women would have risked scandal, or worse, to attend a masque before they were wed. Aphrodite had been as brave as she was foolish. He returned his attention to his wife. She sat, hands folded in her lap, lips set in a thin line. She hadn’t the courage Aphrodite had, but he thanked God for the backbone she had shown. They would get on well enough, once she accepted she hadn’t made as bad a bargain as she might have, had his brother or father been the alternative.

They rode in silence until arriving at her uncle’s townhouse. The carriage came to a rolling stop. “I would like a moment alone.” She brushed non-existent lint from her dress. “I will see you at breakfast.”

He placed his hand over hers, stilling her movement.

Small hairs on her arms quivered when he raked his thumb over her knuckle. “Perhaps I would prefer to join you.” She snatched her hand away, and he chuckled.

“Not to worry, wife, we will spend many moments alone. I can be patient.”

“I will take some comfort in knowing you have at least one virtue.” The door opened. Grasping the layers of her dress, she gave her hand to the waiting footman. Taran couldn’t take his gaze away from the rounded fullness of her backside as she bent and, in a flounce, ascended the porch steps.

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