Page 54 of The Highlander’s Improper Wife

“Clean the wound with that brandy?” he asked as he tilted his head to the right and peered more closely at the injury.

“He did,” Caroline replied. “And it hurt like the devil.”

The old man’s eyes lifted to meet hers. “Better the sting of brandy than the pain of infection.”

“You might tell my husband that,” she replied coolly. “He has yet to apply any treatment to that leg.”

Doctor Blakely pulled his bag onto his lap and opened the top. “She has a point.

Remove your breeches. Once I have attended to her, I will see to your thigh.”

“Blakely—”

“No arguments,” the doctor interrupted, then glanced at the basin filled with bloody water. “We will need clean water.”

Caroline didn’t miss the limp in Taran’s walk to the rope that hung on the wall near the bed. He tugged on it, then crossed the room to the hearth.

The doctor leaned close and looked at Caroline’s arm. “Now then, let us be sure this is fully sterilized.”

After tossing in another log in the fire, Taran poured a liberal tumbler of brandy and lowered himself into the chair in front of the fire. The doctor pulled a bottle of clear liquid from his bag and unscrewed the top. The pungent odor of alcohol filled the air between them. He picked up a bandage and saturated the cloth with the liquid. Patterson arrived a moment later and Taran ordered fresh water brought up. Caroline endured the doctor’s ministrations until the gash had been thoroughly cleaned and bandaged.

Fifteen minutes later, clean water had been delivered and the doctor tied the final knot on the bandage. “Blackhall, a glass of water, please.”

Taran rose and crossed to the sideboard. Caroline could see by the stiffness in his walk that the effort cost him. The infuriating man was going to deny to the bitter end his need for medical attention. It would serve him right if an infection got the better of him. He poured water from a jug into another tumbler and brought it to her.

The doctor produced a second bottle from his bag. “This is for the pain.” “I do not need laudanum,” she said.

“You will soon enough.” He poured a small dose in the water, swished it around and handed it to her. “Drink.”

“I—”

“For God’s sake, Caroline,” Taran snapped. “Drink the damned medicine or I will pour it down your throat.”

She opened her mouth to tell him to take himself to the devil, then pictured the doctor recounting the tale of how the Viscount of Blackhall forced laudanum down his new bride’s throat. She took the glass, hesitated, then caught sight of the dark look on Taran’s face. He would make good on his threat. Caroline drank the mixture.

Doctor Blakely took the glass from her and set it on the nightstand. “Now,” he stood,

“let us have a look at that leg.”

“She will be all right?” Taran asked.

“You did a fine job of sterilizing the wound.”

Taran’s eyes shifted to her face, before he turned. “I will sit, if you do not mind. It has been a trying day.” He sat on the chair and grunted as he tugged off one boot and then the other.

“Indeed,” the doctor said, and Caroline glimpsed a twitch at the corner of his mouth before he turned and approached Taran. “Off with the breeches.”

Taran stood and shoved the breeches off his hips. His jaw clenched as he pushed the fabric down his legs.

A comfortable sense of drowsiness began to creep across Caroline’s limbs. Now that she knew Taran would be treated, she relaxed against the pillow. Firelight blurred in her vision.

She should have called for laudanum the moment she arrived at Strathmore. She might have avoided a great deal of trouble. Maybe—she drew in a sharp breath at sight of Taran’s rounded buttocks, his breeches around his knees.

He jerked his head in her direction. “Is something amiss?”

She riveted her eyes onto his face. His gaze intensified in silent demand and she answered with a hurried shake of her head.

He looked uncertain. “Do you wish to retire to your own room?”