Page 61 of The Highlander’s Improper Wife

They reached the end of the lane and broke out onto the street. A stable sat directly across the way with a small tavern to the right. Behind the buildings, on a hill, sat half a dozen thatched cottages, smoke puffing from their chimneys in modest chugs. To the left, an open market buzzed with business.

“How many people live in the village?” Caroline asked, surprised at the market that stretched across two or three hectares.

“Eighty-two,” Taran replied. “But this market is the only one within thirty miles.”

She looked at him. “A market like this is a huge economic asset. Why hasn’t it supported the village?”

“Because my father taxed the merchants into poverty.”

The vehemence in his voice startled then warmed her. For all his faults, he was not his father, and he would use her money for a better cause than anyone she could have chosen on her own—certainly better than John, which made her uncle’s choice of men nothing more than dumb luck.

“Would you like to see the shops?” Taran asked.

“I would,” she replied, then blushed at the delight she had shown.

He smiled, obviously pleased with her reaction, and she couldn’t help smiling back.

“You did say you would need to purchase things as a result of being rushed away from England,” he said. “You will not find a modiste, but there are some fine fabrics to be had.

Choose anything you like.”

Caroline arched a brow. “Giving me permission to spend my own money?”

He grinned. “I am a generous sort. Spend to your heart’s content. Fiona can steer you to the best dress designer in the Highlands after you’ve made your purchases.”

Despite her pique, a quiver radiated through her stomach. Unlike so many husbands, he wasn’t tight-fisted and showed no signs of setting up a miserly allowance meant to keep her quiet long enough for him to deplete her fortune.

Only yesterday she hadn’t been able to imagine a life away from London. She had never been one to attend every party, staying out until dawn only to repeat the process until the season was over. But neither could she have fathomed finding contentment in country life. Yet, looking at Taran, she saw in his eyes their lives as they shared in the building up of the village his father had ruined, their children, then finally grandchildren, playing at their feet.

Reality returned with an adder’s bite, and the sting of tears nearly wrenched a sob from her. His warm fingers gently squeezed the hand still entwined in the crook of his arm as he led her across the street towards the market. She moved alongside, legs numb, mind blank, except for the broken picture that had shattered inside her head.

* * * *

Caroline stood in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of her bedchamber and stared at the deep-blue velvet gown she wore. Despite the carefully coiffured curls pinned atop her head, she looked just as Fiona had intended—déshabillé—partially dressed with a careless flair that said the dress had been thrown on. Caroline traced a finger along the lighter blue trimmed bodice that dipped to reveal the valley between her breasts. Her sister-in-law was to be the death of her. In the space of a few hours, the girl had planned a ball in honor of her and Taran’s marriage—to be held tonight. Then she had sent over this dress. Caroline might have thought the girl meant to amend for shooting her brother last night, but she knew better.

When Caroline had seen her at the breakfast table this morning, she knew Fiona sensed her unease. Caroline’s cheeks warmed as they had when she’d entered the room and found Taran dressed as he had been on the night of the masque, in a white linen shirt and belted plaid. His gaze lifted from the morning paper and she couldn’t help wondering if he hadn’t purposely dressed in that fashion. But, of course, he had. This was the Scottish Highlands, and men didn’t all wear breeches or trousers as they did in England. To top it off, seeing his legs when he stood in deference to her as she seated herself had caused her knees to weaken.

She nearly plopped onto the chair.

“Are you well, madam?” He frowned. “I have sent for Blakely.”

Her mind was still grappling with the sight of his lean frame, so her only recourse had been to lift her chin and reply, “He may tend to my arm as long as you give him five minutes to look at that leg.” Though she had taken great care not to be in the room when the doctor had lifted Taran’s plaid to examine the exquisite thigh beneath. The knowing glint in Fiona’s eyes hadn’t stopped Caroline from adding, “I will not have your father bring me up on charges of murder if you die from infection.”

“It was not you who shot me.” Taran cast his sister a glance that Caroline could have sworn carried a hint of admiration.

“I feel certain he will not blame his daughter,” Caroline had said.

Taran’s barked laugh had mingled with Fiona’s. “You do not know the earl,” he’d said. “But in this case, he would gladly send you to Newgate as murderess in exchange for keeping your money. Unlike me, who will share.” He had added the last with obvious relish.

Pain stabbed at her arm. Caroline stirred from the memory to see she’d wrapped her arms about her shoulders and had squeezed the wound. She tugged the sleeve down and found the bandage Blakely had applied an hour ago, still firmly in place, no blood staining the snow white bandages. A shame. If she was bleeding, Taran would be forced to let her remain in her bedchambers for the night. She grimaced. More likely, he would confine her there for the next week, or until the wound was completely healed. Then, no doubt, he would stay with her, day and night, torturing her with all the luscious things he would do to her body.

Caroline shivered. She’d woken this morning with images filtering through her mind. Taran’s mouth was on her breasts, fingers dipping inside her warmth and—she swallowed, her throat suddenly dry—her on all fours while warm hands held her hips steady against the firm cock that pounded into her from behind. Warmth spread through her. She’d believed they were fantasies her laudanum-clouded mind had conjured, yet her body was pleasantly sore. Not all had been dreams.

Her reflection in the mirror came into focus, gaze on the exposed cleavage of her breasts. Hesitantly, she covered the mounds with her hands. Her cool hands warmed with contact of flesh on the edges of her palms.

She slipped a hand inside the bodice. The nipples went taut, pebble-like against her palm. She slid her hands down a fraction to cup the full mound. Weight of the soft flesh that overflowed in her fingers sent a thrill through her. Was this what Taran felt when he touched her? She grazed the nipple with her thumb and gasped at the sensitivity that tightened her pussy. Her heart sped up and she cast a glance at the door. Dared she? She took the nipple between finger and thumb and rolled the pink tip. Her clit tightened and moisture wet her channel.

In her mind’s eye she saw herself pulling up her skirt and reaching between her legs. Her heart pounded harder. What would it be like to part the folds and trail her finger through up the wet crevice to the sensitive place at the tip? Would her fingers please her as Taran’s did? A tremor rocked her stomach. What if he caught her? Would he thrill at the sight? She envisioned herself on the bed, him gently pulling her skirt above her waist, then standing back as she dipped a finger into the wet heat, probing, massaging, flicking the tiny nub until she writhed in pleasure. Would he be so moved by passion he’d join her? The jiggle of the knob on the door between the lady and lord’s room jerked her back to the present.