Page 8 of The Highlander’s Improper Wife

He cast her a glance. “Yes, well I had hoped on luck.”

“Perhaps we have exhausted our good fortune for the day.”

He had to agree. Finding her was the only stroke of good luck amidst a streak of bad luck that had begun with his brother’s death and would continue with his marriage tomorrow. In one fell swoop, Mistress Fortune had saddled him with a lifetime of bad luck. The absurdity of wasting the few precious moments he had with Aphrodite, lost in a labyrinth, was almost comical.

The whinny of horses and the clatter of hooves on cobblestone faintly sounded up ahead. Taran made a quick turn at the next bend, bringing them face-to-face with the rear gate. Aphrodite gave a small cry of surprise. Taran threw back the latch and opened the gate with the intention of fetching his carriage. He stopped, a thought crossing his mind. If he left her, would she disappear? She was certain to balk at the notion of accompanying him to his carriage. She would be right. A tryst at the masque was permissible. Aphrodite leaving the ball with the Scot all recognized as Lord Blackhall would make the morning Times. The lady’s reputation would be in ruins. A hired carriage would have to do. Away from prying eyes, he could dispense with her clothes—and that damn mask and wig.

They stepped from the alley and he started across the street towards a respectable looking carriage sitting in front of a townhouse. He glanced at her. She wore no cloak. What had the little fool meant, leaving the safety of the gardens for the public streets in that costume?

“I have a coach—” she began.

“Hush,” he cut her off as they neared the hackney.

He released her and reached into his shirt pocket for his small purse. Taran opened the door.

The driver’s head snapped in their direction. “Hey there, I ain’t open for business. I have a customer—”

Taran pulled a coin from the purse and tossed it to him. The man caught the glistening gold piece without hesitation. He cast the lady a glance, clearly taking in her costume, then bent forward to examine the coin in the streetlight as Taran grasped her waist.

“What—” she began, but he cut off the protest by hoisting her into the coach.

Taran grasped the carriage door. “Drive until I say otherwise and there will be another of those for you at the end of the trip.” He leapt into the carriage, slamming the door shut behind him.

“At your service,” the driver called, and whipped the reins.

Taran settled into the velvet seat across from Aphrodite. The coach lurched into motion, sending the flame in the corner lamp into a momentary dance.

“I must return to my carriage,” she said in a quiet voice.

Taran studied her.

“I am at your mercy.” The defiant lift of her chin belied the words.

He leaned forward and grasped her chin with two fingers. “No secrets, remember, my lady?”

Light from the lantern, low, but distinct, illuminated the guilt that flashed in her eyes. His heart rate accelerated. What could she possibly be hiding? He brushed her soft skin with his thumb, then leaned back against the cushion.

“Come,” he said, “was it not you who said a woman need feel no shame for attending a masque?”

“It is not shame, I feel, but wonder at being kidnapped.”

Chapter Four

Taran’s body tensed when her gaze turned to steel.

“I am to wed,” she said.

“To wed—you mean—” He stared. “What in God’s name are you doing at this masque?” But he knew the answer. Innocence and sin. Heaven and sweet hell. When she’d first touched his cock with those delicate, inexperienced fingers, he’d nearly exploded.

“Christ,” he muttered.

She had purposefully misled him. He should turn her over his knee and paddle her backside. Or her soon-to-be-husband should.

He was a fool. At cards he beat the most skilled player, few dared face him in a dawn appointment, yet this wisp of a woman had brought him to his knees when she’d knelt and taken him into her mouth.

Moonlight seeped through the crack in the window drape and fell across the purple sash that now lay unevenly beneath her breasts. As if reading his mind, she slid the drapery closed.

Taran lifted his eyes to her face, bathed in the soft light of the interior lamp. “Why attend the masque?” he demanded.