An Improper Wife (17 page)

“Good God,” Fiona cried as Huntly stumbled into the room.

“This is ridiculous,” Caroline snapped. “Get off me.”

Taran gave her an appraising look. “Tired of me already, wife?”

Her eyes narrowed. “If your sister does not shoot you, I will.”

“But I will,” Fiona growled. “Ross, put. Me. Down.”

“Now, Fiona,” he began, but she cut him off with a scream.

Caroline winced, then her gaze latched onto Taran’s. She seized his shoulders and dragged him closer. “You will not kill the boy?” The words, spoken in a whisper that couldn’t possibly be overheard above Fiona’s command to be released, held a chill that startled him.

“Do not say you are concerned.” The edge in his voice sounded dark even to him, but an odd sense of foreboding suddenly rose.

Her mouth thinned. “You go too far with this ruse.”

“Ruse?” he repeated.

“You will rue the day you married me!” Fiona shouted.

Taran twisted to see his sister had begun to thrash wildly. Huntly stumbled backwards, barely managing to keep her from slipping from his grasp. Taran jumped to his feet and pulled Fiona from the younger man’s shoulder just in time to keep her from being squashed between him and the wall.

Huntly straightened. “Damnation, Fiona, you nearly knocked yourself senseless.”

From the corner of his eye, Taran saw Caroline slip from the bed.

Fiona swayed. “Release me.” She yanked in an effort to free her arm. Taran obliged. She fell to her backside on the rug.

“By God, Taran.” Her head snapped in Huntly’s direction. “Ross, do something.”

His brow creased. “What more would you have me do?” He gave a snort. “Come, Blackhall, I wish to be done with this business.” He whirled and disappeared through the door.

Taran started after him. “I believe you have your wish, sister.”

Fiona scrambled to her feet. “What are you talking about?”

“You coming, Blackhall?” Ross called from the hallway.

“On my way,” Taran shouted back, then said to Fiona as he grasped the door handle, “Your husband rues the day he married you.”

Caroline lunged for the door. “Blackhall!”

He slammed the door in her face.

* * * *

Caroline crashed into the shut door. Dull pain radiated through her shoulder. She gritted her teeth against the throbbing, seized the handle and yanked in unison with the sound of steel sliding against steel. The door didn’t budge.

 Fiona appeared at her side. “He’s used the claymore to bar the door.”

Caroline stepped back and Fiona grabbed the handle and yanked. Wood rattled against a clank of steel, but remained firm. She pounded a fist on the door. “Blackhall! Blackhall!” She placed an ear to the wood for a moment, then straightened. “Damn him.”

Caroline stared at the door, still unable to believe it. Taran had bolted the door from the outside with the sword.

“If he kills Ross—”

“He has no intention of shooting your husband,” Caroline cut in.

“Did he tell you that?”

“Well, no.”

“You said two duels in as many days. What was the other duel about?”

Caroline flushed. “He, well, he…”

“Threatened a duel in your honour, did he?” She faced the window again. “Taran does not make idle threats.”

“Surely, he must know you would not forgive him.”

“Taran never asks forgiveness.”

Caroline felt as if all the air had been sucked from her lungs. “He must know he cannot stop you.”

“He knows he can stop me if Ross is dead.”

“He would not kill the boy,” Caroline said under her breath. The man who made love to her in the carriage was no murderer.

“Ah ha!” Fiona cried. “Your bedchamber.”

“What?”

Her sister-in-law raced to a door on the left wall and seized the door handle leading to Caroline’s bedchamber and pushed. The door didn’t open. She shoved with her shoulder. Still nothing. Fiona took a step back and looked the door up and down. “He locked this door as well? I did not hear him enter the closet.”

Caroline remained rooted to the spot. She knew the door led to the small room that connected her bedchamber with Taran’s, for she had locked and unlocked it a dozen times, torn between the notion that a locked door might discourage him from visiting her should he return home late that night. She had decided the idea was nonsense and had left the door unlocked, or so she’d thought.

Fiona blew out a frustrated breath, then whirled in the direction of the curtains of the bay window and hurried to them. With a jerk, she yanked aside the heavy fabric to reveal French doors leading onto a balcony. She threw open the doors and disappeared on the left side of the balcony. Caroline hurried outside and found Fiona, skirts tugged above her thigh as she lifted a leg over the wrought iron railing.

“Fiona!” She lunged for the girl, caught her arm, and dragged her backward.

They tumbled onto the hard stone floor.

Fiona scrambled to her feet and gave her a deprecating look. “What are you doing?”

Caroline grasped the back of a chair sitting at the small table to her right and pulled herself up. “I might ask you the same thing.”

“I am going to jump to that balcony.” She pointed to the neighbouring balcony that opened to the lady’s suite.

Caroline scowled. “‘Tis five feet, maybe more. You will break your fool neck in the attempt.”

Fiona gave a decisive nod. “That would teach Taran a lesson.”

Caroline gave her a horrified look. “You are as insane as he is.”

Fiona barked a laugh. “It is well known the Blackhalls often skirt reason.” Her eyes shifted past Caroline. She gasped and pushed past her.

Caroline turned and startled at sight of three figures marching across the mist shrouded lawn. Young Huntly led, with Taran several feet behind, a lantern in hand, and Reverend Gordon nearly running to catch up.

Fiona grasped the balcony railing and leant forward. “Stop!” Pale moonlight shadowed Taran’s face, but revealed the rigidity in his posture.

He shouted something to Ross. Fiona turned and lunged towards the railing near the lady’s balcony. Caroline caught her arm.

Fiona turned a tear stained face towards her. “He will kill my husband.”

Caroline glanced at the men, who were still heading deeper into the fog. Taran had nearly caught up with Ross. The dangerous note in Taran’s voice when he’d challenged her uncle rose in memory. Fiona was right, the threat hadn’t been idle.

“Stand aside.” She yanked up her skirts. Cold air rushed across her legs, sending a prickle of gooseflesh racing up her thighs.

Fiona glanced anxiously at the other balcony. “Are you certain you should jump? I am younger and more agile.”

Caroline scowled. “I am but two years your senior.”

“Yes, but—”

“For God’s sake, Fiona, will you stand here and argue while your husband takes a bullet?”

The girl paled.

Regret stabbed at Caroline, but she kept her voice even and said, “Pull yourself together.”

Fiona straightened and gave a nod.

Caroline hoisted a leg over the rail and lowered her foot to the outer edge of the balcony. She swung the other foot over. A quick glance at her feet caused a rush of dizziness. The ground disappeared into a dark, airy abyss. She lifted her eyes to Fiona’s face. The girl held her gaze for an instant, then her warm hand covered Caroline’s white-knuckled fingers gripping the railing. Releasing one hand, Caroline extended a foot towards the other balcony and leant. Her toe nearly reached. She leant further.

“Just one…more…inch.” She stretched, then cried out when her grasp on the railing loosened.

“Caroline!”

She swung herself back to the railing, insides shaking so badly, she felt as if she would vomit. She met Fiona’s wide-eyed gaze. Fiona gave a wordless shake of her head. Caroline blew out a shaky breath, then willed her racing heart to slow and again reached for the other balcony. She stretched until her arm felt as if it would disconnect from her shoulder, before cold iron grazed her fingertips.

“Just a bit more.” She gasped, stretching.

“You cannot reach.” Fiona tugged on Caroline’s fingers.

Caroline took a deep breath and leapt. Her fingers clamped around cold iron as her slippered foot made contact with the tiny ledge on the outside of the balcony—then slipped. Her hip crashed into the stone ledge and her shoulder wrenched with the weight of her body hanging from the railing. She cried out in unison with Fiona’s shriek. Pain seared her hip.

“Caroline,” Fiona choked.

Caroline grunted against the pain that pulsed with each beat of her heart. By God, if she had a revolver, she would point it at Taran and put a ball through his shoulder. Perhaps his sister had a point. Let him suffer alongside them. Caroline pooled her strength and swung her foot up onto the ledge.

Muffled shouts sounded in the distance. She pulled herself up, then twisted in the direction of the voices. Caroline gave a cry upon seeing Fiona pointing a revolver out across the lawn. The three men were racing towards them.

“Fiona—”

The report of the revolver reverberated back to Caroline as if she were caught between the blast and a roaring ocean. Her eyes instinctively jammed shut, but she snapped them open in time to see Taran stumble and fall to the ground. Her heart jumped into a pounding rhythm.

Reverend Gordon reached Taran’s side and dropped to his knees. Caroline’s head swam.
He’s dead
. She recalled the thought of how a ball through his heart would solve all their problems. Tears streamed down her face. Taran shoved to his feet, throwing the reverend onto his backside.

Caroline gasped. “Taran!”

He sprinted towards the mansion at a dead run. She stared. He wasn’t dead. Her husband wasn’t dead. He was racing towards her. He had seen them—had seen her jump across the balconies!

“Fiona!”

Caroline jolted at hearing young Huntly’s shout. He hadn’t realised Taran had fallen and kept running towards the mansion. Caroline cast a glance at Fiona. She stood, revolver still pointed into the night.

“Dear God,” she whispered, then crumpled to the floor.

Caroline swung one leg, then the other, over the railing. Heart pounding, she yanked up the hem of her gown, and raced through the door into the lady’s chamber, through the anteroom, and into Taran’s room. A second later, she was on the balcony, kneeling beside Fiona.

Caroline pulled her into an upright position. Soundless tears streamed down the girl’s cheeks. Her eyes slowly parted, heavy with tears, and stared up into Caroline’s face.

“What have I done?” She clutched Caroline’s neck and buried her face in Caroline’s breast.

Caroline stroked her hair until the bedchamber door burst open and the pounding of boots on the carpeted floor sounded behind her. She tried twisting to look back at the men, but Fiona’s grasp on her neck tightened. Heavy footfalls pounded on the balcony. Taran gripped her shoulders with strong hands and dragged her to her feet as Ross pulled Fiona into his arms.

“Fiona,” he said in a near whisper.

“By God, Caroline.” Taran strode into the room, then swung her into his arms.

“Put me down,” she ordered.

He lowered her onto the bed. She started to push to her feet. Taran grasped her shoulders, forcing her back against the pillows as he lowered himself onto the bed beside her.

“Do not move,” he snapped.

She cried out at the sight of a large, blood-stained spot on the britches covering his left thigh. “My lord, you are hit!”

“
I
am hit?” he said, in a tone so dark she riveted her gaze onto his face.

His mouth was set in a grim line. “What of your arm, madam?” His head dipped meaningfully towards her arm and she glanced down.

She gasped. Her sleeve was soaked with as much blood as his trouser leg.

“Huntly—” Taran began.

Reverend Gordon appeared in the doorway, breathing hard.

“Reverend,” Taran said, “have Patterson call for Doctor Blakely.”

The reverend took the group in with a single glance, then turned on his heel.

“Wait,” Taran called.

The reverend faced him.

“
You
fetch the doctor. Patterson will direct you to his residence. Can you ride?”

“I can.”

Taran nodded. “Patterson will oblige with a horse.”

Reverend Gordon nodded and hurried from the room. Taran seized the fabric on Caroline’s dress where sleeve met shoulder and tore it in one hard yank. A deep red gash marred the creamy skin of her upper arm.

Her head swam. She looked up at Taran. “I do not feel a thing.”

Chapter Sixteen

Fear coursed through Taran. The wound looked nasty, but wasn’t life-threatening. Caroline’s near fall from the balcony is what still had his insides shaking. His mind replayed her jump from the balcony and he couldn’t halt the vision of her beautiful body, twisted and broken, lying on the cold ground. Blood roared through his ears. He had almost lost her.

Taran grabbed an edge of the linen sheet they sat on and tore a long strip free. Huntly appeared at his side and placed a basin of water on the nightstand beside the bed. Taran gave a curt nod of thanks and dipped the fabric in the water.

“Light the candle,” he said. “And that lamp.” He nodded towards the lamp sitting on the secretary.

The young man picked up the candle sitting on the nightstand and hurried to the hearth.

“Your leg, my lord,” Caroline said.

“My leg will heal,” he said through tight lips. “It is but a flesh wound.”

“Flesh wound? But I saw you fall.”

He swung his gaze onto her. “Did you now?”

“I thought—”

“You thought what?”

“I thought you were dead.”

The words spoken in a bare whisper tore a harsh laugh from him. He wrung out the wet strip of linen and gently wiped blood from around the wound. “Then we are even. I have yet to get the picture from my head of you leaping from my balcony.”

“Never fear, my lord, I shall live long enough to provide an heir.”

He glanced up at her face. Her chin was high, her eyes glittering with indignation. He snorted. “If you keep testing me, I will—”