An Improper Wife (19 page)

“I would appreciate it if you did not repeat that business.” He halted. “Where is Reverend Gordon?”

“Downstairs. I doubt he will leave until he learns what has become of you and your wife.”

“I will speak with him.” Taran finished removing his britches. Pain sliced outward from the wound.

“Turn that chair.” The doctor nodded towards the bench behind them at the foot of the bed.

He got the clean basin of water from the table near the window and placed it on the bench as Taran fetched the robe laid out for him on the foot of the bed and put it on. He moved the chair then sat. Blakely retrieved his bag from beside the bed where Caroline slept, and the remaining bandages, then seated himself next to Taran.

“Prop that leg up here.”

Taran did as ordered and leant back against the seat cushion.

“Your sister is a tolerable shot,” Blakely commented.

Taran barked a laugh. “It is my fault for teaching her.”

“I remember she pestered you until you gave in.”

“I should have coddled her more. Seems to have worked for Horatia.”

The doctor began cleaning the wound. “Horatia demanded to be coddled. Oh, congratulations.”

Taran shifted his attention to Caroline. Asleep, she looked as harmless as a mouse. “I cannot yet say congratulations are in order.”

“Huntly is a good man.”

“Ah, you refer to my sister’s marriage.”

“Felicitations on your marriage, as well.”

Taran winced at the burn of alcohol on his leg. A shame Caroline had fallen asleep. She would have enjoyed seeing him receive the same treatment he’d given her. She had taken it well, he realised with some pride.

Blakely worked in silence, cleaning the wound for a moment, before saying, “What have you decided about Darby?”

Taran jerked from his concentration on Caroline. Darby was a notorious cattle rustler, who had yet to be caught red-handed. “Darby has been dealt with.”

“Are you certain he knows that?”

“What has happened?”

Blakely set the bloody rag on the edge of the water basin and picked up a clean one from the stack. “Unwise of you to ignore this wound for so long.”

“Not so long. Only the time it took to fetch you and tend to Caroline.”

“An hour,” the doctor replied. “You could have at least poured brandy on it as you did her wound.”

“I have had worse, as you know. Now, what has happened with Darby? If he has gone back to stealing cattle—”

“Nothing so disreputable as that,” Blakely replied. “On the contrary, he now collects, er, insurance, so that cattle are
not
stolen.”

Taran stared. “
Not
stolen?”

The doctor lifted Taran’s leg, placed a clean rag beneath his thigh, then laid it on the cloth and poured alcohol on the wound.

Stinging pain spiked clear through to the bone. Taran clenched his teeth. “By God, Blakely.”

“You have had worse,” the doctor replied, and dried the wound.

Taran fell into silence, his thoughts on Randall Darby. The fact the rustler hadn’t been caught stealing hadn’t stopped the local villagers from nearly hanging him twice. John had intervened both times. Not out of the goodness of his heart, but because their father had threatened recompense if word reached the Lord Advocate that a murder had been committed on their land. Murder didn’t bother the old earl. Dealing with the English Crown did. An investigation could lead to the discovery of their illegal gaming hall.

Blakely lifted Taran’s thigh and began wrapping the wound. Taran remembered with disgust his father’s announcement that they were to become gaming hall owners. John had laughed when Taran had pointed out that they could lose everything—and end up in Newgate—if the Crown got wind of the operation. His father hadn’t needed to run a gaming hall, but considered it easier than earning an honest living by working the land. Taran had left the following day and joined the Navy.

He shifted his gaze onto Caroline. She lay, her head tilted to the side on the pillow, the slight rise and fall of her breast a sign she slept peacefully. What would she think of having traded a pirate uncle for a gaming house owner father-in-law? She would never know. The earl’s gaming days were over. As for Randall Darby, Taran would see to him first thing in the morning.

“He is not a bad sort,” Blakely said as if he’d read Taran’s mind.

“He should do as he is told.”

“Enough time has not yet passed to give him faith that things will be any better now than they were under your father or John’s rule.”

The doctor was right. Taran thought for the thousandth time of how the land had been left unused, the people who depended on them for sustenance turning to cattle rustling or thievery to survive.

“May John’s soul rot in Hell,” he murmured.

The doctor glanced at him.

Taran shrugged. “There is no love lost between my brother and me.”

 “There is no love lost between John and anyone. Except, perhaps, his mistress.”
  Taran grunted a laugh. “Not even his mistress. Clarice has already found herself another protector.”

A corner of the older man’s mouth twitched. He tied off the bandage and straightened. “If any signs of inflammation appear, inform me immediately.”

“No matter the time of night or day.” Taran stood.

“You might want a dose of laudanum.” Blakely strode to the nightstand where he’d left the bottle.

“Nay.” Taran glanced at Caroline. “I suspect I will need my wits about me. Is she well?”

The doctor crossed to the bench and placed the bottle inside his bag. “The wound was not as superficial as yours—you were damned lucky on that account, the bullet merely grazed you, but she will be fine.”

“Hurt like the devil,” Taran muttered.

Blakely’s brows rose. “A little higher and—”

“A little higher and I would not be able to sire an heir.”

Taran glanced at Caroline. Given her response to him the last two nights, he couldn’t bear the thought of not slipping into her heat again. He would be the only man to satisfy her.

Minutes later the doctor departed. Taran had no desire to dress. Despite the ache in his thigh, his
desire
was to climb upon the bed with his wife, kiss her out of her delirium and slide between her lithe thighs. Since their encounter in the carriage—and before Fiona’s untimely interruption—his cock throbbed with nearly the same intensity as the wound in his leg.

He turned off the lamp, then crossed to the bed and blew out the candle. Taran grabbed his robe tie, then paused at sight of Caroline. Silken black hair splayed across stark white pillows. Her soft mouth lifted into a ghost of a smile. What sweet visions danced in her mind? He grimaced. Sweet vision? Mischief, more likely.

Taran shrugged from his robe, tossed it to the end of the bed, then slid beneath the covers next to her. She sighed and snuggled against his side. He held his breath when long, delicate fingers tickled across his chest. Quivers tightened his abdomen as blood rushed into his shaft with the same pounding rhythm as his beating heart.

He eased an arm beneath her and wrapped his hand over her shoulder, pulling her closer. His fingers brushed the bandage. Part of him wanted to wring her neck, but he was also thrilled at her gumption. Loyalty was something to admire. In the years to come, he would need her at his side. Yes, he was entitled to her money, now his money, to spend as he saw fit. But he had pride. Together they could return dignity to Strathmore and the people who called his family’s land home.

Although his cock lay heavy and erect against his stomach, he closed his eyes and resigned himself to sleep. Until he discovered Caroline’s secrets—Aphrodite’s secrets—he would bide his time. Then, he thought, as warmth seeped from the hand lying on his chest into his flesh, then he would bed her every night until she couldn’t think. He would be much safer if she was too satiated to think of anything but him. His body relaxed. He wanted her to think of nothing but him.

Hairs tickled his sternum. Taran froze when Caroline wedged his good leg between hers and arched her pelvis into his thigh. Damp heat warmed his flesh. His heart raced. She again trailed fingers over his torso.

His gaze caught on the bandage. “Your shoulder,” he whispered.

“Hardly hurts.” The sound of her gravelly voice startled, then concerned him. She wasn’t truly awake.

Her hand dipped below the waist-high sheet.

His cock jerked and Taran grasped her hand. “Caroline, you’re not fully awake, and you tempt me beyond thought. I will not want to stop.”

“Mm hmm.” She propped onto an elbow and bent towards his chest.

Moist lips closed around a nipple. Lust shot to his groin. He groaned at the hardening of his cock to near steel. She flicked the nipple with her tongue, then sucked. His chest tightened against the intense pleasure. The edge of her palm grazed his erection. By God, she had already tasted of his passion. She knew what she did to him. Or did she? Her fingers closed around him and squeezed. Taran braced her ribcage, careful of her shoulder and rolled her onto her back. Her thighs spread and he positioned his hips between them, his erection pressing against her heated mound.

Eyes bright in the dim glow of the embers, she wrapped a hand around his neck and urged him closer. It was the laudanum, and surely only Aphrodite would be so bold, but, damn his soul, he couldn’t turn away. Taran closed the space between them, sealing their lips. Her mouth opened and hot flicks of her tongue sent heat racing through his veins.

Her free hand slid around his waist and she sank deeper into the kiss. Taran growled. Tongues, lips, gliding, tasting, sucking. He broke the kiss and tugged down the sleeve of her uninjured arm to reveal a breast. His breath hitched at sight of the rosy nipple that jutted towards him. He latched onto the taut peak. She arched and he sucked more of the supple breast into his mouth, working the tip between his tongue and the roof of his mouth. Softening his kiss, he gently bit the tip, then laved the tightened bud with his tongue and blew against her skin. She shivered. Taran repeated the kiss on the other breast. Her legs shifted beneath him, twisting the garment. She squirmed.

Taran gave a low laugh. “Patience.”

He slid a moist kiss from between her breasts, up her neck to her ear and gently took the lobe between his teeth and nibbled. She whimpered. He rose to his knees. She grabbed for him, but he turned her onto her stomach. She struggled to face him.

Taran leant down and whispered in her ear. “Lie still, sweet.”

She complied and he worked the laces from the stays, pulled what was left of the sleeve from the injured arm, then the other arm. He worked the dress down her hips, off her legs, and tossed it aside. She shifted and he stilled her movements by straddling her legs. With a feather-light touch, Taran slid his palms down her back and over her rounded buttocks. Smooth flesh quivered beneath his fingers. His cock jumped.

Careful of her arm, Taran turned her over. Her cheeks were flushed and he placed a hand on her face. Cool flesh met his touch and his shoulders relaxed the tension he hadn’t realised was there. Caroline grasped his fingers and brought them to her mouth. Eyes closed, she pressed his palm to her lips and slid a warm kiss along the calloused skin. His heart pounded. By all that was holy, he would never let her go. He needed this—her naked body, writhing beneath him, with her thighs spread as he sank into her silken sheath.

Taran positioned himself over her. Holding his weight with his arms, he spread her legs with his knees. Pain sliced through his leg, but he settled between her thighs and nudged her opening with the blunt head of his cock. Her legs opened wider. With gentle fingers, he parted her drenched folds, breeched her plump pussy lips and slipped his cock in an inch. The hot, wet passage closed around him as if in welcome. With a deep inhalation, she relaxed and he sank to the hilt. Lowering onto her, he took care with her shoulder by staying propped on his elbows, then brushed a kiss across her trembling lips as he pulled out, then thrust. She arched and gasped.

Taran jerked back, his cock slipping from her sheath. “Your shoulder?”

She shook her head, but didn’t speak.

He hesitated, his rod throbbing, the need to thrust nearly overwhelming, then rolled to his back. “Ride me.” He grasped the root of his shaft.

Caroline sat upright and listed a little to the left before he caught her.

“Damn laudanum,” he cursed, and started to rise.

She flashed a smile and swung a leg over his hips. Caroline gave a tiny cry and he started to push her off then realised she was staring at his leg. She bent close, then looked at him, brow furrowed in such a dark frown he wanted to laugh.

“My lord, your leg.”

He blinked, uncertain he’d truly heard the slur that had made the word
leg
sound like
theg
. She shifted, her curls brushing his shaft, and all amusement vanished.

“True agony is not having my cock buried in your sweet body. Enough talk.”

She straightened so quickly he had to stop the momentum that would have toppled her onto the mattress. Before he realised her intent, she grasped his stalk and sank onto him until his cock head pressed against the top of her channel. Pleasure shot through him with agonising intensity. Caroline gasped, eyes wide.

“Damn it, Caroline,” he rasped, but she lifted so that the mushroom-tipped head teased her folds, smearing her juices over his crown. The soft curls covering her mound tickled his cock head and he was certain he would spend himself that instant.

Unable to hold back, he bucked hard, cramming her full of his cock. His thigh burned and pain robbed him of breath, yet he couldn’t stop. Caroline arched, crying out as her internal walls gloved his shaft. She rocked on his lap, taking her pleasure as she rode him. Her cream slicked his easy slide into her slippery passage.

Smooth muscular contractions pulled him deeper into her body. Then she shattered. She slammed hard onto his hips. Pain rippled through his wound. He bolted up and gulped air.

She cried out and scrambled from his lap, falling arse first onto the mattress. “My lord.”

He bolted upright. “On your knees.”