Page 23 of The Highlander’s Improper Wife

Taran cast him a meaningful glance. “I expect to hear news from you immediately.” “I shall not fail. My lady.” He gave another small bow and turned on his heel.

“You are sure I cannot remain here?” Caroline asked.

Taran faced her. “Is that what this is about?”

“What?”

“This.” He looked pointedly at the hat, then let his gaze drop, wincing at sight of the narrow waist.

“You insist we travel,” she replied. “I hardly see why you should be concerned with my attire.”

She stepped forward and he grasped her all-too-narrow-waist, lifting her into the carriage. It was she who should be concerned about her attire. If she passed out from lack of air, he would be inclined to paddle her pretty bottom.

* * * *

Taran released a slow breath, at last giving in to the relaxing gait of his mount as he rode alongside the horses drawing the carriage. He could feel his wife’s eyes on the back of his head. He didn’t have to look back to know the feather still stuck out the window, fluttering in the wind like a war flag.

Two hours into the trip, and she still wore that damned hat. He couldn’t prevent a laugh. She sat rigid in her seat, unwilling or unable to relax against the cushions. Their wedding night would begin with him carrying her up the inn stairs and putting her into a hot tub to work the kinks from her back.

An unexpected picture arose of her naked in his arms, of him lowering her into a tub of steaming water. Then joining her. He could almost feel the velvety water as he ringed her nipple with his tongue, the rosy peak puckering, springing upward into a hardened point.

Taran shifted in the saddle to accommodate his growing arousal as the image shifted in his mind. She positioned herself between his legs, her back pillowed against his chest. He cupped her breasts, felt the heavy weight in his palm. By God, in his mind he had her stripped bare. He gulped in dusty air as he imagined flattening his palm against her stomach, then sliding lower, until he brushed the thatch of dark curls between her legs and parting her fleshy slit.

She would arch into his hand—no. He forcibly shook off the fantasy. Lady Caroline Blackhall was his wife, a lady of genteel birth, who expected to be bedded with respect, not passion, as Aphrodite had demanded.

The feel of her, warm in his arms, arose with startling intensity. Despite the pledge, he wouldn’t regret their joining, although he couldn’t deny the bitterness he felt at having had only a small part of her. Bedding Caroline would not be a hardship. She was beautiful, desirable, but she was a wife, a woman to respect—he thanked God for that much—but she wasn’t a woman interested in sharing his passion.

Taran glanced back. As expected, the feather still billowed in the wind, but—he squinted—the feather listed heavily towards the opposite end of the window from which Caroline sat. Had she switched to the opposite cushion? Impossible. The curve of the feather faced forward as it had when she’d stepped into the carriage, only now it touched the far side of the window as if she leaned far forward—or had fallen forward.

Taran jerked hard on the reins, wheeling his horse around. “Stop the carriage!” The stallion whinnied and tossed his head.

The driver yanked back on the four horses, and the man riding guard ahead of them came to a grinding halt as Taran reached the door. He leapt to the ground, seized the door handle, and threw it back. Caroline’s limp form tumbled through the opening, the feather slapping his nose as he caught her in his arms.

“A knife,” he shouted.

“My lord?” Davis, the second man riding atop the carriage repeated.

“A knife, man, have you got a knife?”

“Aye.”

“Give it to me!”

Taran hoisted Caroline onto the seat and leapt up beside her. The carriage rocked as Davis dropped to the ground. He propped his boot on the rim of the carriage and lifted the hem of his breeches. He pulled a knife from a sheath strapped to his ankle and extended it towards Taran.

He grabbed the hilt, flipped Caroline onto her belly, and slit the back of her dress in one long cut. Fabric parted with a loud ripping sound and exposed the creamy flesh of her back. Caroline gasped, drawing in a long, harsh breath, and began coughing.

Taran handed the knife back to Davis. “Tether my horse to the rear of the carriage and move on.”

“Aye, my lord.” He closed the door behind Taran.

Taran grabbed Caroline by the waist and sat her upright. She pitched forward in the throes of a coughing spasm. He caught her, pulling her to his chest.

“Take shallow breaths,” he instructed while rubbing circulation into her back.

The carriage listed as Davis hoisted himself up onto the seat. An instant later, the vehicle lurched into motion. Taran braced one hand on the roof of the carriage and pinned Caroline against the cushion with the other. He held her firm while they rumbled over a hole that made them bounce in their seats.

“Of all the foolishness,” he muttered. “If you die before we even reach the inn, your uncle will call me out for that dawn appointment—and rightfully so, this time.” Beneath the brim of her hat, he saw the downturn of her mouth.