Page 38 of The Highlander’s Improper Wife

Her heart pounded as she drew in the mid-morning air. “As well as can be expected,” she said in a calm voice.

He gave a slow shake of his head. “I have neglected you.”

Before she realized it, he seized the door handle and leapt from the horse onto the step.

The carriage rocked.

Caroline grabbed the handle. “My lord!”

He laughed and tossed the reins up front. “Davis, if you please,” he called, and yanked the door from her grasp.

Caroline scrambled to the far end of the cushion as Taran stepped inside. He dropped onto the opposite seat, his grin wider than it had been a moment ago. The carriage rocked more violently as Davis climbed to the rear of the box and tethered the horse, then climbed back up front.

Taran stretched his legs out on the seat opposite him. “You haven’t spoken a word since we left the inn.”

The intensity in his eyes stoked a simmering heat deep in her secret places—places that ached for him again. Heat pooled between her legs and sweat trickled between her breasts.

“I am alone in a carriage,” she replied. “Who would you have me converse with?”

His expression sobered, catching her off guard. “I am sorry about stopping at the Cross

Keys Inn.”

“My father died long ago.”

He regarded her and she realized she’d spoken too quickly.

“Not so long. Three years, you said.”

Familiar sadness tugged at her heart, but she answered evenly, “Yes.”

“What of your mother?”

“She died when I was twelve.”

“Your father never remarried?”

Caroline shifted her attention to the gently rolling hills outside her window. Recollection of her mother’s cold stare contrasted with the soft eyes immortalized in the portrait hanging over the library hearth. Despite the fact the cold look was reserved primarily for her father, Caroline often found him at his desk, staring at the picture.

“He loved her,” she said.

“He was a lucky man.”

Caroline broke from the vision and swung her gaze onto Taran. He stared intently.

Heat rushed into her cheeks. “Yes,” she replied, unable to tell him that her father wasn’t at all lucky. Neither was her mother. How was it possible love could make two people hate each other?

Mother had wanted a man who fought duels in her honor, attended her at every soirée until deep into the night, then left her to sleep until noon the next day while he discreetly slipped off to his mistress’ bed. Instead, he’d remained loyal, despite her many indiscretions. Her mother hated him as much for that as the tender heart that always forgave her. She died when Caroline was twelve, her father when she was fifteen, but her mother’s hatred and father’s sorrow lived on in her heart.

“Perhaps as lucky as me,” Taran murmured.

Her heart fluttered. Would he feel that way once he discovered her deception? Or would she would follow in her parent’s footsteps, would she hate—and be hated?

He removed his feet from the cushion and she froze when he crossed to her side and sat beside her. Anticipation of his touch had her heart pounding so loudly she feared he would hear. He slid an arm behind her and wrapped four fingers along her nape. Trembles slithered over her flesh. She swallowed, the silence hovering between them deafening. Her pussy clenched with the possibility of having Taran plunging in her depths again. She closed her eyes as the blunt tips of his fingers burned through the fabric of her dress. Her nipples tightened to aching points.

“Sir, it is broad daylight.” Her voice sounded husky, sinful, dripping with invitation.

“Mmm hmm.” Taran pressed a kiss to the pulse below her ear.