Page 50 of The Highlander’s Improper Wife

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 realized 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.