Page 53 of The Highlander’s Improper Wife

He set the glass on the nightstand. The woman was too clever. His gaze caught on her arm. There would be a scar. How had she gashed it? He recalled the wrought iron railing on the lady’s balcony and the jagged end of a piece of the grill. He winced at thought of the rusty iron digging into her flesh. That deformed section of the grill could have sliced a cheek, or worse, taken an eye. He should have fixed it long ago. The damned thing was a menace. He should have anticipated—he should have anticipated what, that his wife would jump from one balcony to another?

He leaned close to her. “What were you thinking?” “She was helping me,” Fiona said.

Taran twisted his neck and met his sister’s gaze. “You have done enough damage for one night.”

“Do not bully her,” Caroline interjected.

Taran looked at her. “She is my sister. I will do what I please with her.”

“She is a married woman. You have nothing to say about her life.” Caroline’s brow arched. “So you told my uncle.” She leaned so close her nose nearly touched his. “When you threatened the duel. You do remember?”

He gave a slow nod. “I do. Huntly, take your wife off.” “Taran,” Fiona began.

“Fiona,” Huntly said. “He is right. We should go.”

“But—”

“They have survived,” the younger man interrupted. He led her to the door.

As the door clicked shut behind them, Taran wondered just how long he would survive.

* * * *

Caroline’s heart raced. Taran hadn’t given his sister so much as a sideways glance. The girl had been right. He didn’t ask for forgiveness, nor did he give it. Anger shot to the surface. His sense of justice be damned.

“Your leg, sir.”

Caroline forced her voice to remain level. He couldn’t be walking around if the wound were serious, but that didn’t mean the ball wasn’t lodged in his flesh. The way the blood had spread on his breeches worried her.

“My leg will heal,” he said. “You, on the other hand, will be lucky to escape infection.” “A ball to a thigh can cause serious infection,” she replied.

“The bullet merely grazed me.”

His mouth thinned to a grim line as he wrung out the rag in the water and Caroline couldn’t help wondering if his anger wasn’t due more to the fear of how his father would react if his new heiress died only a day after their wedding. If an accident had befallen her so early in their marriage, her uncle could contest the death. Caroline couldn’t help a sense of satisfaction in the irony of the old earl’s hard work going for nothing.

Amusement died with the memory that her uncle had sold her so that he could be associated with a noble family. Bastard. Losing that connection would anger him far more than giving up the yearly income. More likely, he would make a deal with the earl to remain part of the inner circle in exchange for not contesting her death. If that happened, Taran would have no need to seek out another heiress until his father had whittled away her fortune.

Caroline recalled Leslie Benton’s accident two years ago. She had been married but two weeks when her carriage had gone off the road and she broke her neck. Everyone wondered what she had been doing out late in Wanstead with only a driver. She never ventured out of the heart of London, and certainly never went anywhere without proper escort. Her father and mother didn’t contest the death and, six months later, were gallivanting about London at all the best parties as relations of their deceased daughter’s father-in-law.

Caroline jumped at the sudden sting to the wound in her arm. Her attention snapped back to the present and Taran, who was dabbing at the wound with the rag.

“Must you use that abominable brandy?” she asked.

He didn’t look up. “Perhaps that will teach you not to jump from balcony to balcony.”

“As I said, my lord, that will teach you not to lock me in another room.”

“Caroline—” A sharp rap on the door interrupted him. “Enter,” Taran called.

The door opened and Patterson stepped aside for a grey-haired gentleman carrying a doctor’s bag and out of breath.

Taran rose. “Blakely.” The two men clasped hands. “Thank you for coming.”

The older man’s gaze flicked to Taran’s blood-soaked breeches. “You look worse for the wear, Blackhall.”

“‘Tis but a flesh wound. It is my wife who needs your attention.”

Patterson discreetly set a stack of neatly folded snow-white bandages on the nightstand, then clicked the door shut behind him as the doctor turned in her direction. His gaze dropped to her wound. He put his bag on the floor at his feet as he sat on the bed beside her. He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, pulled out spectacles, and wrapped the wires around his ears. He leaned close and examined the wound.