by Tarah Scott
Caroline froze, the vial gripped in one hand as he strode towards the bed. “Wh-what are you doing, my lord?”
Taran stopped beside the bed and set the bowl on the nightstand. He paused, clearly taking in the blanket clutched to chin level. “There is no reason to be embarrassed.” He sat next to her. “Allow me to wash you.”
Her heart pounded against her ribs. To have come so far, risked so much, only to be undone by the man’s kindness.
“My lord, I…” She choked back the words. How could she ask him to leave the room so she could deceive him further?
He dipped the washcloth in the water. His gaze shifted to the cloth as he wrung water from it and Caroline glanced at the edge of the bed. She could never slip the vial back beneath the mattress without being caught. Tears rose perilously close to the surface. It was enough that he would discover she wasn’t the promised virgin, but to catch her trying to deceive him would incur his wrath, maybe even recall his instructions to Aphrodite last night. Recognition would be instantaneous.
He shifted and Caroline stuffed the vial beneath her pillow. Taran faced her, his expression gentle. He leant forward and breathed a kiss to her neck, caressed the edge of her breast with a feathering touch. Gently, he urged her back onto the pillow, then pried the covers from her fingers. He pulled the blanket down to her feet. Caroline shut her eyes and steeled herself for his wrath.
With pressure to the insides of her knees, he opened her legs. Cool fabric pressed against her mound. Gentle swipes of the cloth wiped away the blending of their cream. Caroline startled at feel of firm lips pressed to her inner thigh.
“Forgive me,” he murmured.
She opened her eyes and looked at him. Back rigid and his mouth a tight thin line, his ministrations were centred on her thighs. She shifted her gaze to her legs. Her breath caught. Streaks of blood stained the sheets. More blood—but how? In a flood, tears filled her eyes and the weight of her secret crashed around her. More blood. She hadn’t known it was possible. Apparently neither had Taran. She wouldn’t need the vial after all.
Taran traced a finger along her thigh. “Our first time—” He shook his head.
Relief washed over her and she couldn’t refrain from covering his hand with hers. His head lifted and their gazes met.
Caroline offered a tremulous smile. “We are no longer strangers.”
Gratitude shone in his eyes and her heart broke.
* * * *
Tentative fingers slid across his stomach. Lower, across his groin. His breath grew thready and blood surged into his shaft. He was dreaming. Lying in a soft bed with a soft woman stretched out next to him. Silky hair draped over his shoulder and warm breath fanned against his chest. She shifted and her fingers brushed his cock. He groaned, reached over, and covered her hip with a palm. Her thighs parted. Soft, damp curls ground into his thigh. The woman moaned. A seductive, sweet sound he recognised. Aphrodite. So vivid and real beneath his hands. Smooth, naked curves. Heat from her pussy scorching his flesh. Clamping his eyes shut, he refused to wake. No. He wanted to be encased in her tight, slippery sheath.
Wrapping his hand over her thigh, he slid her onto his lap, a leg straddling each of his hips. Centred over his shaft, her slit parted and her folds surrounded his length. Rubbing, grinding, thrusting against her mound, he braced her hips, then moved his hands higher, over each rib. Finally, he cupped each perfect, full breast in his palms. He pinched the taut nipples and she gasped. Her hips rocked against him, emulating a lover’s intimate dance.
Bracing a hand on his chest, she rose onto her knees and grasped his shaft. Taran clenched his jaw and angled his head back. Intense pleasure surged through him. Blood roared through his ears and his heart pounded. Her fingers were tight, yet her stroke was delicate. When she reached lower and fondled his scrotum, Taran thought he would go mad. With precise movements, she positioned his rod at the entrance of her channel and, in one slow slide, took him in.
“Fuck me, my lord.” Her voice was whisper quiet.
Caroline? His eyes snapped open. “Ah, fuck.” The sound of his own voice broke the trance. This was no dream. A willing, wild woman sat astride him.
She rocked in a natural rhythm, raven tresses shifting forward then back with each tortuous movement. Embers from the hearth cast soft light, and Taran discerned unfocused, green eyes, heavy with desire. By God, his wife was asleep.
Lifting and lowering, she joined their bodies. Beautiful, ethereal, she was his wife. He tightened his grip on her hips and bucked harder into her heated, quivering sheath. Pulsing contractions gloved his cock, sucking him deeper.
Her thighs tightened to his hips and her eyes seemed to focus on his face. Understanding curled the corners of her mouth. “Tis a pleasant experience to wake to.” Her voice, rough from sleep, nearly sent him over the edge.
“If done right, it is,” he replied.
She paused, her smile faltered, then she moved again. Faster, quickly building to a frenzy. Her head fell back and convulsed along his shaft. He reached between her legs and carefully grazed his thumb across her swollen button of nerves. Caroline cried out and collapsed onto his chest. Wrapping arms around her back, he anchored her tight to his sternum and sought his own release. The force of his thrust lifted her from his lap and had her plunging down hard onto his cock. Again. And again. He gripped her tighter. Fucked her harder. Penetrated deeper. Finally he exploded, shooting hot ribbons of cream deep into her passage.
Her breathing came hard and fast. She turned her head and placed whispered kisses on his sweat-dampened chest. Taran cradled her head and lifted her mouth to his. He tasted her acceptance and her pleasure. Yes, they would make a fine match. He broke the kiss and she slid onto the mattress. After adjusting the blanket over her shoulder, she curled into his side. His last coherent thought was of Caroline.
Chapter Twelve
The following morning, Caroline shoved the hood of her cloak back from her head as she slipped into the stables. Three years had passed since her father had died in the racing accident. She didn’t expect anything to be the same. How would she know if it were? But to be in the place where he had died sent a wave or sorrow over her. Early morning light streamed into the stable from the cracked door behind her. She halted and gazed down the centre of the darkened stable. Familiar scents of leather, horse manure and straw hung in the air. Tears stung her eyes. Riding together had been her and her father’s greatest joy.
“Pull yourself together,” she instructed. “You have come to put your father to rest, not to grow dewy-eyed.”
She had always known she would eventually come to the Cross Keys Inn. How strange that fate had chosen her wedding day to bring her here. A chestnut stuck his head out of the nearest stall to her left and nickered.
“Oh.” Caroline approached the stall.
The beast tossed his head and sniffed at the fingers she extended. “You’re a tame one.” she murmured, and stroked his neck. “You would do perfectly. I wonder—”
“Can I help you, my lady?”
Caroline jerked her head in the direction of the male voice emanating from further within the stables. A form slid towards her from the murky shadows. As he neared, she distinguished a tall, muscular man with greying hair and a long stride that spoke of powerful thighs.
“Yes,” she replied. “I was hoping for a morning ride.”
The man stopped in front of her. “A morning ride? ‘Tis not fully light yet. You should return in an hour and bring your husband with you.”
The word husband made her stomach swoop. That she would require his permission pricked her pride. She shook her head. “I travelled all day yesterday in a carriage, and am to have more of the same immediately after my husband rises. I will have a little exercise before being confined for another day in that insufferable coach.”
To her surprise, the man grinned. “Aye. A carriage is an abominable prison.”
“Indeed. Sir, is there a horse I might ride? Twenty minutes is a
ll I ask.”
He nodded towards the chestnut beside them. “This fellow is a fine horse, but he has spirit.”
“Spirit?” she repeated. “That is exactly what I need.”
His brows lifted. “Ye sure you do not want a gelding?”
She grimaced. “I rode before I walked. Such animals are for the weak-kneed.”
He grinned again. “I thought you might say that.”
He strode back into the shadowed stables and returned a moment later, lantern in hand. He hung the lantern on the wall beside the stall, then started back the way he had come.
Caroline hurried to catch up. “I can saddle him. You need not bother.”
He gave her an appraising look. “Aye, I see you can, but I cannot allow that.”
They turned into the tack room and he grabbed brush, saddle, and bridle. He nodded towards something behind her and Caroline turned to see the bucket of apples beside the door.
She beamed at the man, then scooped up two apples. “One for later,” she said, “just in case.”
The stable master nodded approval and she fell into step alongside him as he strode back to the chestnut. They reached the stall and he tossed everything but the brush on the ground, and reached for the latch.
“Sir,” Caroline said, “I would be pleased if you let me brush him down.”
He hesitated, then handed her the brush and lifted the latch on the door. The stall door swung open and he stood aside. Caroline smiled a thank you and entered.
“Easy,” she cooed to the horse, and laid a firm hand on his neck as she extended the apple.
The chestnut sniffed at the fruit, then opened his lips. Caroline pushed the apple into his mouth, and the horse sucked it in. He crunched as she began brushing his lean back.
A few minutes later, the stable master returned and saddled the horse. He handed her the reins and she led the beast out of the stall. A mare stood tethered beside them.
Caroline gave the stable master a quizzical look.
“I cannot let ye go riding alone. If your husband is still sleeping…” He gave her a penetrating look.
“He is a late sleeper.”
“Liam Rose at your service, my lady.” He gave a slight bow, looking at her from the corner of his eye. “If your husband doesna’ see my good deed as altruistic, I beg you to tell my wife I loved her.”
Caroline gave a whoop of laughter, then clamped a hand over her mouth. She bit her lip and removed her hand from her mouth. “I promise you, sir, you have nothing to fear from my husband.” She leant closer and added in a whisper, “Particularly, if we return in the next hour.”
Ten minutes later, they were on the hard dirt road headed east out of Kelso. Sunlight streaked through thick clouds in wide beams as sharp as knives.
“Looks like rain,” Liam commented.
“Yes.” She inhaled air that already smelt and felt heavy with water. Caroline pulled back on the horse’s reins. “Is this the road where the Caledonian Hunt is held?”
“Caledonian Hunt?”
She jerked her attention onto him at the edge in his voice. Intense brown eyes studied her.
“Yes,” she replied. “Caledonian Hunt. My father—” She broke off and took a slow breath as she slid her gaze along the wide open field before them. Why, after so long, was she suddenly at a loss for words? Caroline returned her gaze to Liam. “My father used to attend the hunt.”
Liam studied her. “The Caledonian Hunt is a sight to behold. ‘Tis a shame a horse lover like yourself could not attend.”
“How long have you been stable master, Liam?”
He glanced heavenward. “We had better start back, my lady. Rain is sure.”
“Wait.” She slowed and he followed suit. “Please, tell me, where are the markers?”
His gaze bore into hers for an instant, then he nodded to the right of the massive field surrounded by trees on three sides. “That is the starting line.” His gaze moved left. “They race across the field and through those trees for half a mile.” He pointed to an opening on the left side in the middle of the trees.
“Half a mile through the forest?” She looked at him. “That must be dangerous.”
“Aye. That is what makes the race exciting.”
Her heartbeat accelerated. Exciting? How could anyone call a race that risked a man’s life exciting?
“We must return,” he said, and started to wheel his horse around.
Caroline grabbed his arm. “You did not answer my question, Liam. How long have you been stable master here?”
“Twelve years, my lady.”
“Twelve!” She snatched her hand back as if singed. “Then you knew my father.”
“Many men attend the hunt, my lady.”
She stiffened. “How many die?”
“Die?”
She nodded and a chill crept across her flesh at sight of the knowing look that glinted in his eyes.
“Only one, my lady. And he did not simply die.”
* * * *
Taran woke to drowsy awareness. Filmy images of creamy skin, full breasts, and dark curls between slim thighs flitted through the fog that shrouded his brain. His cock hardened. A firm mouth took in his length. Green eyes stared up at him as she worked his shaft in and out. Taran groaned, pumping slowly into the mouth. Sweet innocence. Heaven and Hell. She-devil and—he snapped open his eyes—wife!
Morning sun streamed through the window, scorching his eyes. He squinted against the blinding light. As the fog of sleep burned away, memories of Caroline pounded like a hammer. Her taking him into her mouth in the garden, begging him to fuck her in the carriage, her gasp when he’d entered her, her cry of pleasure, and the way she had ridden him last night until they were both exhausted.
He turned his head to the right to discover the spot beside him on the bed empty. He scanned the room. Empty. Fury shot to the surface. Her reticence last night hadn’t been a maiden’s fear of the wedding bed, but fear of discovery. She had tricked him. But why? What reason could a woman have for seducing her future husband the night before their wedding?
How had she known he would attend the masque? He hadn’t planned on attending. William had nearly twisted his arm to get him to go. Taran clenched his fist at memory of her in the corner with William, the upper edges of her nipples only inches from his friend’s mouth.
Had she wanted him to become so angry that he called off the marriage? The black handkerchiefs, underdress, and stockings were intended to force him to cry off. Why give him her maidenhead and not reveal her identity? Would he have called off the wedding if she had confessed? By God, he wouldn’t have, and she knew it.
He gave his head a hard shake. What the bloody hell was she up to? What woman went to the extreme of giving herself to a man in order to avoid marriage? Did she hate him that much? Impossible. She had wanted him, had revelled in the intense desire in their mating. No woman, no matter how accomplished an actress, could feign responses such as Aphrodite’s.
Taran threw back the covers and leapt to his feet. He raked a hand through his hair. His gaze caught on the blood on the sheet. How? He recalled instructing her in how to fool her husband. The blood hadn’t been necessary. Unable to control his lust for his wife, he’d torn into her afresh when he’d ravished her body, thrusting his cock into her. How she must have felt relief that she’d bled again.
Recalling the conversation with Aphrodite, he now understood her intention last night. A little claret will do us both good. The wench had wanted him drunk to conceal her treachery.
Taran stared at the sheets. He had given great care to her pleasure, yet hadn’t suspected a thing. Nay, that wasn’t true. There had been clues. He gave a harsh laugh. The wedding itself should have told him, those ridiculous black mourning clothes, but he had been so consumed with memories of Aphrodite.
“I have no fear,” she had said. “The wedding is soon. I will not say when.”
He had asked what she would do if a babe came, and it wasn’
t her husband’s.
“Only God can know who the father is.”
“God and you, my sweet,” he ground out.
Why would she do this?
“I choose this lie,” she had said.
He refocused on the blood and began to laugh.
* * * *
Caroline broke from her thoughts at sight of her husband standing in the doorway of the drawing room. Husband. A tremor rocked her stomach. He hadn’t discovered she was Aphrodite. Might he never know? If she felt secure he wouldn’t figure it out, she could live with this man for the rest of her life and be content. Or could she? He wanted another woman. Did it matter that woman was her?
He strode towards her. Given enough time, perhaps she could make him forget the fantasy, and love her, the real woman. Did that mean she must remain the chaste wife? Last night had been wonderful, but she hadn’t given herself to him as she had the night before. Was she willing to never again experience his full passion in order to keep him? Would withholding Aphrodite send him into the arms of other women who would be willing to give him lustful passion?
Taran stopped at the table and angled his head. “Madam.” He seated himself at the chair across from her. A maid appeared and set a tea cup in front of him. “Thank you.” He looked at Caroline. “Have you had breakfast?”
She shook her head. “I eat little in the morning.”
He glanced at the untouched platter of rolls in front of her. “So I see.” He looked at the waiting maid. “Eggs and bacon for me.”
She dropped a curtsy and hurried from the room.
Taran lifted the teapot and began pouring tea. “No hat today?”