An Improper Wife

by Tarah Scott

  “Patterson knows you are here,” she blurted. “He will inform the sheriff.”

  “Good,” Etherton replied. “That will aid the story that I fought to save you both from your attacker.”

  Her heart thundered. He had yet to cock the pistol. How fast was he? Faster than her. But that was of no consequence. She thrashed. Taran took a step forward.

  Etherton dug the pistol into her temple. “Halt.”

  Caroline yanked the gun from his waistband as she rammed her other fisted hand into the arm holding the gun to her head. The gun jostled away from her. She pulled back the hammer and jammed the barrel against his side.

  Taran lunged.

  She fired.

  The report exploded in her ears. Warm liquid bathed her side. Etherton stretched his hand forward, the pistol pointed at Taran.

  “No!” she screamed.

  Taran halted.

  Time seemed to slow as her uncle’s thumb pulled back the hammer and she reached for his arm. Uncle shoved her. She propelled forward and hit the stone, shoulder first. Pain radiated up her arm, blood stained the bandage covering her injury. She dropped to her knees.

  Another shot sounded. Confusion rolled over Caroline. Etherton stiffened. The pistol went limp in his hand, then clattered to the stone not far from Taran’s gun. Etherton slumped against the wall, then crashed to the floor.

  Caroline gasped at sight of Patterson, only the half of his body that pointed the revolver visible around the edge of the wall at the end of the hallway. His arm dropped to his side and he stepped into full view.

  His eyes shifted to Taran. “So sorry, my lord, Lady Albrey waylaid me and I had to brandish this revolver in order to get the woman to let me pass.”

  Caroline burst into tears.

  * * * *

  Taran pulled Caroline into his arms.

  Footsteps pounded around the bend and Edmonds shot into the hallway as Taran started down the corridor.

  William came to a sudden halt. “My God.”

  “Aye,” Taran said. “See to our guest. And Patterson,” he added as he neared the butler, “call for the sheriff.”

  Caroline clung to his neck and he held her trembling body close as he kept to the servants’ hallways until they’d reached his bedchambers. Taran lowered her feet to the carpet. She stood motionless as he unbuttoned her dress, then stripped her of the shift. Anger twisted his gut at sight of the blood that had seeped through the dress. Etherton would have splattered her brains across the floor if necessary. Taran urged her between the covers, then stripped off his clothes, and slipped in beside her. When he pulled her into his arms, the dam broke, and she cried into his chest. He forced his shaking hands steady and stroked her hair.

  He would never be able to wipe from his mind the picture of that pistol pressed against her temple. Taran closed his eyes. He’d almost lost her a second time. Was ever a bigger fool born than him? It hadn’t occurred to him Etherton would chance coming to Strathmore. He hugged her tighter. She buried her head in his neck. The quick beat of her heart reminded him she was alive and well, but she had intended to sacrifice herself for him. His chest tightened. How would he ever let her out of his sight again?

  “You knew all along I was Aphrodite.”

  Taran froze at Caroline’s words.

  “Do not deny it, Taran.”

  Emotion flooded him. He wanted to laugh. Leave it to a woman to try and save a man, then take him to task afterwards.

  “Aye,” he replied.

  “You enjoyed watching me twist in the wind.”

  “Aye.”

  “This is all your fault.”

  All amusement vanished. “Aye.”

  A moment of silence, then, “Is he dead?”

  “Aye.”

  Caroline leant her head back and levelled her gaze on him. He traced a finger down her tear stained cheek.

  “Aye?” she said. “Is that all you can say?”

  He blinked, then nodded. “Aye. And that I love you.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Your Aphrodite?”

  He rolled onto her. “Nay. My Caroline.”

  Her mouth parted in surprise, and he covered her lips with his.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The door to the drawing room opened and Caroline looked up from her needlework. Taran entered. She smiled as he crossed to the couch and sat beside her.

  “What did you learn? Did the captain have any news?”

  His brow rose. “Not even a kiss?”

  She pressed a quick kiss to his lips. “Well?”

  “Married but two months and already you tire of me.”

  “I will be an attentive wife once you have told me what you learned.”

  He gave a long suffering sigh. “In June 1787, the British Royal Navy frigate Lady Victory gave chase to a Spanish frigate. They boxed the Spaniards into a cove off the coast of Venezuela only to find themselves flanked by another ship.”

  “A trap,” Caroline said.

  Taran nodded. “It was foolish on the part of the captain to have chased the Spaniards, for his ship was laden with bounty from three other raids by privateers.” Taran paused. “One of them was Phillip Etherton.”

  Dread began to unfurl through Caroline.

  “As always,” he went on, “there was an inquiry. But the single witness who survived the attack mysteriously disappeared.”

  Caroline thought back to the stories she’d grown up hearing. “Pirates fly false colours to lure their victims into security.”

  Taran nodded.

  “My God,” she breathed. “My uncle was a traitor.” She stared at Taran. “He sunk one of his country’s own ships.”

  “There is no proof,” Taran replied. “But I wager your father knew something—or Etherton believed he did.”

  “After all these years?” she asked. “Why wait so long to expose him?” Before Taran could answer, she added, “My father always seemed completely ignorant of the pirate Peiter Everston. I—” she choked back a sob, “I loved him, but, on this score, I thought he was a fool.” Not only on this score, she realised, but with her mother as well. He tolerated so much from her. A thought struck. “Oh, Taran, is it possible he knew all along and played the fool?”

  Taran took her hand in his. “I did not know him.”

  She nodded, but read the lie in his eyes. Taran didn’t know her father, but the truth would have been obvious to a blind man. Her father had known all along who Peiter Everston was, but he’d played the fool to ensure the safety of the women he loved. Had her mother known? How could she have not? Caroline closed her eyes against the pain that suffocated her. She had seen the lengths to which Etherton would go. What threat had he made to guarantee his brother-in-law’s compliance? No threat, perhaps her father simply knew.

  Caroline released a sigh and looked at Taran. “My father was a good man.”

  “Aye.”

  She grimaced. “Is that all you can say?”

  He shook his head and took the needlework from her hands. “Such a dutiful and proper wife.”

  “And you would prefer an improper wife?” She lifted her mouth in a coy smile as she traced a finger across his lips.

  “Aye.”

  “I have yet to forgive you for allowing me to stew.”

  “Ah, yes,” he replied. “It is all my fault.”

  She nodded. “But I am willing to let you make amends.”

  His eyes darkened. “How long do you say it will take?”

  She shifted her gaze from his mouth. “Forty or fifty years.”

  Also available from Total-E-Bound Publishing:

  A Knight of Passion

  Tarah Scott

  Excerpt

  Chapter One

  Scottish Highlands, 1338

  Lady Riana Ellis dribbled three drops of poison from the wooden phial into the goblet sitting on the nightstand beside the wine she would drink.

  Fill the goblet to the brim, and death would be quick.

  But th
e fires of Hell that followed would last forever.

  Even hellfire paled in comparison to the nightmare that was Arundel.

  If not for her younger sister living as ward of the Duke and Duchess of Arundel, Riana would have ingested poison long ago…if not for the fact the duke and duchess now had food tasters, she would have slipped poison into their food long ago. Instead, she must now feed the lethal fluid to Sir Neas Dunbar in order to save Siusan from the duke’s cock.

  Riana fitted the top back onto the phial. She shivered despite the fire that crackled in the hearth to her left, and rubbed gooseflesh from her naked arms. The duchess’ order to murder the knight came with the explicit instruction, “Fuck him hard first.”

  Anger clenched Riana’s stomach. The duchess thrived on the fact this would be the man's last night amongst the living, and had issued the edict because she wanted to watch. Her morbid fascination would be Riana’s advantage—if she pulled off what was to be the performance of her life.

  The very thought of watching a man fuck the woman who was about to murder him would have the duchess panting like a bitch in heat. Already, she would be sitting behind the large painting that hung over the bed…waiting. Riana had purposely kept her naked breasts from the duchess’ view, knowing just the sight of her rounded buttocks in the soft firelight would hold the older woman spellbound in anticipation of that first glimpse of rosy areolae and dark curls.

  In the hours the duchess watched Riana from behind the painting, Siusan and their surrogate father Glen would flee Arundel for a village in the south of France. By the time Sir Dunbar sucked Riana’s nipples into painful hardness, the duchess would be unable to tear herself from watching them. When he finally stuffed his fingers between her folds and rammed his cock into her arse, Siusan and Glen would be riding hard. The knight was sure to do all this and more, for the duchess would instruct him as she did every man Riana serviced: “Ride her hard. She is made for it.”

  Siusan and Glen’s final security would be if the duchess had brought one of her favourites from among the servants to suck her cunt while she watched. Once she had satiated her perverted desires, and Riana fed the knight the poisoned wine, the duchess would retire to her chambers and await news that Sir Dunbar had been found dead in his bed.

  The Sheriff would be called from his chambers, where the duchess had installed him the night before, and he would conclude the knight had died of a heart attack while rutting between Riana’s legs—even if the duchess had to throw coin his way to ensure the verdict.

  If Riana administered the poison first, Sir Dunbar’s heart would slow while he pumped into her, until, at last, the veneer of death would be complete. That would be a sight that could keep the duchess distracted indefinitely. But Riana had been unable to overcome her revulsion at thought of the knight’s cock going limp inside her as his dead weight pinned her to the mattress.

  Sir Dunbar had left a trail of English blood across the Scottish Highlands. The duchess was a fool to think anyone would believe the heart that beat within his massive chest could give way due to even the most rigorous thrusts of his cock into a woman’s cunt. Yet, if the duchess had her way, he would fuck Riana, she would hang for his murder, and Siusan would take her place as Arundel’s whore.

  A tremor rippled through Riana. She had served as a whore too long to feel guilt over spreading her legs. But murder? And to what end? The fact she had killed a man at the duchess’ command wouldn’t obligate the older woman to safeguard Siusan from the duke.

  Siusan had grown into a young woman whose pale beauty surpassed Riana’s darker hair and complexion. The duke’s increasing demands to have Siusan’s maidenhead tightened the duchess’ stranglehold over Riana. But Riana had her own leverage. The moment the duchess could no longer protect Siusan, Riana would forego the poison and drive a dagger into her heart. Then hang for the crime without remorse. Riana suppressed a bitter laugh. Apparently murder was as easy to grow accustomed to as was fornication.

  But until Siusan was safely away, Riana couldn’t forget that the duchess’ cruelty was matched only by the duke’s depravity. She choked back a recollection of the day he had stripped away her memory of how sweet love could be and replaced it with understanding of how a man’s cock could foul a woman’s every orifice. Riana bit back tears. Curse the war that had taken her father and husband. Even God had deserted them. But she wouldn’t wait for God or anyone else to save them. Tonight, she would end this madness. Riana closed her eyes and released a slow breath. Fail, and the duke wasn’t the only threat they faced.

  The duke and duchess secretly supported Edward Balliol, Scotland’s puppet king of Edward III, King of England and self-appointed Lord Parliament of Scotland. Most of Scotland had been retaken by Sir Andrew Murray, leader of Robert the Bruce’s faction. But King Edward III intended to wrest Scotland from him at all costs.

  Two months ago, one of the Disinherited—the Anglo Saxon Scots led by Balliol—had secretly visited Arundel, and Riana learnt the duke and duchess had plotted with him to finance Balliol. She’d passed the information to Sir Fostar, who had fought alongside her father and husband.

  Sir Fostar warned Riana that Scotland would bring a sentence of forfeiture against the duke, and seize his wealth and land. If Riana and Siusan weren’t far away, they would become casualties in the political aftermath. They couldn’t return to their mother—her new husband would shun women branded as followers of the English king. Riana envisioned her and Siusan wandering the streets and, eventually, forced into a brothel.

  She glanced from the goblet laced with poison to the door. Her pulse raced. Tears rushed to the surface and burned her eyes before she could halt them. Once the knight appeared, there would be no turning back. Her heart twisted. She was as big a fool as the duchess. There had never been any turning back.

  Chapter Two

  Riana glanced at the low flames in the hearth. The hour had grown late. The knight should have arrived by now. Trepidation surfaced. If the duchess grew bored and went in search of him, and by some slim chance looked in on Siusan, their lives would be over. Her stomach roiled. Only one alternative remained until he arrived…if he arrived.

  She faced the bed.

  Heavy curtains hung between all bed posts save the one against the wall where the picture hung, and the curtain facing the fire was open so that firelight would illuminate the writhing bodies on the mattress.

  She took two steps and leant forward, palms flat on the mattress, purposely allowing her breasts to sway slightly. The duchess’ gaze would be riveted to the full globes. Riana forced back revulsion and slowly crawled to the head of the bed. She settled on her back, legs spread on the white sheets. With one hand, she cupped a breast, while flattening the other hand on her belly. Riana jammed shut her eyes. If her eyes strayed to the picture and met the duchess’s gaze she would vomit.

  Siusan. Remember her and their dear Glen, who risked his life to save them both. They were the reason she was here. She inched her hand downwards on her stomach. They must reach safety before the duchess’ attention waned. Which meant this time, Riana couldn’t distance her mind as she usually did when men rutted between her legs. This time, she had to enjoy being watched. Her fingers brushed the curls of her mound. Tears threatened. An unexpected vision rose of the dark-haired, dark-eyed young man who had gently taken her maidenhead. Pain slashed through her at memory of her husband, but she allowed her mind to sink into that kinder time, the day after Stuart had asked for her hand in marriage and they had met in the glen south of Fyvie Castle.

  They were to be married. She hugged him close, aware of the erection that pressed eagerly against her belly. His body tensed against his self-imposed restraint. Riana laughed. She wanted him, intended to have him long before the wedding, still six months away.

  Guilt stabbed through the memory with startling intensity. Stuart hadn’t been able to resist, just as the men the duchess sent never resisted. But Riana had loved Stuart…he had loved her. They were su
pposed to want one another. And they had.

  Her body exploded when he touched her. Riana’s nipples puckered. A thumb brushed one marbled peak. She dragged in a breath. Desire streaked through her as his callused hand slipped into her heated folds. Riana moaned and arched into his warm palm. Gentle massages to her sex tightened her core with heart-stopping anticipation. She pulsed against the rhythm. Pressure built. His gentle touch drove her mad. He didn’t want to hurt her. But she wanted his fingers stretching her, his cock stroking the most intimate part of her, yet untouched by a man. She wanted hard thrusts that would push her over an edge she’d only dreamt of.

  Voices intruded on the intimate moment. Riana thrashed against the need for release. The murmur grew louder. She reached for Stuart, but her fingers closed around thin air. Her eyes shot open.

  The canopy over the bed in Arundel snapped into focus and grief slashed like a knife. She choked back a sob. Stuart was gone. The sound of voices in the hallway made her jerk her head in the direction of the door.

  Sir Dunbar.

  Riana yanked her finger from within her drenched channel and scrambled beneath the sheets. The door creaked open as the sheet settled around her. The soft click of the door being shut was followed by the clink of metal that told her the knight was removing his sword, then chain mail.

  Heart racing, Riana willed her trembling body to still. She lay against the snow white pillow, dark hair fanned out around her face, sheet tucked around her full breasts, arms at her sides. She must appear the siren when he finally lifted the curtain and found her in his bed. No man had ever turned from her. Fear rushed to the surface. What if tonight was different? It couldn’t be. All she needed was these last few hours.

  After Riana gave the knight the wine, she would flee Arundel. The duchess would stay to watch until certain the poison had drained his life before finally retiring for the evening. By morning, the keep would be abuzz as she played the part of the shocked patroness when the sheriff accused her ward of murdering Sir Dunbar.