by Tarah Scott
Chapter Eighteen
Caroline glimpsed Taran turn down the street in the village. Her pulse jumped and she ducked into the tiny lane just before the town hall. Had he seen her? How had he managed to go to the village at the very same time she had? Anger flared. It was no coincidence. He was looking for her. Wasn’t she allowed a visit to the village without his permission? She whirled back towards the street, then halted at sound of his voice.
“How much, Darby?”
“Now, laird, you canna’ be thinking I would steal more cattle. You warned me.”
“Aye,” Taran replied. “But apparently I was not explicit enough. I will not have you breaking the law in any manner.” “What law have I broken?” “Extortion,” Taran replied.
“Extortion?” the man repeated.
“Extracting money in exchange for not stealing cattle is extortion.” Caroline clamped a hand over her mouth, barely stifling laughter.
“I wouldna’ say extracting,” Darby said.
“I would,” Taran replied. “You know I am the law here.”
“Aye, laird, but surely—”
“Surely what?”
Caroline froze at the edge in Taran’s voice.
“Laird Blackhall,” a woman said.
Taran’s reply to the woman was whisper-quiet. Caroline strained to hear. She inched to the edge of the building and peeked around the side. Taran stood, his back to her, facing a small man she assumed was Darby, and a young woman, belly nearly bursting with the child she carried. Caroline’s breath caught. Long black hair fell across slim shoulders in thick, black waves that reached to full breasts nearly spilling over the woman’s bodice. Despite her girth—and the drab grey dress—she was stunning. Even her shy smile exuded a sensuality that would mesmerize a man like a siren’s call. Any man would throw himself on the rocks for her. She stared at Taran with an adoration that told Caroline that Taran was one of those men. Was the woman Darby’s? A lump lodged in Caroline’s throat. Or was the woman acquainted with Taran…intimately acquainted?
The woman turned her dark eyes on Taran and gave him a mischievous look that elicited a surge of jealousy so hard, Caroline’s chest tightened. She swung back and collapsed against the building. Taran had insisted on returning to Scotland. She began to tremble. She recalled his concern that Aphrodite had become with child after their night in the carriage. Could he already have children?
Caroline gave her head a shake to clear the muddle. What was wrong with her? She’d completely lost her mind, that’s what. Even after Taran had ravaged her as Aphrodite, he’d been honorable, wanting to claim a child if one should result from their union. She placed her hand over her abdomen. What if she had already conceived?
“Where have ye been, laird?” Darby asked.
Caroline hung on the words.
“You know I married,” Taran replied.
“Brought the Sassenach to Strathmore?”
“She is the Viscountess of Blackhall, Darby. Do not forget that. Even when I am absent.” “Aye.”
Caroline peered around the building again.
“Darby, I will have your word.”
“Aye,” he said. “No cattle rustling, no…donations.”
“There is no need now,” Taran said. “There will be plenty to go around.”
Stubbornness appeared on the man’s face. “What you consider plenty may not be the same as me.”
“Are you hungry?” Taran asked.
“Nay,” Darby answered, his tone that of a belligerent child.
“Have you enough clothing and wood to keep you warm?”
Darby didn’t lift his eyes from where he stared at the ground. “Aye.”
“Then we are off to a good start. No more extortion. No more breaking the law. If you have need of something, come to me.”
The man’s head lifted and he studied Taran for a long moment, then nodded. Taran turned so quickly Caroline barely managed to duck back into the lane before he could see her. She hesitated, unsure whether to turn left or right, then hurried down the lane in the opposite direction.
“Caroline.”
She froze at sound of Taran’s voice echoing off the buildings. This was the second time in less than a week she’d been caught where she shouldn’t be. Determined footfalls rang on the stone lane behind her, and she turned as he reached her.
“Good afternoon, my lord.”
His brow lifted. “Spying?”
She shrugged. “I just happened to be at the right place at the right time.”
“Every spy’s defense. What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see the place I now call home.”
“What say you so far?” he asked in a soft voice.
“There is a great deal of disrepair,” she answered honestly.
He nodded and grasped her hand, slipping it into the crook of his arm as he started them in the direction she’d been headed. “Aye. My father gave little thought to the upkeep.”
“But that will change now that you have my fortune.”
He glanced at her. “Would you rather your money go to gambling and mistresses?” No, she had to admit, she wouldn’t.
“What plans have you for bringing things up to snuff?”
He laughed, a rich, deep sound that made her want to press an ear to his chest so that she might hear the sound roll through his large frame.
“My plans for bringing things up to snuff begin with the supplies that will arrive within the week. Everything cannot be finished before winter, but the worst of the cottages must be made warmer before the first snow.”
They reached the end of the lane and broke out onto the street. A stable sat directly across the way with a small tavern to the right. Behind the buildings, on a hill, sat half a dozen thatched cottages, smoke puffing from their chimneys in modest chugs. To the left, an open market buzzed with business.
“How many people live in the village?” Caroline asked, surprised at the market that stretched across two or three hectares.
“Eighty-two,” Taran replied. “But this market is the only one within thirty miles.”
She looked at him. “A market like this is a huge economic asset. Why hasn’t it supported the village?”
“Because my father taxed the merchants into poverty.”
The vehemence in his voice startled then warmed her. For all his faults, he was not his father, and he would use her money for a better cause than anyone she could have chosen on her own—certainly better than John, which made her uncle’s choice of men nothing more than dumb luck.
“Would you like to see the shops?” Taran asked.
“I would,” she replied, then blushed at the delight she had shown.
He smiled, obviously pleased with her reaction, and she couldn’t help smiling back.
“You did say you would need to purchase things as a result of being rushed away from England,” he said. “You will not find a modiste, but there are some fine fabrics to be had.
Choose anything you like.”
Caroline arched a brow. “Giving me permission to spend my own money?”
He grinned. “I am a generous sort. Spend to your heart’s content. Fiona can steer you to the best dress designer in the Highlands after you’ve made your purchases.”
Despite her pique, a quiver radiated through her stomach. Unlike so many husbands, he wasn’t tight-fisted and showed no signs of setting up a miserly allowance meant to keep her quiet long enough for him to deplete her fortune.
Only yesterday she hadn’t been able to imagine a life away from London. She had never been one to attend every party, staying out until dawn only to repeat the process until the season was over. But neither could she have fathomed finding contentment in country life. Yet, looking at Taran, she saw in his eyes their lives as they shared in the building up of the village his father had ruined, their children, then finally grandchildren, playing at their feet.
Reality returned with an adder’s bite, and the sting of tears near
ly wrenched a sob from her. His warm fingers gently squeezed the hand still entwined in the crook of his arm as he led her across the street towards the market. She moved alongside, legs numb, mind blank, except for the broken picture that had shattered inside her head.
* * * *
Caroline stood in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of her bedchamber and stared at the deep-blue velvet gown she wore. Despite the carefully coiffured curls pinned atop her head, she looked just as Fiona had intended—déshabillé—partially dressed with a careless flair that said the dress had been thrown on. Caroline traced a finger along the lighter blue trimmed bodice that dipped to reveal the valley between her breasts. Her sister-in-law was to be the death of her. In the space of a few hours, the girl had planned a ball in honor of her and Taran’s marriage—to be held tonight. Then she had sent over this dress. Caroline might have thought the girl meant to amend for shooting her brother last night, but she knew better.
When Caroline had seen her at the breakfast table this morning, she knew Fiona sensed her unease. Caroline’s cheeks warmed as they had when she’d entered the room and found Taran dressed as he had been on the night of the masque, in a white linen shirt and belted plaid. His gaze lifted from the morning paper and she couldn’t help wondering if he hadn’t purposely dressed in that fashion. But, of course, he had. This was the Scottish Highlands, and men didn’t all wear breeches or trousers as they did in England. To top it off, seeing his legs when he stood in deference to her as she seated herself had caused her knees to weaken.
She nearly plopped onto the chair.
“Are you well, madam?” He frowned. “I have sent for Blakely.”
Her mind was still grappling with the sight of his lean frame, so her only recourse had been to lift her chin and reply, “He may tend to my arm as long as you give him five minutes to look at that leg.” Though she had taken great care not to be in the room when the doctor had lifted Taran’s plaid to examine the exquisite thigh beneath. The knowing glint in Fiona’s eyes hadn’t stopped Caroline from adding, “I will not have your father bring me up on charges of murder if you die from infection.”
“It was not you who shot me.” Taran cast his sister a glance that Caroline could have sworn carried a hint of admiration.
“I feel certain he will not blame his daughter,” Caroline had said.
Taran’s barked laugh had mingled with Fiona’s. “You do not know the earl,” he’d said. “But in this case, he would gladly send you to Newgate as murderess in exchange for keeping your money. Unlike me, who will share.” He had added the last with obvious relish.
Pain stabbed at her arm. Caroline stirred from the memory to see she’d wrapped her arms about her shoulders and had squeezed the wound. She tugged the sleeve down and found the bandage Blakely had applied an hour ago, still firmly in place, no blood staining the snow white bandages. A shame. If she was bleeding, Taran would be forced to let her remain in her bedchambers for the night. She grimaced. More likely, he would confine her there for the next week, or until the wound was completely healed. Then, no doubt, he would stay with her, day and night, torturing her with all the luscious things he would do to her body.
Caroline shivered. She’d woken this morning with images filtering through her mind. Taran’s mouth was on her breasts, fingers dipping inside her warmth and—she swallowed, her throat suddenly dry—her on all fours while warm hands held her hips steady against the firm cock that pounded into her from behind. Warmth spread through her. She’d believed they were fantasies her laudanum-clouded mind had conjured, yet her body was pleasantly sore. Not all had been dreams.
Her reflection in the mirror came into focus, gaze on the exposed cleavage of her breasts. Hesitantly, she covered the mounds with her hands. Her cool hands warmed with contact of flesh on the edges of her palms.
She slipped a hand inside the bodice. The nipples went taut, pebble-like against her palm. She slid her hands down a fraction to cup the full mound. Weight of the soft flesh that overflowed in her fingers sent a thrill through her. Was this what Taran felt when he touched her? She grazed the nipple with her thumb and gasped at the sensitivity that tightened her pussy. Her heart sped up and she cast a glance at the door. Dared she? She took the nipple between finger and thumb and rolled the pink tip. Her clit tightened and moisture wet her channel.
In her mind’s eye she saw herself pulling up her skirt and reaching between her legs. Her heart pounded harder. What would it be like to part the folds and trail her finger through up the wet crevice to the sensitive place at the tip? Would her fingers please her as Taran’s did? A tremor rocked her stomach. What if he caught her? Would he thrill at the sight? She envisioned herself on the bed, him gently pulling her skirt above her waist, then standing back as she dipped a finger into the wet heat, probing, massaging, flicking the tiny nub until she writhed in pleasure. Would he be so moved by passion he’d join her? The jiggle of the knob on the door between the lady and lord’s room jerked her back to the present.
She yanked her hand from within the bodice as the door opened and Taran filled the space. She stood frozen, their gazes locked in the mirror. He wore the same belted plaide and a clean linen shirt, but Caroline didn’t dare let her gaze stray from his face for fear the heat in her cheeks would spread down her exposed neck and give away every erotic picture that was now etched into her brain. His keen eyes dropped from her face to the rise and fall of her breasts, then lifted back to her face. He stared for a breathless moment, then strode towards her. Her pulse sprang into action like a too-tightly coiled spring when he stopped beside her, gaze still on her reflection, and wrapped an arm around her waist. He pressed a kiss to her temple. A quiver radiated through Caroline. The kiss had been chaste, but the gleam in his eye was anything but virtuous.
“Lonely, madam?” he asked, lips still pressed against her flesh.
A compulsion to bolt like a frightened rabbit shot to the surface. His arm tightened around her and Caroline attempted to pull away. A corner of his mouth twitched and she wanted to box his ears. He couldn’t possibly know what she’d been thinking…doing. He breathed deep and exhaled, his warm breath bathing her cheek. She shivered. He lifted his free hand. She jerked and he paused, brow quirked, clearly daring her to explain why the small action unnerved her. With a finger, he traced the edge of her bodice as she had. Warmth pooled between her legs and she fought the urge to fidget.
An unexpected desire surfaced to grasp his hand and guide it downward until his fingers pressed against her pussy. Even with the fabric between them, his touch would be beyond belief. His hand dropped away from the bodice and, arm still around her waist, he slid behind her. Caroline gasped at the feel of his erection pressing into her buttocks and she stood frozen as he shifted, working the hard length between the cheeks of her arse. When he stilled, grasped her skirt, and began inching it upward, her legs weakened. He pulled her more tightly to him.
At last, the skirt was high enough to hint at the curls between her legs and Taran pressed his mouth against her ear and whispered, “Show me what you want.” Her eyes widened and she shook her head frantically. “My lord, I—”
“What do you want?” he interrupted.
He released her waist and grasped her hand. She stiffened, but he kissed her ear, then gently took the lobe between his teeth and bit down. Desire exploded through her.
She jammed her eyes shut as he guided her hand downward. “My lord.”
Her fingertips brushed her curls and he swirled the tips against the fringes, tickling her mound with the slightest of touches. Her pussy tightened an instant before her fingers grazed the already swollen nub. Caroline jerked back against Taran and jarred with awareness of his cock trapped against her arse. She leaned forward and he plunged the fingers between the warm folds. She gasped at feel of the moist warmth.
“Aye, love,” Taran whispered. “Feel yourself as I do.”
He undulated his hips so that her clit pulsed against her palm while he
guided her fingers into her hot channel.
“Open your eyes,” he coaxed.
She gave another frantic shake of her head.
His low masculine laugh sent a shiver through her. “Show me what you like.” “You—you know what I like,” she burst out.
His laugh was deeper this time. “Aye, love, but I can make pleasing yourself all the better.” He moved suggestively behind her and she swallowed.
He thrust the finger deeper into her channel, then out, then in again. Pleasure radiated through her. She opened her eyes and met his stare in the mirror.
He gave a small nod. “Yes.”
In and out, he guided her movement while slowly pulsing his hips so that her clit rubbed against her palm. Pressure mounted and she couldn’t resist the urge to make the finger more rigid. Satisfaction lifted a corner of his mouth. He abruptly pulled the digit from within the warmth and began massaging her clit with it in fast strokes. He eased back. The rhythm broke and he cursed, but released her hand. He yanked the skirt higher, crushing it against her abdomen as he yanked up his plaid and stepped close again. Flesh against flesh, his steely length met the soft curves of her rear.
He grasped her hand again and urged her back into the luscious rhythm that mercilessly teased her clit. “Do not stop,” he ordered, and released her hand.
She swallowed, but continued as instructed. His gaze dropped to where her fingers worked their magic. His intake of breath startled then thrilled her. Skirt still held firmly at her waist, he grasped her hips and thrust his cock upward through the crack in her arse. Her brain flip-flopped between the pleasure her fingers brought and the feel of his cock tightening as it slid upward, then loosening with the downward slide. Her breath quickened. He abruptly threw an arm around her waist and lowered himself a few inches so that he could slide the hard length between her folds. The tip bumped against her fingers and he sucked in breath. Caroline faltered.
“Do not stop,” he commanded again as he bent her forward and, before she realized his intent, he pushed into her channel.