An Improper Wife (18 page)

“You will what?”

“Paddle your lovely backside, then keep you under lock and key.”

Her chin rose higher. “Shackled and chained?”

He held her gaze. “At least until I have my
required heir.”
And you understand I will not live without you
. “Huntly,” he said, but the younger man was already at his side, holding the candle and decanter of brandy Taran had intended on asking him to bring from the sideboard.

Huntly sat the candle on the table and Taran took the brandy, his gaze catching on his sister standing near the corner of the bed, eyes wide.

“Taran—”

“Not now, Fiona.” He took the top off the decanter. “She is yours, Huntly. I will see to it that her dowry is forwarded to your solicitor. Do with her what you will.”
The young man paused near the secretary. “Now see here, Blackhall, she is not fully to blame. You did threaten to kill me. You cannot expect a wife to lose her husband the very day she marries him.”

“And this but my second day of wedded bliss,” Taran replied.

Huntly stiffened. “I will meet you on the duelling field at your convenience.”

Taran set the decanter on the nightstand and wrung out the rag. “That is what started this.”

“A circumstance which is no one’s fault but your own,” Caroline said.

He shifted his attention back to her. “I do not think—”

“No, you did not think.”

“I will remind you, madam, you nearly got yourself killed.”

She gave a short laugh. “Fine talk from a man engaged in a duel.”

“I was not.”

“We saw you.”

Light flared as Huntly lit the lamp.

Taran poured brandy on the rag. “What you saw was me chasing this young fool.” He bent to clean the wound.

Caroline seized his wrist. “You called for pistols, then locked your sister and me in your bedchambers.”

He blew out a breath. “I did not need two females interfering.”

She released him. “That will teach you.”

“Indeed,” he agreed. “It will teach me to keep my revolvers out of reach.” And it would teach him not to underestimate his sister
or
his wife again. Taran dabbed at the wound with the brandy-soaked rag.

Caroline winced.

He paused. “Huntly, one of the tumblers from the sideboard, if you please.” The young man fetched the glass and Taran poured a liberal amount of brandy into the glass and handed it to Caroline. “Drink.”

She took the glass and gulped the drink in three swallows.

Taran raised a brow. “My wife is an accomplished drinker. Charming.” He ignored her scowl and began cleaning the wound.

Patterson entered the room. “My lord.”

“The reverend has gone for the doctor?” Taran asked.

“Yes, my lord. Do you need anything?”

“Clean bandages. Bring them when Blakely arrives.”

“As you wish.” Patterson did an about face and headed out of the room.

Taran tossed the bloody rag on the nightstand and tore another piece of fabric from the sheet. He held it over the basin, soaked it with brandy, then looked at Caroline.

“This will burn.”

She gave a snort he could swear was slurred. He dabbed at the wound. Her mouth tightened.

“Are you all right?” he demanded.

“Perfectly fine.”

He stared. “What the bloody hell did you think you were doing?”

“Stopping you from killing that poor boy.”

“And if he had killed me?”

She snorted again and Taran was certain he discerned a slur. “You assured us it was he who would take the bullet,” she said.

“So you decided to take matters into your own hands?”

Caroline nodded. “I do not like being locked in a room.”

“I do not like being shot at,” he retorted.

“But you do,” she replied. “Otherwise, you would not go about challenging duels all the time.”

Taran suddenly realised his thigh throbbed. He would have a devil of a headache tomorrow. He eyed his wife. She cocked an eyebrow. How in God’s name was he to deal with the little baggage? He snatched the glass she still held and filled it halfway with brandy, then swallowed the liquid in two gulps. He grimaced against the burn of alcohol, then sucked in a breath that went down even harsher.

“Thigh beginning to ache, my lord?” she asked.

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 leant 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 leant 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 leant close and examined the wound.

“Clean the wound with that brandy?” he asked as he tilted his head to the right and peered more closely at the injury.

“He did,” Caroline replied. “And it hurt like the devil.”

The old man’s eyes lifted to meet hers. “Better the sting of brandy than the pain of infection.”

“You might tell my husband that,” she replied coolly. “He has yet to apply any treatment to that leg.”

Doctor Blakely pulled his bag onto his lap and opened the top. “She has a point. Remove your breeches. Once I have attended to her, I will see to your thigh.”

“Blakely—”

“No arguments,” the doctor interrupted, then glanced at the basin filled with bloody water. “We will need clean water.”

Caroline didn’t miss the limp in Taran’s walk to the rope that hung on the wall near the bed. He tugged on it, then crossed the room to the hearth.

The doctor leant close and looked at Caroline’s arm. “Now then, let us be sure this is fully sterilised.”

After tossing in another log in the fire, Taran poured a liberal tumbler of brandy and lowered himself into the chair in front of the fire. The doctor pulled a bottle of clear liquid from his bag and unscrewed the top. The pungent odour of alcohol filled the air between them. He picked up a bandage and saturated the cloth with the liquid. Patterson arrived a moment later and Taran ordered fresh water brought up. Caroline endured the doctor’s ministrations until the gash had been thoroughly cleaned and bandaged.

Fifteen minutes later, clean water had been delivered and the doctor tied the final knot on the bandage. “Blackhall, a glass of water, please.”

Taran rose and crossed to the sideboard. Caroline could see by the stiffness in his walk that the effort cost him. The infuriating man was going to deny to the bitter end his need for medical attention. It would serve him right if an infection got the better of him. He poured water from a jug into another tumbler and brought it to her.

The doctor produced a second bottle from his bag. “This is for the pain.”

“I do not need laudanum,” she said.

“You will soon enough.” He poured a small dose in the water, swished it around and handed it to her. “Drink.”

“I—”

“For God’s sake, Caroline,” Taran snapped. “Drink the damned medicine or I will pour it down your throat.”

She opened her mouth to tell him to take himself to the devil, then pictured the doctor recounting the tale of how the Viscount of Blackhall forced laudanum down his new bride’s throat. She took the glass, hesitated, then caught sight of the dark look on Taran’s face. He would make good on his threat. Caroline drank the mixture.

Doctor Blakely took the glass from her and set it on the nightstand. “Now,” he stood, “let us have a look at that leg.”

“She will be all right?” Taran asked.

“You did a fine job of sterilising the wound.”

Taran’s eyes shifted to her face, before he turned. “I will sit, if you do not mind. It has been a trying day.” He sat on the chair and grunted as he tugged off one boot and then the other.

“Indeed,” the doctor said, and Caroline glimpsed a twitch at the corner of his mouth before he turned and approached Taran. “Off with the breeches.”

Taran stood and shoved the breeches off his hips. His jaw clenched as he pushed the fabric down his legs.

A comfortable sense of drowsiness began to creep across Caroline’s limbs. Now that she knew Taran would be treated, she relaxed against the pillow. Firelight blurred in her vision. She should have called for laudanum the moment she arrived at Strathmore. She might have avoided a great deal of trouble. Maybe—she drew in a sharp breath at sight of Taran’s rounded buttocks, his breeches around his knees.

He jerked his head in her direction. “Is something amiss?”

She riveted her eyes onto his face. His gaze intensified in silent demand and she answered with a hurried shake of her head.

He looked uncertain. “Do you wish to retire to your own room?”

She wanted nothing more, but would fall flat on her face in the attempt. Caroline pictured Taran, naked, scooping her off the floor and carrying her to her room. She blushed at the thought of Doctor Blakely witnessing the event and responded to Taran’s stare with another vigorous shake of her head. The room around her blurred.

“I am fine,” she replied, though it sounded as if she’d said
I am thine.

What was wrong with her ears? Her muddled thoughts blurred from one memory into another. She couldn’t recall what had started this whole mess tonight. Taran’s sister had married, but there was something else. Distorted memories of a blue domino searching for Aphrodite flitted through her mind. Caroline grimaced. She was going to have to do something about that domino.

Chapter Seventeen

Taran looked at Blakely. “How much laudanum did you administer?”

The doctor smiled. “Enough to ensure she would not interfere with my doctoring of your leg.”

Taran scowled. “I see the good reverend filled you in on the details of tonight’s events.”

“I understand a duel and jumping from balconies was involved.”