by Tarah Scott
“Caroline,” Fiona choked.
Caroline grunted against the pain that pulsed with each beat of her heart. By God, if she had a revolver, she would point it at Taran and put a ball through his shoulder. Perhaps his sister had a point. Let him suffer alongside them. Caroline pooled her strength and swung her foot up onto the ledge.
Muffled shouts sounded in the distance. She pulled herself up, then twisted in the direction of the voices. Caroline gave a cry upon seeing Fiona pointing a revolver out across the lawn. The three men were racing towards them.
“Fiona—”
The report of the revolver reverberated back to Caroline as if she were caught between the blast and a roaring ocean. Her eyes instinctively jammed shut, but she snapped them open in time to see Taran stumble and fall to the ground. Her heart jumped into a pounding rhythm.
Reverend Gordon reached Taran’s side and dropped to his knees. Caroline’s head swam. He’s dead. She recalled the thought of how a ball through his heart would solve all their problems. Tears streamed down her face. Taran shoved to his feet, throwing the reverend onto his backside.
Caroline gasped. “Taran!”
He sprinted towards the mansion at a dead run. She stared. He wasn’t dead. Her husband wasn’t dead. He was racing towards her. He had seen them—had seen her jump across the balconies!
“Fiona!”
Caroline jolted at hearing young Huntly’s shout. He hadn’t realised Taran had fallen and kept running towards the mansion. Caroline cast a glance at Fiona. She stood, revolver still pointed into the night.
“Dear God,” she whispered, then crumpled to the floor.
Caroline swung one leg, then the other, over the railing. Heart pounding, she yanked up the hem of her gown, and raced through the door into the lady’s chamber, through the anteroom, and into Taran’s room. A second later, she was on the balcony, kneeling beside Fiona.
Caroline pulled her into an upright position. Soundless tears streamed down the girl’s cheeks. Her eyes slowly parted, heavy with tears, and stared up into Caroline’s face.
“What have I done?” She clutched Caroline’s neck and buried her face in Caroline’s breast.
Caroline stroked her hair until the bedchamber door burst open and the pounding of boots on the carpeted floor sounded behind her. She tried twisting to look back at the men, but Fiona’s grasp on her neck tightened. Heavy footfalls pounded on the balcony. Taran gripped her shoulders with strong hands and dragged her to her feet as Ross pulled Fiona into his arms.
“Fiona,” he said in a near whisper.
“By God, Caroline.” Taran strode into the room, then swung her into his arms.
“Put me down,” she ordered.
He lowered her onto the bed. She started to push to her feet. Taran grasped her shoulders, forcing her back against the pillows as he lowered himself onto the bed beside her.
“Do not move,” he snapped.
She cried out at the sight of a large, blood-stained spot on the britches covering his left thigh. “My lord, you are hit!”
“I am hit?” he said, in a tone so dark she riveted her gaze onto his face.
His mouth was set in a grim line. “What of your arm, madam?” His head dipped meaningfully towards her arm and she glanced down.
She gasped. Her sleeve was soaked with as much blood as his trouser leg.
“Huntly—” Taran began.
Reverend Gordon appeared in the doorway, breathing hard.
“Reverend,” Taran said, “have Patterson call for Doctor Blakely.”
The reverend took the group in with a single glance, then turned on his heel.
“Wait,” Taran called.
The reverend faced him.
“You fetch the doctor. Patterson will direct you to his residence. Can you ride?”
“I can.”
Taran nodded. “Patterson will oblige with a horse.”
Reverend Gordon nodded and hurried from the room. Taran seized the fabric on Caroline’s dress where sleeve met shoulder and tore it in one hard yank. A deep red gash marred the creamy skin of her upper arm.
Her head swam. She looked up at Taran. “I do not feel a thing.”
Chapter Sixteen
Fear coursed through Taran. The wound looked nasty, but wasn’t life-threatening. Caroline’s near fall from the balcony is what still had his insides shaking. His mind replayed her jump from the balcony and he couldn’t halt the vision of her beautiful body, twisted and broken, lying on the cold ground. Blood roared through his ears. He had almost lost her.
Taran grabbed an edge of the linen sheet they sat on and tore a long strip free. Huntly appeared at his side and placed a basin of water on the nightstand beside the bed. Taran gave a curt nod of thanks and dipped the fabric in the water.
“Light the candle,” he said. “And that lamp.” He nodded towards the lamp sitting on the secretary.
The young man picked up the candle sitting on the nightstand and hurried to the hearth.
“Your leg, my lord,” Caroline said.
“My leg will heal,” he said through tight lips. “It is but a flesh wound.”
“Flesh wound? But I saw you fall.”
He swung his gaze onto her. “Did you now?”
“I thought—”
“You thought what?”
“I thought you were dead.”
The words spoken in a bare whisper tore a harsh laugh from him. He wrung out the wet strip of linen and gently wiped blood from around the wound. “Then we are even. I have yet to get the picture from my head of you leaping from my balcony.”
“Never fear, my lord, I shall live long enough to provide an heir.”
He glanced up at her face. Her chin was high, her eyes glittering with indignation. He snorted. “If you keep testing me, I will—”
“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 i
t 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.”
