Wicked Highland Lords: Over 1100 pages of Scottish Regency Romance

by Tarah Scott

  She looked back at Mr. Main. “A quiet evening.”

  “‘Tis early, my lady. Another hour and the drawing room will be filled.”

  “Will the famed ballroom be in use tonight?”

  “Aye, a wedding party.”

  “Ah,” she intoned, and refrained from glancing at Taran, afraid he would read the thought—another poor girl is to walk the plank.

  “This way,” Mr. Main said, and led them down a narrow hallway and up a long flight of stairs.

  He stopped at the third room to the right and opened the door, standing aside so they might enter. Caroline stepped into the room. To the right, a fire burned in the hearth. Two chairs sat on each side of a small table in front of the fireplace, with a tub between them and the crackling fire. From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the large, four poster bed on the opposite side of the room, but she kept her gaze on the tub and strolled towards it.

  “Have water for a bath prepared,” Taran said, “and send up a bottle of your best brandy.”

  “Aye, my lord,” Mr. Main replied.

  Caroline ran a finger along the tub’s rim, cursing the unsteadiness in her hand and the spike in her heartbeat when the door clicked shut.

  “Caroline.”

  She faced her husband. “A hot bath will set me to rights, my lord. Very kind of you to think of it.”

  He crossed the room and halted before her. “I am sorry.”

  She waved him off. “You could not know.”

  He caught her hand in his. “Nay.”

  Caroline stood frozen, unable to feel anything, but the warmth of the fingers clasping hers.

  “I am sorry I was fool enough not to have consulted you directly about our travel plans. Sorry you could not spend your wedding night in more familiar surroundings.” He paused and she feared he could hear the hammering of her heart. “Sorry you were forced to marry a man you did not know, would not have wanted even if you had.”

  “You owe me no apology. We are both defined by our positions.” She stared up into his dark eyes. Lust coiled in her belly. This man had made her toss out all reason and give her heart to a masked lord. Would he be sorry to learn she did want him?

  Taran’s expression turned speculative and his grasp on her hand tightened. “A shame Etherton did not allow you more freedom. Worldly experience would have better prepared you for what lies ahead as Lady Blackhall.”

  Caroline stared. Was he saying what she thought he was saying? Hysterical laughter bubbled up, but she swallowed the compulsion. If he even suspected the extent of her experience… He lifted a finger to her cheek. She jumped.

  He paused, a tender smile spreading across his face, then slowly traced a line down her cheek. “I will do my best to see that you do not regret the bargain you were forced to make.”

  She couldn’t tear her gaze from his. “What have I to regret, my lord, except perhaps the ruin of my dress?”

  Surely not the fact he would trade her for another woman if fate allowed. And would she not trade him for the kilted god in the garden? Would she? This morning, she could think of nothing but the emotion he had stirred deep in her breast during the midnight hours. Yet, only hours later when, as Lord Blackhall, he’d faced her uncle without flinching. A trembling began deep inside her that had intensified at sight of the pain on his face when he’d realized he had brought her to the place where her father died.

  His hand dropped from her cheek. “Count yourself fortunate you survived that death contraption you call a dress.” He slid his gaze down her body.

  The quiver in her belly deepened, but she lifted her chin. He had offered his life for his wife’s honor, but last night, he had offered Aphrodite his heart. She was his Aphrodite. Today, his touch had ignited fires deep in her center, just as it had last night. Her eyes burned with unshed tears. He hadn’t recognized her when he’d touched her as his wife for the first time. She should be grateful, but that didn’t lessen the sting.

  “I hope before the night is through you will have nothing to regret.”

  Taran reached for her. A hard knock sounded at the door. He cast an irritated glance at the door. “Who is it?”

  “Your bags, my lord,” their driver called through the door.

  Taran returned his attention to her. “It is time I examine your wardrobe.”

  “As you wish,” she said with a nonchalance she was far from feeling. If he made good on the threat and found the vial tucked away in a corner of the smallest chest, the ruse would be up before it had begun. That morning, when Mabel had finally left her to bathe, Caroline had emptied the sleeping powder from the vial she kept in her armoire and extracted precious drops of blood from her finger. That had been the simple part. Getting the blood onto the sheet would prove the real challenge.

  She lifted her chin and met Taran’s gaze. “Take yourself off while I bathe.”

  He laughed, the sound deep and masculine. Caroline checked the leap of her heart. The laugh wasn’t meant as the intimate insinuation she yearned for. The man was simply a charming rogue who seduced women.

  A second knock on the door broke the spell.

  Without breaking his gaze from hers, he called, “Enter.”

  The door swung open and the driver and guard entered, each with a chest over their shoulders.

  Taran eyed the trunks. “You made full use of the hour before we left your uncle’s. What could possibly be left to send to Strathmore?”

  “I could not leave home to find I’d left behind something important.”

  His brow shot up. “Important?” He flicked a meaningful glance at her dress. “More of the same, I presume.”

  She straightened. “This is my most stylish dress. The others are not nearly as fashionable.”

  “Praise be for one consolation,” he said, and faced the men. “Over there.” Taran pointed to the far corner of the room.

  The men deposited the trunks in the corner, then left. Two more men appeared in the doorway with buckets of steaming water. Taran nearly laughed aloud at the wide-eyed glance his wife flicked in his direction. The men filed out and the door clicked shut behind them.

  Taran met her gaze. “You look like the fox about to be eaten by the hound.”

  Caroline wrapped her free arm around her middle before realizing the action confirmed his assessment, and dropped it back to her side.

  He crossed the room and halted in front of her. “You haven’t a maid. Allow me.” He tugged the cloak string loose.

  Her pulse jumped. “I…I can manage. The dress is torn, if you recall.”

  He pushed the cloak from her arms. The thick fabric pooled at her feet as he trailed his fingers over her shoulders. She stiffened, but he pulled her closer nonetheless. He bent and placed his lips to the fluttering pulse in the column of her neck. She inhaled sharply.

  “My lord,” Caroline whispered and gripped his forearms, “my bathwater.” The weak protest trailed into silence.

  Tunneling his fingers into her raven tresses, he angled her head up towards him and pressed his lips to hers. He breathed in her gasp and parted her lips with his tongue. Caroline forced her arms to remain limp at her side. He slid his tongue along hers. Desire jump-started her heart. Pray God he misinterpreted her excitement as fear, and not the lust that demanded she open her thighs for him. She must play the wilting lily.

  He deepened the kiss and she imagined herself stripped bare, him parting the delicate petals of her pussy with his rod, then plunging into her. Did his core burn as hers did? He ended the kiss and stroked a thumb across her lower lip. She willed her trembling mouth to still, but without success.

  “Your bath is waiting.” As he drew his hands away, he tugged the fabric of her dress forward.

  “Sir.” She clutched the dress to her breast. “A few moments of privacy, if you will.” She tried a conciliatory smile. “The trip was long.”

  He leaned close, grazed his lips along her cheek, then whispered near her ear, “I am well past resisting you
r charms. A bath is not required, just a bed.”

  She inhaled sharply. Satisfaction flickered in his eye before he turned and strode towards the door. “I leave you to your bath.”

  The door closed and she stared at the empty place where he had just been. And once the bath was finished, how would she deal with him?

  Chapter Eleven

  Caroline exhaled a sigh as she stepped one foot, then the other, into the bathwater. Soothing warmth enveloped her feet and sent a quiver of gooseflesh up her legs. How was she to pretend she didn’t want Taran when every inch of her body ached for his touch? A tiny flutter played against the inside of her tummy. He desired Aphrodite, but determination had shown in his gaze when he looked at her—he intended to have her. Tonight.

  She lowered herself into the water. If only someone would tell her how to keep her heart from melting when heat sparked in his gaze. She cast a glance at the door. If he returned before she finished her bath or devised a way out of this mess, she might be forced to end this ridiculous marriage by throttling him.

  Blessedly, he hadn’t yet connected her to Aphrodite. When he’d called her by that name in the carriage, she thought her ruse over. A flash of anger blended with a secret pleasure. The slip of the tongue meant he’d been as affected as she by their encounter—and that he was no better than her. The lout hadn’t the good grace to keep his women straight.

  Jealousy twisted in her belly. Would he confuse her with his next lover? Foolish. She had no right to expect him to bed only her. Even if he learned she was Aphrodite, wanted her to be Aphrodite, over time his passion would wane and he would seek other lovers. No wife expected anything less. Once they produced the required heir, most welcomed being left to their own devices…their own lovers. Caroline closed her eyes. That lover would have been the kilted god. Now, she would have neither husband nor lover.

  There had to be a way to keep him from her bed—this night and forever. She tensed against the ache that gripped her at the thought of never again touching him. What choice did she have? Lord Blackhall wasn’t a man who would stand for being cuckolded—even if he was the man doing the cuckolding. He would despise her. How would she live with a man who hated her?

  Caroline stilled at a thought. Perhaps Taran would accept a settlement in return for an annulment. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? Surely a year’s salary would be enough to pull the estate from ruin while he sought another, more agreeable, wife. Uncle would balk, but with Taran in control of her fortune—her heart sank. Why settle for twenty-five thousand pounds, when he already controlled a fortune well beyond that if he managed the money well? He had two sisters to care for and a father who had determined long ago nothing short of a rich heiress would do for his son.

  The new fear that had plagued her all day surfaced. Lord William Edmonds, Viscount of Thornhaven, was a close friend of her husband, and the domino she had dallied with at the masque. The moment he’d spoken, she’d recognized his voice. Her stomach sickened. Over and over, she had replayed their meeting outside her uncle’s townhouse, and had detected no hint of recognition in his manner. Even now, he may have realized who she was. Would he inform Taran of her deception, or demand payment for his silence?

  Once the marriage was officially consummated, once she bore Taran a child, there would be no turning back. If Lord Edmonds exposed her—The door swung open.

  Caroline shrieked, ducking deeper in the tub and sloshing water over the sides. Taran stood in the doorway, the tailored riding coat and breeches he had worn for the journey replaced by a simple shirt and front breeches.

  Her gaze caught on the swelling bulge of his groin and she jerked her gaze back to his face. “I—I will be but a moment longer.”

  Amusement twitched at a corner of his mouth. “You will prune.” He stepped into the room, pushing the door closed behind him.

  She glanced at the swirling water surrounding her. Her breasts bobbed and a dark triangle of hair shadowed between her legs. Places he’d touched, explored and, as her husband, had a right to touch as often as he pleased. Fear clawed at the thin layer of her composure.

  “Please, my lord,” she whispered.

  He stepped into the room and crossed to the bed while unbuttoning his shirt. “I promise, that will not be the last time you whisper those words tonight.”

  “I am not sure this is the right time.”

  “It is the perfect time. You are here and already undressed.” “Such consideration,” she snapped.

  “I promise to be a very considerate husband.” He paused in unbuttoning the last button and looked at her. “You have nothing to fear, Caroline. I know you have not had a mother’s instruct—”

  “I am aware of what happens between a man and a woman.”

  His gaze bore into her for an instant and fear shot to the surface before he finally looked away and undid the last button. He shrugged the shirt from his shoulders and Caroline barely stifled a gasp. In the carriage she had felt him, touched him, but without light, she had been unable to fully grasp his perfection. He stood before her now, his broad chest flexing as he reached for the tie on his breeches.

  Her cheeks heated with memory of his powerful arms when he’d anchored her to his lap and his thighs as they’d thrust and flexed, plunging his cock deep into her core. He had been hers for a night. And she must make him believe in her purity.

  “Are you not hungry, my lord?”

  “Supper can wait.” He sat on the bed, grabbed the heel of one boot, and tugged.

  “I am famished,” Caroline went on. “If you give me moment, I will dress, and meet you downstairs in the dining room. A hearty supper and some claret will do us good after the long day’s travel.” Plenty of claret, she silently added. She needed him drunk—one way or another.

  He paused, a brow raised. “Claret, madam? What would your uncle say?”

  She started to reply that she didn’t give a damn what her uncle thought, then recognized the amusement in Taran’s eyes. He returned his attention to his boots and Caroline jumped with the thud of the first boot dropping onto the carpet beside the bed. He reached for the second one, arms flexing with the effort. Her mouth went dry. She was too eager to have those arms around her again. Dear Lord, what was this power he had over her body? Taran pulled the second boot free and dropped it alongside its mate, then rose. Her heartbeat fluttered when he crossed to her and squatted beside the tub.

  “Do you fear our joining so much that you would avoid me altogether?” he asked.

  The weight of his stare rolled over her flesh. She drew in a shallow breath in an effort to slow her pounding heart. Never had she felt so exposed, vulnerable, afraid of the truth.

  “The fear, my lord, is that once our marriage is consummated there is no undoing what is done.”

  He dipped a finger into the water and traced a line over the swell of her breast. “A futile concern, Caroline. We have said the vows. There is no retreat.” He drew a gentle circle around her puckered nipple.

  She shivered. “But…but what if I am not what you expect?” Her heart whispered what if I am more?

  “You are already unexpected.”

  “Unexpected—” Caroline stiffened.

  His attention remained on the nipple he traced. “While I concede you will more likely than not”—a corner of his mouth turned upward—“vex me during the course of our marriage, I am not displeased.”

  His gaze slid upward to her face and he stared for a long moment. He threaded his fingers beneath the damp hair at the nape of her neck. Heat from his hand sizzled on her flesh. With a gentle tug, he pulled her close. A puff of breath escaped his lips. Closer. She could scarcely breathe. His breath fluttered against her lips.

  “My lord,” she whispered as his mouth came down on hers.

  Gentle pressure parted her lips and his tongue slipped inside her mouth. Slanting his head, he sealed their mouths. Tongue rubbed against tongue. He tasted of aged brandy, and the intoxication of his kiss seeped into her blood
—into her body.

  At least in the bath, he couldn’t see how wet she was for him. A steady pulse throbbed in her sex and tingles tightened her nipples, chasing into the hidden knot of nerves waiting for his touch, the touch of his mouth. But, tonight, she entered his bed as wife, not lover. Uncertainty dug deeper in her stomach. How differently would he treat her as Lady Blackhall? The courtesan of last night had received the full scope of his desire. As wife, she wanted that and more.

  Taran trailed a hand from her neck, along her spine and dipped into the water, downward over the swell of her hip while he cupped her breast with his other hand and grazed her nipple with a thumb.

  Caroline pulled away from the kiss. “My lord.”

  She lifted a hand dripping with water and braced the palm against his chest with the intention of pushing him away, but froze at the feel of the wall of muscle beneath her fingers. Last night in the carriage, she’d learned his body by touch, but seeing what she had touched brought with it a dizzying sensation that compelled her to explore every inch of him. Unlike the soft, plump bodies of most men of privilege, Taran’s lean, hard body spoke of a man who asked for nothing, but worked for every gain. She frowned at the sight of a jagged scar on the left side of his abdomen, near the middle ribs.

  “What is this?” Caroline touched the scar.

  He sucked in breath. She yanked her hand back, her gaze lifting to his face. His copper eyes blazed. He grasped her hand and her attention fixed on the action as he pressed her palm to the scar. His muscles tensed beneath her touch and warmth seeped clear to her bones.

  “A slip of the sword,” he said.

  Her head snapped up. “My lord?”

  “The scar.”

  A slip of the sword? Whose, a disgruntled husband, or some young buck who dared challenge a calmer hand? How many dawn appointments had this man faced? Had she miscalculated when she’d said Uncle would defeat him in a duel?