Wicked Highland Lords: Over 1100 pages of Scottish Regency Romance

by Tarah Scott

“Kiss me,” he whispered against her lips.

  Lifting on tiptoes, she tightened her fingers on his neck. She leaned into him, breasts crushing into his chest, sending a lightning bolt to his groin. His cock thickened as he rocked into her. What was he doing? How could he take her now…when she was confused and afraid?

  Because she was confused and afraid. After he made love to her, he’d make sense of what had happened. Right now, she needed him.

  He kissed her harder and Caroline’s mouth opened, demanding more. He sank into her sweet taste. His cock, now hard and throbbing, bordered on painful. He needed to drown in her heat, needed to know she was all right, that she was his. Taran stiffened against the fierce need surging through him and broke from the kiss.

  “Caroline, I need you.”

  “Yes.” The word spoken in a breathless voice sent a jolt of desire to his groin. She reached between them and covered his cock with a warm palm.

  Desire clouded his brain. He ached to take her…to make love to her. Her fingers closed around his erection. She trembled. Or was the tremble rolling through him? He knotted his fingers in her hair and tipped her head back as he devoured her mouth. He drove his tongue inside and searched out hers, connecting, tasting, driving out all thoughts but the woman in his arms. His woman. Holding her tight, he dropped to his knees and pushed her onto the moss covered ground.

  “Hurry,” she urged.

  Caroline drew up her knees, feet flat on the ground, and spread her thighs. She dragged her skirt above her waist. He pulled the pistol from his waist and set it on the ground beside them, then cupped her mound. Moist heat from her pussy warmed his palm. Cream dampened his finger. Gliding along the plump folds, he slipped a finger into her tightened passage.

  “More,” she begged.

  Caroline tugged down her bodice and pulled his head to a nipple. He latched onto the marbled point. Her hips lifted and Taran inserted a second finger, sawing in and out, stretching her. She gripped his wrist and bucked against his hand. Taran drew hard on the nipple as he fucked her with his fingers.

  She cried out, as desperate as he was for a physical connection between them. She didn’t want finesse and comfort. Rather a hard fuck, and he was just as primed. He ripped open the ties of his breeches, grasped his pulsing rod and settled between her thighs. Her body opened for him and he shafted his cock deep in one fluid plunge.

  Caroline wrapped her legs around his hips and rose to meet his thrust. She whimpered and clung to his shoulders. “I am sorry, Taran.”

  “Shhh.” He braced his upper body on outstretched arms and poured his emotions into his movements. “You are safe now.”

  Her back bowed off the ground as he drilled into her again. “And I am yours.”

  Taran growled and fucked her the way she needed—to feel alive and safe in his arms. Slow, measured glides spiraled into hard intense thrusts. Momentum built. Faster, all the way in until the head of his cock bumped the top of her core and she clutched at his back.

  Hot inner walls gloved tight to his shaft.

  “Oh.” Her channel quivered with her release. “Taran,” she gasped on a hard breath. Her body shattered beneath him. She shivered and exquisite pressure milked his cock.

  With a guttural groan, Taran slammed into his orgasm. Hot seed erupted from his rod and filled his wife.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Taran lay beside Caroline, head resting against the soft swell of her breast, and drank in her scent. His heart pounded and his body, replete in passion, molded to hers.

  “You are mine,” he whispered against her flesh.

  She combed fingers through his sweat-dampened hair. “Only yours.”

  He pulled back and stared at her shadowed features. “Did he harm you?” Taran gently stroked her jaw.

  Caroline covered his hand with hers. “No.” Tears slipped from her eyes. “But my father…” She buried her face in his chest.

  Taran’s heart pounded. He held her close as more tears fell. “I will deal with him. Trust me.”

  On owl screeched. Caroline flinched. Taran lifted his head to assure her all was well, but the trees rustled, and her head jerked towards the dense scrub to their left. He squinted at where slivers of moonlight shimmered as if alive.

  “Someone is there.” She scrambled to a sitting position.

  Taran grabbed the pistol and shoved to his feet as a large figure emerged from the trees.

  Taran pulled back on the hammer. The soft click broke the quiet like a thunderbolt.

  The man halted. “I’d feel more welcome if you would lower your weapon.”

  Taran pointed the pistol skyward and released the hammer. “Damn it, Edmonds, you nearly got yourself shot.”

  “So I did,” the earl replied in a dry tone.

  Taran grasped Caroline’s arm and pulled her to her feet. “You picked a fine time to make an appearance,” he said.

  “My apologies,” Edmonds replied. “But I assumed you would want to know we caught him.”

  Caroline’s fingers tightened around his.

  Taran pulled her against his side and whispered into her ear, “Trust me to keep my promise.” No one—least of all Etherton—would hurt her again.

  * * * *

  Caroline was thankful for the comfort of Taran’s arm around her waist as he guided her through the trees, but she wished Lord Edmonds was anywhere but with them. Their last encounter confirmed that he knew her secret. Taran led her around a fallen branch. She needed to confess the truth about Aphrodite, but Lord Edmonds’ presence made that impossible. Would Taran see her silence as yet another deceit? A kaleidoscope of butterflies flitted in her stomach. He hadn’t fucked her in the forest. He’d made love to her, claimed the last of her heart. How much better was reality than the fantasy she had so desperately wanted…created? Truth and fiction were blurring within her mind. Before another opportunity passed, Taran had to know the truth. Tonight, Aphrodite died.

  “We tied the bastard’s arms and legs, and threw him over his own horse.” Lord Edmonds laugh broke into her thoughts. “Young Huntly will deposit him in the dungeon at Strathmore for safekeeping.”

  Taran’s fingers flexed around her waist. His fury was evident. Caroline repressed a shiver and was glad when they broke from the murk of the trees. The horses stood tethered to a nearby branch. Caroline moved to break from Taran’s hold, but gave a small cry when he swept her off her feet. He rounded her horse to his chestnut and hoisted her onto the saddle.

  She grabbed for the pommel. “My lord! I am capable of riding my own horse.”

  He swung up behind her. His arm snaked around her waist as he urged the beast into motion. “After tonight’s events, I intend to keep you close.” He pulled her flush against him. “Very close.”

  Caroline glanced to the left at Lord Edmonds. The sight of his slightly upturned mouth caused her cheeks to warm. Taking off for England in the dead of night was the single most stupid thing she’d ever done. No. Going to the masque had been even more stupid. No. Lying to Taran took the prize. As if he’d read her mind, his arm tightened as though it was possible to pull her inside his skin.

  “My lord,” she gave his hand a slap. “You are holding me too tightly. I cannot breathe.”

  Taran pressed his mouth against her ear. Warm breath against her ear sent a shiver through her.

  “I wish to do more than hold you,” he said.

  She forced back pain. “You will think differently when we arrive home.”

  Taran shifted the reins from his right to left hand, and she startled at the unexpected weight of the free hand on her leg. He began inching up her skirt. Caroline froze. What was he doing? She clamped a hand over his, but his stronger fingers continued to draw the fabric upward. She darted a glance at Lord Edmonds, but he seemed oblivious to Taran’s shenanigans. He wouldn’t be once her skirt was above her waist!

  “What are you doing?” she hissed under her breath.

  He didn’t answer and she gave the top of his
hand a hard pinch. The skirt continued its slow upward slide. When the hem reached thigh height on her right leg, he slid his hand beneath the skirt and let it fall over his arm. Caroline bit back a gasp at feel of his fingers sliding down her inner thigh. When he brushed the edge of her mound, she squeaked.

  “Sir.” She started to grab his arm, then realized that would draw attention to his hand between her legs. A finger brushed her curls, then dipped between her folds. “This is improper,” she said through gritted teeth.

  He gave a low laugh, the sound rich and dark in her ear. “Mayhap I want an improper wife.” The finger slid inside her channel. “Tell me, wife,” he whispered as he plunged his finger in and out—out and in, “would you prefer a proper husband?”

  No, she wanted Taran. Sudden awareness of the erection digging into her back caused her mouth to go dry. He rubbed against her as his thumb began massaging her clit. She couldn’t halt the need and rocked into his hand, then back against his cock. Cream slipped from her passage. Teetering on the edge of euphoria, she bit down on her bottom lip and closed her eyes.

  “Why would I want a proper wife when I have you, my…”

  She snapped open her eyes. My…? Her heart pounded. His finger increased the pressure on her clit. Her channel convulsed around his probing finger. She whimpered as a shuddering orgasm rolled over her. A few final, gentle flicks to her clit brought a second, soft orgasm, then Taran removed his hand and banded his arm around her, pinning her to his chest. She melted against him.

  He kissed her temple. “Will you fault me for pleasuring my wife?”

  She drew in a shaky breath and tried to form coherent thoughts. “There is no reasoning with a man’s sexual appetite.”

  “Hungry only for you,” he interjected.

  Strathmore loomed in the distance, ablaze. Apparently, the guests hadn’t noticed the hosts’ absence. The soirée would go until the wee hours of the morning, but she was too tired to join the merrymaking. A pleasurable drowsiness clouded her brain. She needed to talk to Taran. Aphrodite—she had to tell him the truth about the masque. Caroline snuggled closer to his warmth. Come what may, she would have this moment. He desired her, his wife, not the fantasy woman he’d known for but a few hours.

  Caroline froze. “Why would I want a proper wife when I have you, my…” He had been about to call her…Aphrodite.

  The pieces fell into place with a sickening turn of her stomach. “Perhaps I do not want a proper wife.”

  He had purposely fucked her in the carriage after leaving the Cross Keys Inn…just as he had fucked Aphrodite.

  “You burn as I do. Why resist?”

  He had known then that she was Aphrodite.

  Their first night at Strathmore, when he’d had her on all fours, then the next night in front of the mirror. What man bedded his wife in that fashion? A man who knew that the women in his bed had the same appetite he did. A man who knew he’d married a—she closed her eyes—a spoilt woman.

  Why hadn’t he told her? Why let her agonies? Why rut with her as if there were no tomorrow? Was he trying to produce an heir while he could still stomach being between her legs? She recalled the way his cock pounded into her while they were in the trees, and his finger pleasuring her on the horse. Those were not actions of a man who couldn’t stand to touch a woman. No. Those were the actions of a man taking possession of what was his.

  Her head reeled. He knew and still wanted her? How was that possible? It was possible, she realized, because he was enjoying letting her squirm in fear—so long as she squirmed on his cock when he so chose. Her pussy tightened at the thought of his rod rubbing the sensitive folds of her sex, teasing, bringing her to a fevered pitch before finally giving her what she wanted.

  And there was no denying, she wanted his hard steel as often as he would give it to her. He had demanded she let him do what he would to her on the ride home. What would he do if she demanded he drive his cock into her this very moment—time, place, and onlookers be damned? Would he think her wanton for not being satisfied with having him pleasure her twice already today? He wanted Aphrodite. He would have her. On her—his wife’s—terms.

  Then she would have his head on a platter. No. His bollocks.

  * * * *

  Caroline preceded Taran into the foyer, with Lord Edmonds behind him. Her desire to drag Taran upstairs as his head thumped on each step had taken a back seat to reality. Despite the party that was still in full swing, Taran was intent upon dealing with the man who had attacked her. First, she had to make sure Taran understood what the man said to her.

  “My lord,” she began.

  The door opened and the boy who stood outside greeting guests, stepped aside for an older man and woman as they entered.

  “Blackhall,” the man said. “Giles,” Taran said. “Madam.” “Edmonds,” Giles said. Lord Edmonds nodded.

  “What in God’s name happened to your jaw?” Giles burst out.

  Taran frowned, then touched the spot on his jaw where Caroline had raked her nails across his flesh. He shifted his gaze to hers as he traced the scratch with a finger. “A run in with a wild cat,” he said.

  “Too close for comfort,” the man said.

  “Aye,” Taran agreed. He cupped Caroline’s elbow. “May I present my wife, Caroline

  Robertson, Viscountess of Blackhall. Caroline, Baron and Baroness Debrett.” Caroline offered her hand to the baron, who bowed over it.

  Another couple appeared from the hallway leading to the ballroom.

  “Ah, Blackhall,” the man said. He and the woman stopped beside them.

  “My lord,” Taran said.

  “Where did you get off to?” The man looked at Caroline. “A stolen moment with your bride, perhaps?”

  Taran canted his head. “She is hard to resist.”

  Caroline shot him a narrow-eyed glance, but he seemed not to notice. Not surprising. He didn’t realize she’d figured out the truth, and he was intent upon attending to the guest in the dungeon. Her pulse jumped. Father. Uncle had murdered her father. She tamped down on the rising tide of emotions that threatened tears.

  “If you will excuse me,” Taran said.

  “My lord.” Caroline grasped his arm. “I will walk with you.” He gave her a thin lipped look, but said nothing.

  Caroline nodded to the others. “Forgive us. I must speak with my husband.” Before anyone could protest, she started him towards the stairs. He veered left, and she was forced to follow him into a narrow servants’ corridor.

  “In here,” he said, and opened a door on the right.

  Taran shoved her through the opening and she found herself in a storage room filled with towels and linens. She turned as he closed the door. His gaze met hers. All at once, she wanted to throw herself into his arms, shout the question, Why have you lied to me?

  Instead, she began, “The man who attacked me was taking me to my uncle. He said I should have married you and left well enough alone. He must have mistaken my leaving

  Strathmore for the decision to find out what happened to my father. “ “You said you recognized him from the Cross Keys Inn,” Taran said.

  She nodded.

  “He did not harm you? I want the truth.”

  “I am well, my lord.” She flushed. “As you know. He was intent upon delivering me to my uncle.”

  “How did the bastard think he would ride with you all the way to England and without being caught?” Before she could answer, he added, “Because Etherton is not in England. What else did he say?”

  “That is all. But there is no doubt he is the man from the Cross Keys Inn, and he somehow knows of my conversation with Liam.”

  “Liam?” Taran demanded. “Who is Liam?”

  “The stable master at the Cross Keys Inn. That morning, I rode with him too see where the race is run.”

  Anger flashed across his face. “Caroline, I realize you wished to put to rest your father’s death, but I would ask that you cease going off alone—or in the company
of strangers.”

  “If I had not gone off alone, I would not have learned that my father was murdered.”

  “And you would not have nearly gotten yourself killed. For all you know, this Liam is part of this scheme.”

  “He had no reason to tell me of the strange events surrounding my father’s death. Had he kept quiet, I would have remained ignorant.” Caroline placed a hand on Taran’s arm. “My father was murdered,” her voice choked, “by my uncle.”

  Tears at last crashed through the barrier. Taran pulled her close. Her legs gave way and he swung her into his arms. He crossed to a crate and lowered himself onto it, then settled her across his lap. Caroline clung to his neck, her face buried in his chest as he whispered indistinguishable words into her hair. At last, the tears subsided. Her chest remained tight with sorrow, but she could breathe, could think.

  Taran grasped her chin and tilted her face upwards. “Will you be all right while I see to the man?”

  She straightened. “I will.”

  But would she be all right once this business was sorted out and she faced her husband with the question of why he had lied to her?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  From the corner of her eye, Caroline scanned the ballroom for Taran, but found no sign of him amongst the still too-crowded room. She nodded without hearing the droning of a doting mother, who chattered loudly enough to be heard over the orchestra about her daughter’s first season. An hour had passed since Taran had instructed her to entertain their guests, then disappeared into the dungeon. Why would he take so long with her attacker?

  The music ended and the woman’s voice sliced into Caroline thoughts. “Your husband has promised to attend our next ball. We expect you to accompany him, of course. Oh, but Sophie has three offers already. None that we can consider them, only a baron and two military men. I do not know what possesses them to think they should offer for the hand of an earl’s daughter.”

  Caroline shifted her attention onto the woman. “My husband was a mere military man, until his brother’s unfortunate accident.”

  The proud mama’s eyes widened. “Of—of course, but these men cannot compare to your husband.”