Page 52 of The Highlander’s Improper Wife

“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 realized 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.