My Cursed Highlander

by Kimberly Killion

  Blood filled his groin.

  Damn-it-to-Hell! Now was not the time for his cock to stand up. His plaid would hide evidence of his arousal, but these damn foreign hose would expose him as a lusty-guts. He clasped his hands in front of his groin and prayed he could control his lewd thoughts—the same kind of lustful thoughts that ultimately ended Nessa’s life.

  Her tune made a crescendo, gaining her even more attention until Angelo slipped in beside her, touched her elbow, and stared at him.

  Her song cut off abruptly.

  She looked directly at him. Her violet eyes widened then narrowed, and her wind instrument fell to her skirt.

  Blind, my toe. Taveon snorted.

  “I thought ye said she was blind?” Remi whispered.

  “‘Tis what she claims.” Taveon held the cat-like stare between them until she turned away, stood, and offered her admirers a dismissive bow. The cluster of people dispersed, after which she set her lute on the fountain’s edge, took Angelo’s hand, and dragged the boy in Taveon’s direction.

  “You are persistent, Laird Kraig.” She punched one fist onto her round hip and used the other to squeeze Angelo’s hand until the poor lad’s fingers buckled.

  Remi nuzzled in between them, forcing her back a notch. “I have yet to make your acquaintance.”

  With the hand not clamped on the boy, Viviana raised her fingers to Remi, palm down. “I am Mistress Viviana Gorini de’ Medici Martinus da Vincenza.”

  “Ye gods! That’s a big name.”

  “In truth, I was christened Monna di Viviana di Michele del Cittadino.”

  The way the woman rolled her ‘r’s sounded erotic in Taveon’s ears and turned his bollocks to hard little stones.

  Remi took her hand, blinked in double-time, and kissed her knuckles. “I’m Remi.”

  One delicate brow arced upward. “Do you mock me, Signore Remi?”

  “Nay,” he defended and lost his smile. “‘Tis a nervous tic that worsens when I’m in the presence of a beautiful woman. Ye should see me around my wife.”

  Remi was too dim of wit to have caught her blunder. Taveon doubted the hizzie heard him blinking. He didn’t know why she would lie, but admitted to being intrigued by her charade. “Mayhap, I could escort ye for a walk in the garden, Mistress Viviana.” Taveon attempted to save Remi from further embarrassment and gain a moment with his Venus at the same time.

  “And mayhap, you should seek an audience with my guardian instead. Messer Lorenzo is sitting with Master Botticelli beneath the archway.”

  “Botticelli is here?” Angelo swiveled, but she held tight to his hand.

  He gave a little tug. “Per favore, mistress. I must meet the man. Take a walk with Goliath. He will not hurt you. Will you?” Angelo asked, his big brown eyes filled with protectiveness.

  Taveon shook his head. “With so many guards afoot? ‘Twould be foolish. I can assure ye, your Venus is safe with me.”

  Before she could argue with either of them, the boy made fancy work of prying her fingers open around his hand and darted back into the courtyard.

  “Shall we?” Taveon offered her his elbow.

  Instead of accepting, she dropped her gaze to the ground and balled her hands until her knuckles whitened.

  “Please, Viviana. We’ve much to discuss.” He set her fist atop his forearm and waited for her hand to curl around his arm. He felt her tremble the same time he saw the pulse in her neck kick her skin.

  “I will rip the little hairs from your arm and scream if you dare to—”

  Taveon laughed. Mayhap he would use a similar threat the next time he went to war. “I will not give ye a reason to become so enraged.” He patted her hand, hoping to calm her spirits. “Remi, occupy yourself.”

  “Aye, m’laird.”

  Taveon guided her down a set of stone steps in silence and into a small grove of exotic fruit trees. The aroma nearly burned his nose. It was her scent but more tart—citrus without the sweet. Her black hair glistened beneath a high sun and her pale skin contrasted against his dark leathery arm.

  He stepped over a cluster of fallen pears and wasn’t surprised when she did the same. “The Medici Palace is an extravagant and wasteful place to live.”

  “Wasteful how?” She raised her skirt and took a broad step to avoid a fallen branch.

  “The fruit lies rotten on the ground because the servants undoubtedly spend more time mixing paints than tending the harvest. To see such a display certainly changes my opinion of your great Lorenzo.”

  “Messer Lorenzo acts as the public face of the regime in the house of the great lords. He is renowned for maintaining political peace within the Italian states. He is a lover of music and poetry, and is a patron of the arts.”

  “Ye cannae eat art.” This was not the topic he intended to discuss. In fact, he didn’t know why he was discussing anything with her. If the amulet belonged to Lorenzo, then he was the man Taveon should be speaking with. “What is your relationship with Lorenzo?”

  “I’m not his concubine, if that is what you imply.”

  “Are you his daughter? Ye bear his name.” Taveon angled his head to look at her. “Among many others.”

  She stumbled, but caught herself on his arm. “Gorini is my maiden name. Medici is the name Messer Lorenzo gifted me with when he took me in after my sister died.”

  “And the other surnames?”

  “Martinus belonged to my first husband and Vincenza belonged to my second.” Not the slightest bit of mourning clung to her words.

  “Ye hardly appear old enough to have been widowed twice.” He released her hand and wondered if this was yet another lie. “One would think ye cursed to have loved and lost two husbands.”

  She faltered, but maintained his pace, her steps now much more cautious. “I’m one and twenty and my husbands’ deaths have naught to do with your foolish curse or the amulet.”

  “Where did ye get the stone?” he asked her outright, though skeptical of the answer she might provide.

  “My sister, Fioretta, gave it to Lorenzo to secure my place in the Medici household after she delivered my nephew.”

  “Are ye of noble bloodline?”

  She gave an unladylike snort. “My birth mother abandoned my sister and I. We were fostered at Spedale degli Innocenti—an orphanage, Laird Kraig.”

  Impossible. The woman carried herself with more grace than Queen Margaret. “I’m curious as to how your sister came by such a valuable bauble in an orphanage?”

  “I know not. I knew nothing of its existence until Fioretta died,” she insisted.

  Taveon stayed a half step in front of her and led them between two rows of citrus trees. She dodged clumps of fruit with the same accuracy as he. How could he trust anything she said when he was certain the woman lied about being blind? A quick glance over his shoulder assured him he would not be caught if he tested her. He brought his hand up swiftly in front of her face as if he might slap her with an open palm.

  She didn’t flinch. “If there is naught else you wish to discuss, I would like to return to the courtyard. I’m not as familiar with the grove’s layout as I am the palace.”

  “Ye seem to be getting along rather remarkably for a blind woman.” Just as he offered the back-handed compliment, her foot twisted on two rotten oranges. She released her skirt and held her hands out in front of her. Before he could catch her, she fell forward and landed flat on the ground, giving him a glimpse of her ankles.

  Air rushed from her lungs with an audible gasp. “Uffa!”

  “Forgive me.” Taveon grasped her around the waist and yanked her back to her feet. Like a clumsy lad, he picked out the debris tangled in her black locks and brushed the tendrils away from her face.

  “You insufferable Scot!” A litany of Italian curses followed. Her face reddened from embarrassment or anger, he didn’t know which, but the flare of her nostrils and tilt of her chin told him he was about to be scolded.

  “How can you promise to protect my li
fe when you cannot even escort me through the grove?”

  He was a complete arse. “I have my reserves about your sight.”

  “I am blind. It is a flaw most prefer to ignore.” She tried to push out of his arms, but he refused to let go.

  With his hands wrapped around her shoulders, he held her in place. “I’m not ignoring it, so much as questioning it. You looked directly at me in the courtyard and pointed out Remi’s blinking habit. Ye stepped over the fruit with ease as well as the branch. Forgive me, but I’m hard-pressed to believe a blind woman is capable of any of these tasks.”

  “You were touching me,” she blurted out and became even more flustered with this statement. Her lips tightened as did her fists.

  The woman spoke in circles. Taveon searched for a reply to her response, but could find no words. The bit of orange he wiped from her neck led his wandering eyes straight to breasts which were impossibly farther out of her gown. He swore if she inhaled, her nipples would pop out. Saliva pooled in his mouth waiting for that fantasy to come true.

  “And stop staring at my breasts,” she yelled through clenched teeth.

  “Weel, if ye wore a gown that covered your favors, I would not be tempted to ogle ye so.” Taveon gripped the front of her bodice with both hands and yanked upward.

  “Unhand me, you goat.” She pinched a cluster of hair on his forearm and yanked.

  “Shite!” Mayhap that tactic would be effective on the battlefield. “Why would ye lie about your sight?”

  “I am not lying.” She swatted at his hands until he finally backed away. “Take me back to the courtyard.”

  “I will after ye tell me why ye pretend to be blind.”

  Her hands shook, her chin quivered. Viviana was afraid. Of him? Or mayhap someone else? He could protect her if need be. “Are ye in danger?”

  Ignoring his question, she reached out and fumbled her way to the trunk of a fruit tree. Another few steps put her in alignment with the next tree. Why her actions angered him he didn’t know, but his temper spiked just the same. He grabbed her wrists and flanked her up against him. “Tell me how a blind woman knows when a mon is eying her favors.”

  Her head shook, her eyes squeezed tight.

  “Tell me.”

  “I can see through your eyes.” She slumped against his chest. The heat of her breath warmed his skin through his tunic, and her closeness soothed his ire, but her statement only confused him further.

  “I dinnae understand.”

  “Nor do I, but the amulet allows me to see through Angelo,” she paused and loosened her fists, “and now you.”

  ‘Twas impossible. “Prove it.”

  Her face rose to him. “You force me to tell you my secret and then speculate the answer I provide. You have little trust, Laird Kraig.”

  “I trust no one. ‘Tis part of my charm.” He set her an arm’s length away, determined to understand the relationship between her, him, and the amulet. “If you can see through my eyes, then tell me what I’m looking at.”

  She sighed. “My breasts.”

  “That was almost a given.” He spun her around, but held onto her hand over her shoulder. “What now?”

  “A tree.”

  Taveon rolled his eyes. Was she playing him for a fool? “We are in an orchard. This is not working.”

  “Make a count with your fingers behind my back,” she suggested.

  Taveon held up three fingers and stared off into the grove, feeling ridiculous for playing her game.

  “You must look at your hand,” she scolded with a huff.

  He looked down at his fingers.

  “Three,” she said.

  He held out one.

  “One.”

  He switched again, and followed with a rapid succession.

  “Two, one, five, three, one.” She released his hand and stepped away.

  Sweet Venus! Remarkable. This. Her. The logical, rational pragmatist inside him was still short of acceptance. “‘Tis a trick.”

  The woman growled, picked up the front of her skirt, and stomped straight toward a tree. A rather large tree.

  Taveon stepped in her path and linked his hand in hers, saving her from slamming into the trunk. “Please, tame your temper and explain this to me.”

  She hooted. “I’m not the one with temper, m’laird. Regardless, I cannot explain it. I do not understand it myself. Angelo is the only other, and it does not work unless I’m touching him, nor does it work without the amulet.”

  Taveon watched her lips as she continued chatting about colors, and lights and darks, and soon he no longer heard anything she said.

  If she spoke the truth, then the amulet was as powerful as Noreen had claimed. He’d never been more hopeful. He felt as if he’d discovered a king’s treasure, not only in the talisman, but with Viviana as well. He needed the stone to break the curse, and she needed him to be her eyes. Regardless of what his da tried to teach him, Taveon wanted someone to depend on him like Cora-Rose depended on his twin brother. Taveon had denied himself any dreams because of how the curse had destroyed Da.

  Given their circumstances, there was only one obvious choice. A giddiness he’d never known washed over him as he became lost in Viviana’s features. The woman had plush lips and straight teeth. A brown beauty mark beside the corner of her lips held his gaze. The moment he realized he wanted to kiss her, an odd flutter tickled his stomach.

  “Laird Kraig, are you listening to me?”

  He nodded and followed the dainty curve of her chin down her neck, over her collarbone, and…

  “Stop staring at my breasts!”

  Caught again. Taveon wanted to laugh, instead he ran the back of his fingers over her soft skin. “Forgive my wandering eyes, but ye have beautiful breasts.”

  She reared back a fist, but he caught it this time. “Temper, sweetling. We must try to tolerate one another. ‘Tis a long way back to Ravenhurst.”

  “What are you speaking of?”

  “I must return to Scotland with the amulet, and ye refuse to let it go for reasons I now understand. Since I cannae ask ye to give it up, then I see only one option that will suit us both.” Taveon pressed a hand at the small of her back, and flattened her front to his. He cupped her nape, closed his eyes, and descended on her open mouth. Whatever words she intended to speak got lost in his kiss.

  Her fists opened and flattened against his chest and the shiver that racked her body empowered his boldness. He broke the seam of her lips with his tongue and dove inside for a sweet taste of nectar. Just as he was about to pinpoint the familiar flavor, she broke free with an audible gasp.

  Misfortune was about to find a new home, for Viviana Gorini de’ Medici Martinus da Vincenza was about to acquire another name. That of Kraig. “Would ye prefer to get married here or wait until we reach Ravenhurst?”

  Chapter 4

  Another husband was the last thing Viviana wanted, especially a lusty, barbaric Scotsman with the temper of Zeus, the strength of Hercules, and the lips of Adonis.

  “Pish!” Viviana pulled the rasp over the sculpture she’d been working on for months with every muscle in her body and tried to focus on her predicament and not the way she’d foolishly melted when Laird Kraig kissed her that morning.

  Radolfo had kissed her with the same sort of expertise, but he’d spent plenty of time at the bordello practicing. Dipping his wick in every well ultimately put her first husband in the grave when Radolfo mistook a young maid for one of Madame Bianca’s whores. Had the girl not been the Grand Madame’s young daughter, Radolfo might have survived the beating.

  Viviana was not so callow to let one kiss turn her into a whimsical maiden ready to fall at Laird Kraig’s feet and do his bidding. The Scot hid his temper just like Luciano, and Satan would stand up and bow down to God in Heaven before she would become another man’s side of flesh to slap around. Alberto had taught her to defend herself, but Laird Kraig was much bigger than Luciano, much more powerful.

  With qui
ck, angry jerks, she scraped the rasp over the marble and wished she could see anything save for the image of Goliath on the backs of her eyelids. Miocchi growled at her feet, sensing her mood.

  “I. Will. Not. Take. Another. Husband!” she ground out between destructive pulls on the stone until all she could taste was dust. She would have Lorenzo remove Laird Kraig from the palace grounds, and he would be the last Scotsman to ever step foot in Firenze again.

  “Uffa!” She dropped the rasp. Pain burned the tip of her index finger and shot straight up her arm, then a cool trickle curled over her finger.

  Worthless tool! Worthless stone! Worthless eyes.

  Viviana wanted to lash out, to kick something, but it would accomplish naught. She dipped her shaking hand in a bowl of tepid water and bit back unwelcome tears.

  Miocchi whimpered.

  Viviana’s whistle filled the chamber. “Fetch me a scrap, Miocchi.”

  The dog pranced to the bin of linens as Viviana had trained him to do and returned with an ell of cloth. Viviana held it between her teeth and tore a strip to wrap around her finger.

  She bent and scratched Miocchi’s ears to reward him for his loyalty. “I should have let you bite him like you did Luciano.”

  The dog licked her hand, soothing her temper, albeit ever so slight.

  A quiet knock brought her upright. “Mistress Viviana?” Angelo asked from outside her closed door, which was unusual as the boy never knocked.

  She took the familiar steps to the door and swung it wide. “What is it?”

  “Messer Lorenzo requests your presence.” Angelo’s voice was hushed, heavy-hearted. Angelo was never sad. He was full of high-energy day and night.

  “What’s amiss, Angelo?”

  “It is Goliath.” Angelo took her hand but stared at the stone floor. “He is with Lorenzo in the library.”

  * * *

  “Angelo, you will stay with me?” Viviana’s hand locked with Angelo’s outside Lorenzo’s study.

  “Sì, sì. I will never leave your side ever again.”