My Cursed Highlander

by Kimberly Killion

  “Do you prefer your women on top or bottom?”

  He tore his gaze from her treasures and only then did he realize she wasn’t wearing the amulet. Her fisted hands poised beside her hips and the stubborn tilt of her chin was set at an imposing angle.

  Oh, she wasn’t going to ruin this moment with bitter words. He closed the gap between them and cradled her head in one hand while the other wrapped around her sumptuous backside. He flanked her against him and pressed his cock into her belly so she might know how she affected him. Sweat gathered around his spine as her nipples hardened against his chest. He could think of nothing else but taking each one into his mouth with slow teasing draws.

  She closed her eyes and glossed her lips with her pink tongue and only then did he see the quiver take hold of her chin. Her hands remained balled beside her hips, and her stiff pose bespoke of revulsion.

  No! He wanted to shake the demons out of her that made her so vindictive.

  “Please get on with it before I vomit.” Her caustic word chilled his very soul. He stepped back, his breathing harsh. Would he never gain her trust, her affections?

  “Get into bed.” He released her then strode across the chamber to snatch up the privy pot and positioned it beside the bed. He retrieved the amulet from the side-table, and then stretched out atop the blankets and stared at the circular candelabrum above the bed. Da would be pleased, but Taveon doubted this suffering was better than knowing the love and tenderness of a wife, how ever brief it might be.

  With his fist wrapped tightly around the amulet, he closed his eyes and willed himself into slumber.

  The amulet warmed his palm. Colors erupted inside his head—a woman with pale hair, gold lashes, green eyes. She laughed and danced in bare toes beneath a canopy of willow trees.

  Elise.

  His eyes snapped open. The woman was taunting him, mocking his fanciful dreams. He hated her and wanted to scream the words to her face. Instead, he stuffed the amulet beneath the bolster and rolled to his side.

  Viviana twisted toward him. “Am I that unappealing?”

  “Ye are beautiful on the outside, but your tongue is foul and your heart is black.” He said nothing further, but wondered how it was possible he’d married the only person in the world with a heart more guarded than his own.

  Chapter 11

  A rich soothing melody hummed in Viviana’s ears.

  She danced in a wispy white undertunic, her toes digging into fresh spring grasses while flower petals of every color rained down over her. Laird Kraig leaned against a tree trunk and watched her, his lips curled into a devilish grin.

  She teased him with a side-long glance. “Do you want me?”

  His lips split, revealing straight white teeth. Dark eyes twinkled like starlight at dawn and looked at her with a passion she felt clear to her toes.

  Blue.

  His eyes were dark blue. The color of the sea in the darkest hour of night.

  He pulled her into his arms, then nipped at her bottom lip.

  Liquid warmth washed throughout her insides. He made her ache. He made her feel. He made her want.

  He bent low and leaned into her ear. “Ye are beautiful when you’re sleeping.”

  Reality awoke like a stone to the back of her head.

  No! It was a dream.

  Viviana frowned and wanted to cry. Instead, she pushed through the thick haze in her head toward a world of consciousness. Laird Kraig hummed the same soothing tune she’d been dancing to only moments ago and stirred her from slumber with caressing strokes across her collarbone.

  “Wake up, sweetling.” Laird Kraig pushed the hair from her face and traced her ear with his fingertip.

  Gooseflesh sprouted over her warm skin. She squirmed and only then did she realize she was naked.

  Oh, cazzo! Her hands fisted in the covers as she flexed the muscles in her mons, expecting to feel the pained aftermath of their union. Naught seemed amiss. “Did you have your way with me?” She winced at the atrocious odor wafting over her.

  He laughed. “Ye would know if I had.” His fingers played over her shoulder like a skilled musician and made her pulse flutter in her womanhood. Why wasn’t he naked and under the coverlet? Why hadn’t they consummated? Mannaggia. Why couldn’t she remember?

  Had he not given her time to prepare; to bathe away the filth of their journey or to depilate? Radolfo wouldn’t touch her lest she were free of unwanted hair and smooth like the Italian beauties who posed for the great artists. She searched her memory, but had no recollection of any events beyond their evening meal. In fact, she couldn’t recall if she’d even eaten. She studied the taste in her mouth and decided whatever food she’d consumed must have been rotten.

  Lifting her head, she attempted to sit upright, but a sharp pain coursed behind her eyes and flung her back atop the bolster. “What is wrong with me?” Again, came a ripe sour scent. “And what is that horrid smell?”

  “Ye are suffering from the drink, and I fear that smell is your breath, m’lady. ‘Tis as if a little mon crawled in your mouth and died.” With a strong hand wrapped around her nape, he pulled her into a sitting position.

  Ignoring the pain slicing through her skull, she latched onto the coverlet and held it tight against her breasts.

  “Drink this.” He touched the back of her fingers with a goblet.

  The liquid smelled like bitter poison. Whatever it was made her stomach churn with illness. “What is it?” She pinched her nose and turned her head.

  “A concoction the barkeep assured me would settle your belly and ease the ache in your head.”

  “It smells like rot-gut,” she said in a nasally tone as she kept her fingers in place on her nose. Holding the coverlet beneath her arms, she accepted the drink, drew in a deep breath over her dry tongue, and then poured the thick brew down her throat. She tightened her eyes and gagged on the metallic taste rising in her throat.

  Someone, please kill me.

  Laird Kraig took the cup and set it on a bedside table, then rubbed her bare back in gentle circles. “Ye will survive.”

  “I’m not certain I want to.”

  Again, he laughed at her misery and poked a leaf between her lips. “‘Tis mint. Chew on it and clear your head. We need to have a civil conversation.”

  The mattress rose when Laird Kraig left her side and strode away from the bed on booted feet. A latch clicked, then came the squeak of hinges. Viviana inhaled what she recognized as morning mist.

  “Come, m’lady. There is something ye need to see.”

  She fretted over her nudity. “Mayhap I could dress first. Do you perchance know where my gown is?”

  “I laid your garments at the foot of the bed, but your modesty is not necessary. I saw every inch of ye yestereve.”

  She wished she could remember what had transpired the previous night. Had they been intimate? Had he kissed her with gentleness? She touched her lips. Had he even kissed her at all? She didn’t feel as though she’d been ravished.

  Holding the sheet with an iron grip to hide her nakedness, she stood on weak legs. “Uffa.” She paused, waiting for her head to catch up to the movement then stepped to the foot of the bed and sifted through her garments. She found her gown perfectly fastened shut. Why would anyone hook the buttons of a discarded garment? She worked over the fastenings until her palms dampened.

  “Leave it, Viviana, and come to me. I can assure ye I will not violate your person this day.”

  Why not? Had she disappointed him in the marriage bed? Curse the drink for stealing her memory.

  She readjusted the edges of the sheet until it was tucked firmly beneath her arms and carefully padded in the direction of his voice.

  He set her in front of him. “Prepare yourself.” His arms came around her and a breath later the amulet cooled her skin. He pulled her hair out from under the chain and then curled his hands around her bare shoulders.

  Light burned through her darkness. She held her hand in front of her
eyes for all the good it did and tried to adjust to the overwhelming brightness. What came into view nigh stole her breath. Snowcapped mountains drew a ragged line over the horizon, their peaks hidden in the mist. She was awestruck by their size. “It is wonderful.”

  “Aye. From here the mountains are a wonder many only gaze upon in splendor, but ye might think otherwise if ye have ever stood in their center being beaten down by wind and ice.” He blinked slowly and inhaled deeply, his unease made her wary. “We have to cross those mountains.”

  Her pulse quickened. She backed up against the wall of his chest wanting him to look away, but he held his gaze on the mountains. She hugged herself to ward off a sudden chill. If his goal was to intimidate her, he’d succeeded. She wouldn’t make it through the mountains. “Why are you telling me this now? Is it your intent to frighten me?”

  “Nay. I’m trying to make ye see the reality of your situation. There are measures I must take to ensure our safety. We cannae take the carriage. ‘Twill take four, mayhap five days on horseback.”

  “Horseback? I cannot guide a horse, m’laird. I’m blind.” Viviana shook her head and tried to push away from the window, but his grip on her shoulders tightened.

  “I will guide your horse or ye will ride with me. The Medici crest has protected us well in Italy, but its gaudy colors and obvious wealth is a target for brigands. Not to mention, ‘tis impossible to take a carriage through the pass.”

  “M’laird, I—”

  “Please, allow me to finish. I need ye to make a choice.” His voice lowered, his eyes closed, and his cheek rested against the side of her head. “Ye can go with me, or I can have ye returned to the Medici Palace. We have not consummated the marriage and an annulment would be easy enough to acquire for a mon with Lorenzo’s power.”

  A cold, boney hand gripped her heart. She swallowed. “You do not want me?”

  “I do,” he answered without pause. “But I’m certain ye dinnae want me.” He released her, leaving her in darkness at the sill.

  Her first instinct told her to go back to the palace where it was safe, but part of her sought more than that life had provided her thus far. She wanted companionship. She wanted to be needed, to know what it felt like to have a sense of worth.

  The door to the chamber opened behind her.

  “Remi and Monroe await me at the blacksmith. I will return shortly to hear your decision.”

  “M’laird,” she stopped his footing, “are you giving me a choice because of what happened yestereve?”

  “Nothing happened yestereve.” The door clicked shut.

  Viviana sank onto the bed and twisted the edge of the sheet. In Italy, she had Angelo, but he would one day have a family of his own and move on. Of course, there was Lorenzo. Regardless of his callousness, he’d been like a father to her. Lorenzo’s wife, Clarice, had only been gone a month, but she’d been so devoted to the church Viviana had never found a place in her heart, the same as she’d never been close to her nephew.

  Viviana always thought Sister De Rosa would be a stable presence in her life, but she hadn’t seen the woman in over six years. Rumor had claimed the devout nun gave up her vows to God for a man, a monk from San Marco monastery no less, but Viviana was hard pressed to believe such gossip.

  Then, there was Fioretta. Her spirit still haunted Santa Reparata, reliving the same tragic event over and over, day in and day out.

  Viviana pulled her gown onto her lap to fight the buttons and mused over the life Laird Kraig offered. She had the chance to be a mother to his daughter, a sister to his kinswomen, and a wife to him. If she failed on any of those levels, her heart would be lost.

  Did she go back and live in blissful ignorance, knowing she’d protected herself, or did she set aside everything she’d known about life and marriage thus far and trust Laird Kraig not to trample her heart?

  Why had he even given her a choice?

  * * *

  Shite! Why had he even given her a choice? Taveon regretted his decision the moment he stepped into the corridor. His heart beat in his throat and pulsed against the backs of his eyeballs. He’d intended to demand her trust, to tell her he was trading the carriage, her gowns, her trinkets.

  He descended both flights of stairs in a fury and skulked through the barroom. ‘Twas vacant, save for the same two gents who’d offered him congratulations yestereve. The shorter of the two men conversed with the innkeeper, while the lunger had his way with a serving maid in the corner. Draped over a table on her belly, her skirts were piled atop her back and her fingers wrapped over the edge. The brute held her down and thrust madly inside her, coughing throughout the entire ordeal.

  In the mood to fight, Taveon’s steps slowed at the scene.

  The woman cried out and moaned in pleasure.

  Taveon looked away. Who was he to interrupt their play? He might have suggested they find a more discreet place to make merry, but held his tongue and left the inn.

  A cool breeze must have slid down the mountain for a hint of sharpness laced Turin’s morning air. Taveon welcomed the cold. He’d been hot since entering Italy and even hotter since meeting Viviana. He strode down a narrow street, vacant of peddlers, and wondered if the rage he felt by her rejection kept him enflamed or if it was the undeniable urge he had to kiss her, and touch her, and… damn-it-to-Hell!

  They’d shared a bed. She’d been naked beside him the whole of the night. He should have freed himself from his unspent lust. Mayhap then he could focus.

  The sound of metal clanking together brought him back to reality. Remi greeted him at the smithie. “Weel?”

  Shaking his head, Taveon held up one hand. “I’m in nay mood for your badgering.” When he rounded the forge filled with orange coals, heat nigh melted his skin. He turned his head to guard his nostrils from the burnt smell and heard the hiss of liquid heat being doused in water. An apprentice pounded the metal against a stone and paused only long enough to point Taveon toward a back entrance. “The smith’s with your friend.”

  Taveon nodded and proceeded forward with Remi fast at his heels.

  “‘Tis sharp.” Beside a workbench, the smith held a broadsword out in presentation to Monroe. Rods and buckets lined the walls as did piles of rocks and a broken anvil.

  “We’ll take the sword,” Taveon said.

  Monroe’s spirits rose with the arc of one brow. The man hadn’t battled since reivers tried to steal their livestock. Most likely he was eager for the fray. A warrior ached for the feel of steel in his palm like a drunkard craved laudanum.

  “We’ll take two others as well. Have ye other weapons for trade?”

  “Sì, Signore.” The smith’s soiled face brightened as he led them into another workshop filled to the rafters with an impressive assortment of weaponry and armor; basket swords, dirks of all sizes, crossbows and steel-tipped arrows.

  It reminded him of Ravenhurst.

  After bartering with the smith for far more weaponry than they needed to cross France, Taveon paid the man eighteen florin for the trade.

  “Where you gents be headed?” The smith wrapped a double-edge Italian dirk in a leather hide.

  Home. Taveon warmed inside but kept his answer vague. “Into the mountains.”

  “Your valuables must be immense to have need for so much steel,” he prodded.

  Taveon thought of Viviana. If she chose to continue their journey, he intended to be prepared to protect her. “I value my life and the lives of my kin. Not to mention, I despise the French.”

  “Ready that, Signore.” His lips peeled over mangled yellow teeth. He handed Remi the last of their purchases and bid them farewell. “If you be needin’ furs for your trek, I’ve a cousin with a shop south of the inn.”

  “Much thanks. We’ll pay him a visit.” Taveon mounted a freshly shoed black stallion, intent on returning to Viviana to hear her decision. He spurred his steed forward, but wasn’t left to his thoughts long before Remi trotted up beside him.

  “I thought
ye were going to trade the smithie the carriage. What’s amiss?”

  Taveon didn’t look at him. He couldn’t. “I gave Viviana the option to return to the Medici Palace if she so desired. She will need Lorenzo’s carriage should she decide to do so.”

  “What ever possessed ye to give a mule-headed woman such as your wife a choice?”

  Taveon didn’t have to look at Remi to feel his blinking eyes burrowing holes through his doublet. “Because I’m a dunderheid.” He nudged his steed forward and contemplated the reasons he would use to persuade her to go with him to Scotland. First and foremost, she was his wife. ‘Twas her duty to follow him into the flames of Hell if that’s where he chose to go.

  Makayla would become her daughter. To a barren woman, this alone would be a gift she couldn’t balk at. As the lady of Clan Kraig, Viviana would be treated like a queen and not an unwanted ward. The woman must know Lorenzo only cared for her out of duty. The promise he’d made to her sister bound him to act as Viviana’s guardian.

  Would these reasons be enough?

  He dismounted in front of the inn and rubbed his temples with one hand as dread slipped through his gut. Her first two husbands tainted her opinion of marriage, and he feared she would always compare him to Radolfo and Luciano. Her judgment built walls he found nigh impossible to break down.

  Taveon slipped in the back entrance and up the two flights of stairs that landed him outside the chamber door. He swallowed. His hands shook like he was about to face an entire battalion of English soldiers. He had every intention of convincing her to go to Scotland. He would force her to listen to his words before he gave her pause to speak.

  A breath of courage filled his lungs as he rapt on the wood twice and pushed the door in. Sweet citrus filled the confines of the chamber. Viviana rose from the unmade bed perfectly garbed in her crimson gown, save for the alignment of her damn buttons. Through the open window, morning blush glowed behind her, framing her beauty.

  She looked directly at him and toyed with the gold band on her finger.

  His breathing increased. She was going back. He could feel it in his bones, see it on her face.