My Cursed Highlander Read online

  “We are not going to do anything. I fear this is my burden to bear.”

  “Give her a gift. A kitten, mayhap,” Remi suggested. “Like the one Cora-Rose gave Makayla when the ermine died.”

  Taveon rolled his eyes heavenward. “And Miocchi would likely eat it.”

  “True. Buy her a trinket, then,” Remi tried again. “Something gold and gaudy with lots of little jewels.”

  “Nay. ‘Tis no good.” Monroe shook his head. “She has baubles aplenty in those satchels of hers, yet she wears that worthless shelled bracelet Remi gave her. M’lady needs a gift that is meaningful, something given from the heart. Write her a sonnet. A song of prose about her beauty.”

  Taveon scratched his whiskered jaw, listening to their suggestions. He called to mind everything he knew about his wife. She was an orphan. She’d lost a sister, and been forced into not two, but three marriages. He’d given her the gift of sight. There was nothing he could give her greater than that.

  Then it came to him like a revelation. An idea so brilliant he could hardly believe he’d concocted it on his own. “There was a small chapel just outside Yverdon, was there not?”

  “Aye. Just a few miles back. Are ye thinking to get remarried?” Remi’s excitement was unwarranted.

  “Nay. ‘Tis bigger.” Taveon raised his brows and poured his drink down his gullet. He would gain her trust, again. No matter how long it took, he would once again touch her heart.

  * * *

  “What are ye waiting for? ‘Tis nigh noontide.” Remi badgered him while they waited for Viviana and Miocchi to return from the grove.

  Taveon was as nervous as a laddie alone in the bushes with a willing maiden. Sweat gathered at his temple and soaked the back of his tunic, partly from the spike in temperature, but mostly from his anxiety. “What if she does not like it? What if she regards it as an insult?”

  “What do ye have to lose?” Monroe asked through a mouthful of dried veal. “At the verra least, ‘twould get her to talk.”

  Taveon waited beside his mount and stared into the grove until he caught a glimpse of her peach-colored gown. “Shush. She’s coming.”

  Miocchi led her around a fallen log and through a patch of tall grasses. Delicate white lace dripped from her sleeves and peeked out of her swooping bodice like frothy sweet cream. She looked more like a dessert than a woman who’d cursed him and his country to the fiery pits of Hell just this morn.

  She stopped in front of him and waited for him to set her atop the steed.

  “Are ye hungry, m’lady?

  “No.”

  “Thirsty?”

  “No.”

  “Would ye like to stop for a spell and stretch your legs? There is a—”

  “No.”

  He glanced at his frowning kinsmen, blew a breath, and set her sideways atop the steed. Her mood could get no blacker. After retrieving his gift from the pack horse, he mounted behind her and set their gait to a smooth walk.

  They crossed an entire valley of wildflowers he was certain she would have enjoyed, but the stubborn hizzie made it clear when they’d left the inn she would rather travel in darkness than touch him. With a stiff spine, she rode in front of him, making every effort not to sag against his chest.

  He held the package against his thigh, waiting for the opportunity to give it to her, while sadness and regret weighed heavy on his chest.

  “Christalmighty! Give it to her,” Monroe demanded.

  When her head snapped toward Monroe, Taveon found the courage to slip his gift onto her lap.

  She felt the linen and ran her fingertips over the twine bow. “What is this?”

  He pressed the tips of two fingers to the skin below her elbow and looked at the square bundle. “‘Tis a gift.”

  “A gift? Pish! It will take more than some paltry gift to earn your way back into my good graces.” She crossed her arms and blew a short, loud breath.

  “I suspected as much. Just open it.” He waited for her stubbornness to wane, hoping she wouldn’t toss it to the ground. He’d had a time getting the stingy old priest to part with one, let alone two, but he thought Makayla’s friend, Lily, might benefit from such a gift.

  After long moments, Viviana untied the twine ribbon and pulled back the linen.

  “A note tablet?” She opened the wooden cover and ran her fingers over the yellowed wax inset in the panels, then pulled the bone stylus from the hinges. “What are you about, m’laird?” She tested the sharp point, making a mark in the smooth wax surface.

  “I would like to teach ye to read.” Hope built behind his breastbone. He forced his eyes to remain open and waited for her reply.

  “Why?” She wiped her eye.

  Taveon fought the pain in his chest and cradled her forearm. “Because an educated nation is a peaceful nation.”

  “There are twenty-seven letters in the alphabet,” Remi began, and Taveon didn’t have the heart to correct him as he was certain Remi spent the entire day preparing that statement.

  “Twenty-six.” She tilted her face toward Taveon. “There are twenty-six letters. Am I right?”

  “Aye.” Taveon gazed into her watery eyes, hoping she would accept his gift.

  “Right,” Remi, again, chimed in. “I is the first letter.”

  “Nay. ‘Tis A.” Taveon tossed Remi a questioning glare.

  “Forgive me, m’laird.” Remi looked away. “I never learned to read or write, but dinnae tell my Meghan. She would not be pleased.”

  Taveon had known the man six years. How did he not know Remi was illiterate? “Mayhap Meghan never has to know. If m’lady accepts my offer, ye could learn alongside her.”

  They all waited for her answer. An answer that never came verbally, but she did press the scribe into the wax to make another mark.

  Taveon swallowed, wrapped his hand around hers, and made three marks. “This is the letter A, as in the word Aphrodite.”

  “Or addle-brained,” Monroe added.

  “Ample?” Remi said with a questioning tone.

  Taveon nodded his approval, then waited for Viviana to participate.

  After long moments, she finally said, “Ass.”

  He might have expected that. Positioning the scribe in her hand properly, he assisted her with the next letter. “This is the letter B, as in the word beautiful. My wife is beautiful.”

  An unladylike snort was her reply.

  “Bollocks,” Monroe beamed. “If I dinnae get to the bawdy house, my bollocks will turn blue.”

  Taveon narrowed his eyes on Monroe, but before he could reprimand him, Remi cleared his throat.

  “Bairn. Brodie is the name of my eldest bairn.”

  “Is it my turn?” Viviana perked up, sounding almost excited. “Bastard. My barbarian husband is a bastard.”

  Mayhap this wasn’t a good idea. Taveon rubbed his temples.

  “‘Twas a good one, m’lady.”

  “Grazie, Monroe. Come now, m’laird. What is the next letter?”

  And for the remainder of the day he suffered her insults. Insults that became more creative as the day progressed. When she failed to find an insult in English, she looked to her native tongue to fill the gaps. She’d called him everything from an ass to a zampogna moscia. The latter he mulled over. She either told him he had a limp cock or limp bagpipes. He guessed the former. Either way, she was cooling.

  He wouldn’t push her. As much as he wanted to beg her forgiveness and spend the night making love to her, he suspected he might spend days earning back her trust.

  Chapter 18

  Where is he?

  Viviana sank onto the edge of the unmade bed holding the tablet in her lap and waited impatiently for Taveon to collect her. She’d already brushed her hair twice, fashioning it up then down, worrying foolishly over her appearance.

  Their schedule had not altered a single day throughout their travels across France. Her husband brought her food shortly after the cock crowed to break her fast, rearranged her garments,
and then they set out for another day of riding and learning. She and Remi had progressed quickly as her husband proved to be a patient and capable teacher. She wanted to please him, to prove her worth and make him proud to call her wife, yet his accusing words still hurt and caused her to hang on to her forked tongue.

  Viviana opened the wooden cover of the tablet and ran her fingers over the letters carved in the wax. ‘Sleep well, Venus.’ The last words Taveon had written before he gently kissed her knuckles and left her to sleep alone. She admitted only to herself she felt a tinge of upset every time the door clicked shut. The fear of abandonment, of unfamiliarity, was never far from her mind, and this morn those age-old feelings had her fretting.

  Unable to sit still a moment longer, she found her way to the window and pushed open the shutters. Birds cawed and a salty scent filled her senses. This day was warm and active. Very active. Below, horse hooves clomped across cobbled stones and patrons bustled about their day. The fact she had no idea where they were only troubled her further. She hated not knowing her surroundings.

  Her stomach gurgled. The time had to be near noontide. Taveon had come at dawn every morn for over a sennight, so where was he?

  Worry caused her to panic. She chewed on her bottom lip as a gentle breeze cooled the tears forming in her eyes.

  Mayhap he wasn’t coming back. Mayhap she’d insulted him one too many times and he left her. The same as her mother had left her and Fioretta at Spedale degli Innocenti. She suddenly felt like that scared little girl Fioretta left beneath the pew at Santa Reparata.

  Her eyes pinched tight, setting an uncontrollable rush of tears over her cheeks. The patterned motif on the floor of the Duomo exploded in her mind’s eye. Her pulse quickened as the fear she’d felt that long ago day attacked her.

  The sounds of panic echoed in her head, and then Fioretta was suddenly at her side, her hand outstretched.

  A man pushed past Viviana, knocking her to the ground.

  Fioretta screamed as the crowd separated them. Hide, Vivi, hide!

  Perspiration broke out over Viviana’s skin as her heart beat a wild tattoo against her ribs. Inside her head, she was that little girl reaching out to Fioretta. “Come back for me,” she whispered.

  A knock at the door made her jump.

  “Viviana?”

  She spun, her worthless eyes wide. She pressed her back against the window sill and held the tablet tight against her breast, as if it were a shield to guard her person.

  “What is amiss?” Taveon’s concerned voice eased through her as he crossed the chamber. He brushed the tears from her cheeks, bringing forth an image of herself. She looked pale, terrified. Her watery purple eyes stared back at her, and her red lips quivered on the verge of releasing a sob. The colors had slowly returned over the past several days, making her treasure every moment Taveon touched her.

  He pulled her into his strong arms and stroked her unbound hair. “Shite, Viviana! Ye are trembling. What has happened?”

  “It is naught.” She inhaled a shaky breath of relief. Her behavior was foolish. Of course he came back. While he might leave her, he would never leave the amulet.

  “‘Tis something. Ye are crying.” He kissed the top of her head.

  “The hour is past dawn. Ye always fetch me at dawn.” She felt like a child. Her fingers unraveled from her hold on the tablet and clutched the seam of his doublet, pulling him a little closer. She could stay in his embrace forever, smelling his masculine scent and feeling safe in his arms.

  “Ye thought I left ye?” The tension fell away from his body with a loud exhale. “Ye are my wife. When will ye ever trust me?”

  She wanted to trust him, wanted to believe he would never abandon her the way so many others had. “Forgive my foolishness. My fears are unwarranted.”

  “Ye have conquered Goliath. What could ye possibly fear?” He tried to soothe her with his wit.

  She smiled, but she was not so strong. “I fear being alone. I fear the memories that make me weak in my darkness.”

  “Ye are not alone.” He caressed her back. “Tell me what makes you so fearful. Is it me?”

  She shook her head against his chest. While misplaced, she’d witnessed his fury. It was worse than any fit Luciano had ever thrown. Still, Taveon had not struck her.

  He set her back and kissed her eyelids, then eased the tablet out of her rigid fingers. He closed his eyes and pulled her hand toward his face. “Trust me with something, Viviana.”

  She touched his smooth cheek, forming an image of his face beneath her fingertips. Oh, what she would give to possess his strength, his courage.

  “Please, let me back in.”

  “I cannot.” Tears burned her eyes. She blinked and felt the cool stream over her cheeks. “I’ve never talked about it with anyone. It is forbidden in Firenze.”

  “We are no longer in Firenze,” he whispered against her palm. “Tell me.”

  The memories were there. They were always there, and she wanted nothing more than to be free of them. Suddenly the words slipped from her mouth, unheeded. “It happened a long time ago.” She turned in his arms toward the open window, pulling his hand around her waist. His other hand followed suit, circling her inside a protective wall. His eyes opened and gifted her with the image of a cloudless sky. A pale blue, much like the last sky she’d ever seen.

  “It was the end of Eastertide, the week before the Feast of the Ascension. The bells rang out from Giotto’s bell tower, calling the citizens of Firenze to celebrate High Mass at Santa Reparata. I was thirteen summers and eager to see the newest cardinal as were all the courtiers.” Viviana let out a small laugh and stroked Taveon’s hand with the pad of her thumb. “I was so naïve to believe the visiting priests were there to spread God’s word.” She remembered the smell of myrrh and the colored lights filtering in through the stained glass speckling the attendance in rainbows.

  “Cardinal Riario sat at the High Altar cloaked in robes of scarlet. Members of the Pazzi family, long-time enemies of the Medici, were in attendance as were Messer Lorenzo and his younger brother, Giuliano. It was quite an event as the two brothers were rarely seen together in public.”

  “An effort to protect themselves from assassination?” Taveon guessed.

  Viviana nodded and pictured Lorenzo and his brother at the head of the church—both dark haired with sharp features, garbed in gold finery and surrounded unknowingly by their enemies.

  Taveon squeezed her hand. “Go on.”

  “Fioretta and I were only a dozen pews behind the honored Medici family as my sister had gained us a position within the regime.”

  “Because Fioretta was married to Lorenzo’s brother?”

  Shame warmed her face. “No. They were not wed. Not long after Sister De Rosa left Spedale degli Innocenti, a Benedictine monk collected us from the orphanage and delivered us to Lorenzo’s estates in Cafaggiolo. We were servants to the Medici and Fioretta was no more than Giuliani’s whore.”

  Taveon tensed at her use of the word. The same word he’d called her. The same word all of Firenze had called Fioretta when she became round with Giuliani’s child.

  “What happened?”

  A tinkling bell chimed in Viviana’s head. The hair at her nape stood on end. “The mass proceeded as usual until Cardinal Riario lifted the Host beneath the stone arches. As the crowd grew reverent, the assassins drew their blades. Two members of the Pazzi attacked Giuliani while two of God’s chosen men attacked Lorenzo.”

  “Priests?”

  Viviana nodded and bowed her head. She could hear the women screaming, the children crying. She cupped her ears as the scene unraveled in her mind’s eye with as much clarity as it had eight years past. Blood painted the High Altar in droplets of crimson as the assassin plunged his blade into Giuliani’s chest.

  She jerked and turned in Taveon’s arms.

  “Shh.” He kissed the crown of her head, consoling her.

  “They killed him. They stabbed Lorenzo’s bro
ther over and over even after he’d fallen to the floor. Nineteen times. Nineteen times.” She shook, wanting him to save her from her memory.

  “But Lorenzo survived.”

  “He was able to fight off his assailants and get to safety, by then the Duomo had erupted into chaos. Some fool even announced that the dome was collapsing. I couldn’t move. I was paralyzed, staring at Giuliani’s body, covered in a mass of wounds and blood. In the rush, I was pushed to the floor and separated from Fioretta as she was whisked away in the crowd.”

  Hide, Vivi, hide! Tears poured from Viviana’s eyes and soaked Taveon’s tunic.

  “‘Tis over, Venus.”

  But it wasn’t over. It would never be over. She hiccupped, and drew a shaky breath. “I should have hidden. I should have listened to Fioretta and mayhap he wouldn’t have found me.”

  “Finish and we will never speak of it again.”

  Viviana pressed her forehead into his breastbone, wishing if she told the tale it would all go away and never haunt her again. “Santa Reparata fell silent, save for Cardinal Riario’s weeping at the High Altar. I crawled beneath the pew and poked my head into the isle in time to see the assassin rushing toward me. He grabbed me and used me as a means to escape the only two canons guarding the entrance.”

  I’ll kill her. The man had threatened and held her off the floor, his lethal fingers digging into her neck, choking her.

  Viviana clutched Taveon’s doublet with the same grip she’d held on the bastard who’d dragged her out of the Duomo by her throat. “The assassin threw me to the ground when I no longer served a purpose.”

  “Oh, sweetling.” Taveon crushed her to his chest where his heart pounded against her ear.

  “No one came back for me,” she cried, wanting to deny the feelings that made her so vulnerable. Never had she spoken about the event to anyone. For eight years she’d kept her grief buried deep inside her. While a country lost one of its great leaders that day, she, too, had suffered loss, but there had been no one to comfort her until now. Cold seeped through her and uncontrollable tremors took hold of her body.