My Cursed Highlander Read online

  “Brodie, Nate, Gordy, and the wee snap we call Jack,” Remi supplied.

  “You have four sons?” Viviana suddenly felt inept.

  “Filthy hedge-pigs, every one o’ them,” Laird Kraig added from outside.

  Remi chuckled. “S’truth. Jack is the only one who comes to the Great Hall with white palms, and ‘tis only because my Meghan can still catch him.”

  Viviana forced a smile, not wanting Remi to see how his words pained her. She once wanted babes, but neither Radolfo nor Luciano did. It was for the best neither of them procreated. “Your children sound wonderful.”

  Remi snorted. “‘Tisnae a word I would associate with the laddies, but I suspect my Meghan might agree.”

  “Are there many others in your clan?” Viviana asked, curious about the place she would soon call home.

  “Clan Kraig is small compared to most. Sixty or more reside at Ravenhurst and mayhap another hundred live in cot-houses within the bailey wall. Then there are twenty or so landlords and tenant farmers who live outside the stronghold with their families.”

  Viviana thought those numbers high. Not nearly so many resided at the Medici Palace. Aside from Lorenzo’s immediate family and the servants, the remainder of those who frequented the palace were guests—artists and poets who didn’t often stay long. She doubted the people living at Ravenhurst spent their days painting frescoes or sanding marble. “What do they all do?”

  “Most days the kinsfolk prepare for winter; cutting wood, drying meat, harvesting and such. When we are not doing that, we prepare for battle. Laird Kraig trains our warriors, while his brother, Keegan, tends to the landlords and maintains affairs with our King James. Of course there many others; the fletcher, the smith, the cordwainer, the hunters…”

  “And the women? Have they duties as well?”

  “Oh, aye. As I said, my Meghan is the weaver. Cora-Rose is a healer and manages the staff at the keep. Sela, the clothier,” Remi leaned into her ear, “is the lassie Monroe is sweet on, but dinnae tell him I told ye. Then there are the cooks, the laundress, the apothecy.” Remi continued adding names to occupations while he separated the wool into a pile of loose threads that filled Viviana’s lap.

  It seemed everyone had a responsibility at Ravenhurst.

  While Sister De Rosa had provided Viviana with a suitable education at Spedale degli Innocenti, Viviana could no longer read, nor was she good with accounts. Radolfo and Luciano always managed the finances and the servants.

  Viviana twisted the threads into knots, worrying over her place at Ravenhurst. She and Fioretta died vestments in the laundry, but that was hardly a skill. Sister De Rosa had taken Viviana to San Marco monastery once a week when she was young to help the garzoni prepare the walls with plaster, but she was certain there were few frescoes, if any, to be painted at Ravenhurst. None of these skills would gain her favor among Laird Kraig’s kin. “I doubt you need a sculptor among your people. Are there certain duties expected of me?”

  “Your duty is to provide the clan with an heir,” Remi offered, the hint of sadness weighing his voice down.

  Viviana’s hand stilled on the wool. The kinsfolk expected the wife of their chieftain to provide him an heir even though she would die fulfilling that obligation. It was as if she were a sacrifice.

  “M’lady is barren,” Laird Kraig stated bluntly outside the carriage.

  “S’truth?” Remi’s surprise was evident in the stiffness of his body, but his tone was akin to relief.

  Heat crawled up Viviana’s neck and spread over her face. She wanted to spout back words just as hurtful, but feared she would only humiliate herself with the effort.

  “S’truth,” Laird Kraig answered for her, the same as Radolfo always did at court.

  “Ye gods, m’lady. ‘Tis good news. Ye are protected against Elise’s curse. Ye willnae be shunned by the kinsfolk.”

  “Shunned?”

  “The kin take the curse verra seriously, especially the elders. They would have guarded themselves from becoming fond of ye.”

  The pressure between her back teeth made her jaw ache. What breed of people shunned a woman because death darkened her door? “Is that why Monroe does not speak to me? Should I expect to be treated in like by the rest of your kin when we reach your homelands?”

  Remi patted her hand, obviously sensing her hostility. “Monroe keeps to himself. He is badly scarred and most find it difficult to hold a conversation with him. Plus, he is a big mon. Bigger than the laird. He is quite feared among the kinsfolk.”

  She knew Laird Kraig scrutinized their every word. That fact didn’t prevent her from sharing her opinion. “Your people are shallow minded if they do not converse with their own kin because of his looks and hold no compassion for a woman who is cursed to die. I suspect Cora-Rose is shunned because she fulfilled her duty to provide Clan Kraig with the very heir that has sealed her fate.”

  Silence was her answer. Repulsed by their backward thinking, Viviana shook her head and felt a strong desire to form a sisterhood with Cora-Rose. “I wonder what manner of man would betroth his daughter to a son of Clan Kraig. Cora-Rose’s father must have hated her.”

  “Nay. Quite the opposite really. Cora-Rose is a MacKaskill, the daughter of our neighboring clan’s chieftain. She was scheduled to be whipped and drowned by decree of our good King James for heresy.”

  Viviana gasped. “Cora-Rose is a witch?”

  “She possesses the kenning, the gift of foresight. Those who accused her of black magic were elders and High Priests of the Kirk—leaders in the church,” Remi explained. “These men held the ear of King James and presented Laird MacKaskill with a signed affidavit for Cora-Rose’s execution nigh two years ago. Laird MacKaskill came to the leaders of our clan in desperation. He offered an alliance in exchange for his daughter’s hand in marriage.”

  “M’laird,” she directed her question out the window, “why did you not marry Cora-Rose?”

  “Keegan wanted her.”

  “Your brother saved her from execution?” Viviana thought the situation oddly romantic.

  “Aye, he did,” Remi provided when Laird Kraig didn’t respond. “Clan Kraig needed the alliance and Cora-Rose needed refuge. Since no mon of God has stepped foot on Kraig soil in over a century, Cora-Rose was safe. We had hoped she might put an end to the curse with her gift. Instead, she has become a victim of the curse itself and once again, death awaits her.”

  “Like Elise.” Viviana pointed out, but none responded. These men were as superstitious as Lorenzo. If they believed so strongly in their curse, why did they continue to marry? She leaned closer to the window. “In a hundred years, did your forefathers ever once consider the easiest way to break the curse might be to quit procreating?”

  “‘Tis easier said than done, sweetling.” The arrogance in his words sparked her fury like a flame to dry brush.

  “Castration, I’m told, is a simple procedure.”

  Her comment gained her three sharp intakes of air—one from beside her, one from out her window, and one from the driving seat of the carriage.

  “Fortunate for me, I can keep my bollocks intact and enjoy the splendor of our marriage bed without fear of tainting your womb with my cursed seed.”

  It was her turn to gasp. How dare he? Laird Kraig’s openness about such intimacies further infuriated her. “Mayhap I will take a blade to our marriage bed. What think ye to that?” Viviana laced her words with their Scottish burr in an attempt to mock him.

  “Ye are a brave woman to threaten me. I suspect I will have to tie ye to the bed to prevent ye from maiming my person.”

  Viviana eyes widened. Her fingers strangled the threads in her lap. It didn’t help that Remi found a great deal of humor in the path their conversation had taken. The man nigh choked on his laughter.

  “‘Tis good your Lorenzo forced m’laird to the altar, even though he did take quite a beating. The women are going to like ye.”

  “Shite, Remi!” Laird Kraig bellowe
d.

  The carriage jerked. “Christalmighty,” Monroe added then cracked the reins to set the carriage forward again.

  “Forced?” Viviana didn’t think her pulse could beat any faster. White stars flickered in her darkness while a knot formed in her throat. “Who beat him?”

  She felt Remi hesitate and shift on the seat.

  “Answer me,” she snapped.

  “The Medici warriors.”

  Lorenzo forced Laird Kraig to the altar? That’s why he married her? Not because he felt any sort of attraction toward her, but because he’d been threatened to do so.

  “Get out of the carriage, Remi.” Laird Kraig’s voice took on an authoritative tone.

  Viviana held on to her tears while Remi leaned over her to peek out the window. Laird Kraig, no doubt gave the man a menacing look for the merriment fell away from his person liked a stone in water.

  “Forgive me, m’lady. Oftentimes I speak without thought.” Remi set the hook and threads in her lap then slunk out of the carriage.

  “You lied to me,” Viviana said to Laird Kraig with guarded emotions.

  “I saw no point in hurting ye further.”

  Viviana jerked the curtains over the window. She didn’t want Laird Kraig to see her, nor did she want his pity or his excuses.

  “Damn-it-to-Hell!” He kicked his steed into a gallop, leaving her alone with her tormented heart.

  Chapter 10

  Hiccup.

  “Remi, would you be so kind as to summon one of those serving maids? My goblet appears to be empty again.” Viviana’s loud request gained them a few stares from the patrons at the inn. Her volume had increased a decibel with every goblet of mead the woman poured down her gullet.

  Seeking his permission, Remi glanced at Taveon from across a trestle table laden with food. Taveon missed his friend’s jovial sense of humor and regretted the harsh words that had passed between them.

  “Remi?” Viviana flipped her empty goblet upside-down. A single droplet of golden-brown mead dripped onto the tabletop.

  Hiccup.

  Bickering with the woman would only gain them unwanted attention, but his wife was getting blootered. He rubbed the back of his neck and gave Remi a quick nod.

  “Aye, m’lady.” Remi pushed his way between two drunkards involved in a fisty-cuffs to reach a tavern wench.

  This rancid smelling place was not where he wanted to be, but Turin was prime for trade, and they needed to rid themselves of the carriage before they entered the mountains. Taveon had every intention of discussing the matter with his wife, but never managed to breach the subject. In fact, he hadn’t managed to breach a single subject with her in the three days it took them to cross the Kingdom of Lombardy.

  Remi’s blunder only aggravated her sullen mood, and Taveon’s patience for her temper was wearing thin. This night would be the first time they shared a bed, and he rather hoped her feelings toward him might be a wee bit less vile. He sensed her unease the moment Monroe went to secure quarters. He suspected ‘twas the reason Viviana decided to pickle herself in the mead.

  “Mayhap ye should try the quail and those little potages.” Taveon pushed her trencher closer to her, bumping her elbows off the table.

  Her head snapped toward him, wrapping a web of black hair around her face. She swiped the loose tendrils away and swayed slightly atop the trestle bench. “Are you telling me I cannot enjoy a bit of drink afore I eat my meal?”

  “Not at all, m’lady.” Mayhap he should let her wallow in the mead. The drink did seem to smooth the harsh scowl permanently fixed to her face.

  “Good. I’ve had a taxing day and think I might drown myself in the cups.” Her words sounded rehearsed, not at all her own.

  “Have ye ever drowned yourself in the cups?”

  “Hiccup. No. Luciano always used this phrase, and the spirits seemed to calm him.”

  “So your first husband was a philanderer who starved ye to death, and your second husband was a sot.”

  “Sì. And Radolfo was a gem compared to Luciano. Hiccup.” She sat back and crossed her arms over breasts rounding out of her garnet-colored gown. “And now I find myself married to Goliath; King of the Barbarians.”

  Bitter woman. Taveon blew a hot breath of impatience. “Ye would do us both a justice if you would quit comparing me to your first two husbands.”

  She replied in the form of a snort.

  He glanced over his shoulder and found a pair of soused locals watching them. With wide grins, they raised their mugs as if to congratulate him for his good fortune. The man with stringy black hair coughed into a soiled cloth for long moments before he was able to raise his mug to his lips. Mayhap Viviana would rather take one of them to husband.

  Taveon smiled at the lunger and his friend to be genial then swiveled back toward Viviana.

  Remi returned and set a full pewter mug in front of her. “I fear the barrel has run dry, m’lady. The barkeep has assured me this is the last drop of mead in the tavern.”

  “Pish! Did you concoct that lie on your own, or did Goliath slip it to you when I wasn’t looking?”

  Remi’s blinking eyes settled on the floor. “‘Twas my lie, m’lady. Forgive me.”

  She lifted the mug and spilled a generous portion down her gapping bodice in an effort to get the mead to her mouth. “Mannaggia.” She pressed her gown against her breasts, then emptied the contents in one draw.

  The woman actually belched and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. And she accused him of being barbaric.

  Remi shrugged the same time Monroe appeared tableside. “Third floor, second door on the left. The meal has been paid for as well as the lodging.” He tossed a key to Taveon.

  “Sounds like you will be enjoying the splendor of your marriage bed before the proffered ten days have expired,” she hissed, her purple eyes nigh glowing with animosity.

  Taveon slapped his hand over half his face. “Ouish.” If God were not watching, he would strangle the woman.

  “Remi and I will stay in the stable with Miocchi and guard the carriage until dawn.” Monroe ignored their antics. “The innkeeper said there is a smithie eastside who works on trade.”

  “Have him shoe the horses this eve, and I’ll meet ye there at first light on the morrow. Thank ye both.”

  Monroe clapped him on the shoulder and glanced at Viviana whose eyelids were now aflutter. “Much luck to ye, m’laird.” He and Remi worked their way out of the tavern, leaving him in the company of his ill-tempered wife. The morrow had to be better.

  Long moments of silence passed before Viviana shoved the trencher of food to the middle of the table and inched her way off the edge of the trestle bench. “I seem to have lost my appetite.” She stood and held out a hand. “Will you escort me to our chamber or shall I find my own way?”

  Taveon took her hand and guided her through a throng of foul-smelling drunkards to a back stairwell. She tripped on her skirt and fell to her knees.

  “Damn-it-to-Hell!” He scooped her up, limbs flapping, and climbed two flights of steps before he found the cistern. He dropped her legs, but held tight to the back of her gown. “Would ye like to wash before we retire?”

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she staggered into the privy chamber.

  He hadn’t bedded a woman in months. Anticipation should have him raging hard, but the emotions swirling in his gut didn’t resemble lust so much as regret. Mayhap he should have left her in Firenze to spend the rest of her days wallowing in self pity.

  The labors of their journey thus far had his muscles aching and the worst of their travels still awaited them. The woman’s tits were liable to freeze in the mountains as she didn’t own a single garment suitable for such rigorous weather. Having rummaged through her belongings, he was certain she’d never ventured out of Italy.

  Mayhap her hatred would keep her warm.

  The door opened with a swoosh, surging his nose with the arousing scent of soap and citrus. Torchlight glistened off raven hai
r damp at the temples, and the buttons of her bodice were crooked—three buttons at the top fell short of their counter button holes which left her looking slightly disheveled.

  Taveon swallowed. The blood stirred in his groin.

  Mayhap he should take advantage of her intoxication and pleasure the woman until her body rippled. An orgasm or two might remedy her animosity.

  “Do let me know when you’re finished ogling me, so we might proceed to our bedchamber.”

  “Ouish, woman!” Taveon took her hand and escorted her through an arched doorway into a less than appealing chamber. He studied the furnishings so Viviana could acquaint herself with the layout. A four poster bed took up the majority of the room with a nightstand on either side. A triangle chair with a broken leg propped against a wall beneath a closed window and a single wall scone burned beside a cloth covered screen he could only assume hid a chamber pot.

  “Primitive, but I suppose it is better than the stable.” Viviana released his hand and sashayed to the right side of the bed—his side of the bed—but he wouldn’t waste his breath on that argument.

  He set his back to her and unsheathed his weapons, then disrobed to his chausses. Bending on one knee, he leisurely worked the laces of his worn boots and prayed when he turned around, she would be lost to the drink and tucked beneath the blankets.

  But she was not.

  He swiveled around in time to watch her pull her tunic over her head and toss it into the corner.

  Sweet Venus! The golden flame of the torch flickered off her creamy skin. An ample backside curved into a small waist then flared back out to her shoulders. He nearly lost his balance when she turned toward him.

  His gaze immediately fixed on the triangle of dark curls beneath her navel. He felt as if he had five hearts beating inside him. His cock turned to a pulsing rod of iron that only grew in length when he set his sights on her breasts—full, firm breasts with soft rose-colored nipples just waiting to be licked.

  He stifled a moan and swallowed the saliva pooling over his tongue.