My Cursed Highlander (17 page)

He will not find me this time.
Viviana secured her footing and held tight to a sliver of stone beneath the jutting rock. Eyes closed, she breathed, she prayed. "Come back for me."

Chapter 13

Taveon raced through the woodland, torn between protecting his wife and protecting his men. The clash of steel and battle cries ripped through his ears the same as it had in Berwickshire. He'd lost a great many men in that war, and damned if he would lose the two finest friends a man could have to brigands.

He jumped over a fallen log, his feet landing with a jarring thud, then ducked beneath a low-hanging branch. The fire came into view, interrupted by the scurrying shadows of fighting men. Miocchi's persistent yelping only added to the cacophony of battle sounds.

His heart excelled in rhythm as he forged his way through the brambles. Stinging nettles tore through his chausses and bit into his calves. He broke free of the thicket where they'd tethered their horses. Hidden by a mass of horseflesh, he tucked two dirks at his waist and unsheathed his broadsword. Peeking around the stallion's neck, he took only a moment to size up his opponents.

Monroe held his own, battling four men like a giant in a Greek tragedy. Two men already lie unconscious on the ground; one holding his gut and bellowing in pain while the other man lay unmoving with his foot in the fire. Taveon recognized his face. He was the same man who been quick to offer him congratulations at the inn, the same man who'd conversed quietly with the innkeeper.

"Give us the Medici girl, and we'll leave you gents to your journey," a man commented just before Remi ran a dirk between the brigand's ribs.

Ye will have to kill me first.

Taveon spurred into action, now realizing these men had tracked them from Turin with intentions of abducting his wife. No doubt, they thought her an heir to the Medici fortune. His defenses tripled, his grip tightened around the hilt.

"Evil awaits you in the mountains."
The beggar woman's warning hummed between his ears.
"Your curse will steal away your woman."

Taveon shook his head in denial as he raised his broadsword and joined the battle with a roar of intent.

No man would steal away his Venus nor would the curse.

Two men came at him, swords drawn. Taveon blocked a downward thrust and stabbed one of his attackers in the gut while he wrapped his fingers around his dirk and punched the other brigand in the nose. Blood spurted at all angles, painting Taveon's tunic with scarlet splatter.

The biting smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils.

"Behind you!" Remi yelled.

Taveon spun as three more men came at him. He crouched and pivoted, swinging his dirk with deadly purpose, his skills far more superior to these peasant thieves. From the corner of his eye, Monroe opened a man's throat with a blade already soaked in crimson, and Remi danced circles around two more vagrants to the tune of Miocchi's barking. The beastie bared his teeth, and shook outside their ring of combat, as if awaiting the command that might spur him into action.

When the fighting reduced to gurgles and moans, Taveon braced the heels of his hands on his knees. Sharp air burned his lungs and sweat stung his eyes as he surveyed the parameter.

Remi slapped him on the back. "'Tis good they fight worse than the English. Best we leave before—"

A branch snapped.

Slowly, Taveon turned. The darkened edge of the thicket waved with black shadows; men on foot, men on horseback.

"Shite! There's at least another dozen in the woodland, mayhap more." Taveon swiped his brow and studied their opponents through the slits of his eyes.

"They want your lady wife," Remi supplied and cleaned the edge of his blade on a dead man's doublet. A man Taveon recognized as the smithie from Turin.

"Weel, they'll not be getting her, now will they?" Taveon kicked the dead man's leg out of the fire, no longer able to bear the acrid smell of burning flesh.

"Nay, m'laird," Monroe's lips peeled over his teeth, revealing a wicked grin. "They fight like laddies with wooden swords."

A flaming arrow swished between Taveon and Remi and stuck in the blood-soaked ground. Out of the shadows emerged a rider on a chestnut-colored mare. Taveon met eyes with the lunger who'd made merry with the wench in the barroom. Black hair hung around his pasty skin as he dipped his head in mock salute. Archers stepped to the forefront and cocked their crossbows.

"Guard yourselves, then we attack," Taveon commanded and crouched down, pulling a body from the ground to act as a shield against the flying bolts. Monroe and Remi followed suit, draping their backs with corpses.

While the arrows hissed through the air, Taveon prayed for Viviana's safety. In his mind's eye, he drew forth her image atop the flat rock; sprawled out beneath him, moonlight glistened over her creamy skin wet from his kisses. She'd been aroused to the point of mewling whimpers, and he'd been so close to setting her free. He'd broken through her resistance and known a taste of the passion they might share as husband and wife. No thief would take that from him, nor would Elise.

His eyes snapped open. He prepared himself mentally for warfare and threw the dead man off his back.

I'm coming, Venus.

* * *

Her eyelids slid shut. Viviana rest her forehead against the jagged rock, no longer able to feel her toes. The water's frigid cold numbed her body from the neck down. Her fingers felt like sticks of ice frozen in place on the ridge, and the increasing clatter of her teeth was the only noise saving her from the horrid sounds of battle in the distance.

Worry consumed her mind. Was her husband still alive? What of Remi, Monroe, and Miocchi? Her weariness set her imagination free to roam. Scenes of carnage filled the blackness inside her head. Taveon's strong body lay in a pool of blood unmoving.

No!
She shook off the vision.
He is not dead.

A horse's nicker sounded in her ears.

Her eyes fluttered open.

Taveon?

She waited, her breath held. Heavy footsteps crunched over leaves. Too heavy. Booted feet stomped atop the flat rock just above her head.

She bit her lower lip to keep from crying out. She wished with every morsel of her being the man above her was her husband, but part of her knew not to trust such whimsical fancies. She ground her teeth and inhaled a breath of mead and stale body odor. He was definitely not her husband.

A whizzing sound made an arc over her head then splattered in the water behind her. The smell of piss made her stomach roll.
Miscreant!
She pulled herself closer to the rock and controlled her breathing, knowing the slightest ring in the water would give her away.

"I know you be there,
Signora
Medici," the man bellowed, jarring her insides, but she remained perfectly still. "Your escorts be dead."

No! It was a lie. All men lied
.

"I ne'er seen men fight with such skill. Fortunate for us, we outnumbered them by thirty." The man fell into a coughing fit.

No!
Viviana pinched her eyes tight. A sob burned in her throat and pain clutched her heart like an iron claw.
Why do You continue to punish me?
She wanted to scream out her question to the Heavens and demand an answer from God.

Her fingers slipped on the rock. Heartbeats later, the wretch above her filled his hands with her hair and hauled her out of the water.

"
Uffa!
" She wrapped her fingers around his wrists to relieve the pressure burning her scalp. She struggled, banging her legs against the rock as he dragged her over the sharp edge. The pull at her waist came before she heard her gown tear, then all at once she was brought upright. Night's cool air stabbed her frozen skin like a thousand tiny knives. She swayed and stood on unstable legs.

Before she could gather a thought, he groped her like they were old lovers, squeezing her breasts, her hips, her backside. "The Medici be feedin' you well,
sì
?"

Ignoring his insult, she shoved at his hands. "Unhand me you filthy pig." Damned if she would let the bastard rape her without a struggle. She drew Alberto's instructions from her memory as she formed a fist, and then swung. She hit him in the neck.

Mannaggia!
He was a big man.

He coughed, giving her time to rear back her foot and kick him in the shins. He yielded little reaction to her petty attack, so she reached up, searching for his face, and squeezed his ears between the palms of her hands and dug the pads of her thumbs into his eye sockets. She'd learned a few tricks while married to Luciano.

"Ow! You bitch!"

Smack.

The bastard slapped her—hard. Harder than Luciano ever had. The sting thawed her icy skin as pain ripped through her cheek and pulsed in her jaw.

He grabbed hold of her bodice and flung her off the rock. Limbs flailing, she landed on her stomach, her face buried in the grass. The air rushed from her lungs. She rose up on her hands and knees tangled in the weight of her water-soaked gown and attempted to escape, but he was on her, straddling her back, mounting her like a horse.

"Mind your temper, princess, lest I be tempted to sell you back to the Medici tarnished."

Princess?
Somewhere in her mind, panic gripped her. She opened her mouth to scream, but his weight squelched her cry. With one arm awkwardly stretched behind her back, he flipped her over. She sucked in air. "I'm no princess."

"You traveled to Turin by litter in a carriage painted with the Medici crest. I be thinkin' you hold some status."

"No!" she screamed, but his hand crushed her mouth, muffling her plea. If Taveon and the others were dead, why would the bastard take care to keep her quiet? They were alive. They had to be.

She bucked and thrashed beneath him, the skirmish drawing forth memories of her marriage to Luciano. Her fingers curled around his scalp and ripped out clumps of hair while her teeth sank into his hand. The rusty taste of blood was bitter on her tongue and desperation overcame the emotion of fear.

"You be a hellion." He captured her hands in front of her and sat back on her stomach.

She kicked, for all the good it did her and cried out with what little air remained inside her.

The sharp tip of a knife poked her beneath her ear. "Shut yer hole."

She stilled, heart pounding.
Come back for me
, her mind cried out as hot tears fell over her temple.

Still, no one came.

She was alone and at the mercy of the Devil's own, the same as she'd been every night in the villa with Luciano.

"Yap, yap, yap..."

"Miocchi." she said in hoarse whisper. A glimmer of hope surged in her chest as the approaching sprint of her beloved pet grew closer. Within seconds Miocchi growled like a rabid beast beside them. Without conscious, Viviana settled beneath the man and turned toward Miocchi. "Kill."

The man's fist connected with the side of her head the same instance she gave the command. Excruciating pain surged through her temple just as Miocchi lunged atop them.

Her hands fell away to the ground in loose fists as the blackness behind her eyes took over her mind and delivered her into peaceful tranquility.

* * *

"Save yourselves. Go home to your bairns if ye have them." Taveon held his sword at a threatening angle and stared down the six remaining brigands, one of whom appeared to have wet himself.

Opposite the fire, Monroe matched Taveon's pose. Blood glinted over their blades and raised wide-eyed fear on each of the men's faces.

"Scat," Monroe hissed at them and sent the last of their opponents scurrying off into the woodland like frightened lizards.

"Molly-coddling cowards!" Remi yelled after them and held his hand over his waist. Blood seeped between the cracks of his fingers.

"Remi, you're—"

"'Tis a scratch," Remi assured him. "Where's the lunger?"

Taveon clutched his chest to ease the burning and searched the area. Bloodied corpses piled two deep at their feet, but their appointed leader did not lie among the masses. "Monroe, collect any weapons ye can find among the dead. Remi, put out the fire and ready the horses. I'm going back for Viviana, and then we're crossing the border."

"Into the mountain? Tonight?" Monroe asked in a tone that called him witless.

With his broadsword, Taveon pointed at the inane death surrounding them. "These men were townsfolk. Husbands, fathers, not warriors. They were men of craft—common plebs, hoping to fill their coffers on Lorenzo's sympathies. I've no doubt reivers run the border between Italy and France. Real fighting men who wield weapons as a way of life. While I do not fear these men, I will not subject Viviana to such dangers. The moon is full and will guide us. Tonight. Do I have your agreement?"

"Aye." Remi and Monroe said in unison, no doubt inspired by his speech, then separated.

Using his broadsword, Taveon hacked through the brambles until he reached the top of the knoll. "Viviana!" he bellowed, anxious to get moving.

No answer.