My Cursed Highlander (37 page)

Task complete, Meghan pulled the heavy quilts over Marea's sleeping form and stepped over the single chain binding her to the stone wall. Meghan gave the rag a final squeeze, draped it over the basin's edge atop a cuttie stool, and with great haste fled from the chamber. She twisted her hands inside her worn skirts and bowed her head which sent a wild red curl to fall over her downcast eyes. "Have ye need for aught else, m'laird?"

Taveon might have snorted at her had the setting been different. Instead, he ignored her dutifulness and barred the door with a heavy block of oak. Meghan's aloof demeanor proved she still held him responsible for Marea's beating. He supposed it was easier to believe he had caused the lashes on Marea's back than the tale of an evil spirit living inside the woman's body. Nonetheless, it was the truth, and he would leave Remi with the task of proving his innocence. The last thing he needed was for his wife to believe him capable of such cruelty.

He drew a deep breath and looked at Remi since Meghan wouldn't meet his eyes. "Should my wife awaken before I return from Devenickshire, I charge ye with the task of keeping her mind occupied so she does not endanger herself. Dinnae let her near Marea. In fact, guard this door and dinnae open it until I return."

"Aye, m'laird," Remi accepted the responsibility as did Meghan. She bobbed her head and dipped a quick curtsy then waited for Taveon to leave.

Moments later, he stepped out of the keep into a night cloaked in darkness. He didn't want to leave Ravenhurst or Viviana. He'd grown used to having her with him morning, noon, and night. He'd vowed not to abandon her and felt as if that's exactly what he was doing by leaving her unguarded. It was his duty as her husband to protect her. At the very least, he should go to her and tell her what they'd learned, but he remained confident he could go to Devenickshire and be back before she awoken.

He battled his conscious as he followed the worn path toward the stable unable to shake the feeling of being watched. He searched the shadows for movement, but there was no one there. No one he could see, but still the eerie feeling remained.

He glanced toward the burial ground. Were
they
there? Did they stay there? Had Elise bound them to their graves? Or did the spirits of his ancestors travel about freely? What were the rules?

"Ouish." His questions were foolish. He was weary. His imagination toyed with him, kept him from thinking rationally. Still, he gripped the hilt of the sword hanging from his hip, seeking comfort in the cold steel's solidity.

He entered the stable shaking like he'd just stepped from the loch in the dead of winter, yet his skin was damp with sweat. A horse neighed, then snorted. The wisp of a swooshing tail added to the crunch of sweat-smelling hay beneath his footfalls as he turned down the aisle. No stable boy greeted him as the hour was late, which is why the dim yellow glow of a candle box struck him peculiar. He stepped into the opening of the farthest stall and found Keegan facing the opposite direction, one hand braced against the wooden wall, one hand loosely holding a dirk.

He tried to conceive a logical reason why his brother would be holding a blade, but the only reasons he could contrive were ones he didn't want to accept. He refused to give pause to the scenario without a confrontation, regardless of what his eyes might be telling him. "Keegan?"

He didn't answer, but his shoulders sank impossibly lower.

Eyes fixed on the blade, Taveon took a cautious step toward his brother. "'Tis late. Why are ye not abed with your wife?"

Keegan's head shook, his shoulders bounced as if in silent laughter, but Taveon knew otherwise. The man before him who mirrored his appearance, who possessed the brawn of ten warriors on the battlefield was weeping. The last remnant of hope gone. Somehow Taveon felt his pain. Somehow knew how it was eating his insides and torturing his mind. Taveon closed the space between them and set his hand atop Keegan's shoulder.

"I'm not as brave as Da," Keegan's voice cracked, his fists tightened.

"Da was a coward."

"He lived for ten years after Mum died. Not I, brother. I cannae live with this pain. 'Tis unbearable."

With his teeth grinding together, Taveon shook his head. Anger replaced sympathy. "Damn-it-to-hell, Keegan! How dare ye think of taking your own life. What of your child?"

Keegan pivoted. Harsh shadows lined his strong face, but the glow of the candle box highlighted the tears wetting his cheeks. "I cannae watch her die."

"Cora-Rose is not going to die." Taveon's words stuck in his throat like a lie. He nearly choked on them and felt deceitful for having said them with such strength.

The blade fell from Keegan's hand just as he collapsed against Taveon's chest. "I cannae watch her die," he repeated and sobbed against Taveon's shoulder. He possessed no pride, no dignity as he clung to Taveon's plaid and spent his tears, tears that would no doubt worm their way into his sanity, steal his hope, his dreams, his courage.

Taveon embraced him, wanting to shush him, to coddle him as he did Makayla when she lost a pet. "All will be better on the morrow," he spoke the familiar phrase, but knew the words were meaningless, used to instill a false sense of hope. Keegan would not be so easily fooled. He needed a task.

Taveon set his brother back by his shoulders and met his glassy gaze. "All is not lost yet, brother. I'm going to Devenickshire to fetch Father Cambry from St. Machar. Go with me. 'Twill keep your mind at work."

"Why?" Keegan's head cocked, he scrubbed his face with the backs of his hands. "What has happened that we are needing a priest?"

Taveon inhaled deeply and led Keegan out of the empty stall, thankful he'd regained his wits enough to assess the situation. 'Twas no point in hiding any truths from him. "The soothsayer—Marea—is possessed by the woman who cursed our clan. 'Tis my intent to solicit the vicar's help to drive the bitch out."

Keegan snorted. His eyes rolled even as he retrieved a harness from the stable wall. Of course his initial reaction was one of denial, but as they prepared their mounts for travel Taveon explained the events that had occurred in the dungeon.

"Jesu! S'truth?" Keegan asked, but Taveon could tell his brother already believed. They'd been born into a cursed clan, been raised to protect themselves from it. Keegan had married a woman with the gift of foresight. 'Twas not inconceivable to believe that the woman imprisoned in the east tower was possessed by an evil spirit.

"On our da's grave," Taveon offered in conclusion, and it was all Keegan needed to accept Taveon's words as truth.

Keegan's spine grew a little taller as they argued mindlessly over the quickest route to St. Machar. "We will travel through Devenickshire, not around it."

"If we take that route, we will have to cross MacSgain soil," Taveon pointed out, but relished the prospect of having a plan.

Keegan mounted, his warrior's presence back in place. His chest was full, his chin angled at an imposing slant, and his green eyes bespoke of newfound hope. "I dare any man to test me this night. I fear naught."

And I fear everything,
Taveon admitted silently as he spurred his mount forward into a black night. He feared the curse would triumph, that all would be lost to him including Makayla. And he feared the state of Keegan's mind should they fail. Regret spiraled through his limbs. He should have heeded Marea's words. He never should have brought Viviana into a world so full of misery.

"Ye know as weel as I no man of God will step foot on Kraig soil willingly." Keegan pointed out as they directed their steeds through the aisle of tall oaks. "'Twill be difficult to convince Father Cambry to accompany us."

"Then we will bind him to the horse and force him here. Willing or not."

Chapter 27

Viviana lie awake staring into the darkness not knowing if she'd drifted into sleep for mere minutes or hours. She flipped and flopped beneath a mound of blankets, searching for warmth, only to get tangled inside her undertunic. A fire burned in the hearth. She could hear its crackle, could smell the burnt embers drying her nose. Still, she couldn't escape the cold. It seemed to be a force of its own, wrapping icy fingers around her person.

Mindlessly, she reached for Miocchi, seeking his warmth, but her pet had followed Makayla to bed, and Viviana had let him go, hoping he might ease the tension between them. Taveon's daughter hadn't spoke to Viviana since they'd returned from Sister De Rosa's cottage with the devastating news. In fact, everyone seemed to distance themselves from her. She and Cora-Rose had sat alone in silence at the head table for the evening meal—two women sacrificing their lives to provide the clan with heirs. Their very presence caused upset. The hall had been filled with kinsfolk, yet no one spoke above a whisper.

Was she being shunned because they knew about the babe growing inside her? Or because she'd stolen their hope when she'd named their soothsayer a false prophet?

Dread wrapped around Ravenhurst, instilling despair in all those who lived within, and never had she felt more alone than she did this night in Taveon's bed. She missed him—his warmth, his touch, his kiss—his absence was the cold she felt to the very center of her core.

He'd been occupied the whole of the day. Only once did he surface from the dungeon where they'd taken Sister De Rosa, but his intentions were duty-bound. He questioned her about her about her relationship with Sister De Rosa, but she'd already told him everything. The woman had cared for her and Fioretta. She'd loved them and educated them, then abandoned them.

Memories of Sister De Rosa had troubled her both in and out of sleep. Part of her felt the need to protect the woman against Taveon's wrath, yet another part felt betrayed by her lies. Lily was proof that the rumors were true. Sister De Rosa had broken her vows to God to live in sin with a monk.

Viviana recalled the one incident that remained in full color in her mind. The girl Sister De Rosa had beaten for dying a vestment red instead of purple had been Viviana's childhood friend, Elena. The same girl Viviana had begrudged for accusing Fioretta of stealing a bauble from Sister De Rosa. Viviana now wondered if that bauble had been the amulet and if Fioretta did actually steal it. Viviana studied the events in her mind, trying to piece together the timing. Not long after Sister De Rosa left
Spedale degli Innocenti
did she and Fioretta accompany the Benedictine monk to Lorenzo's estates in Cafaggiolo. Was that same monk Sister De Rosa's lover?

Viviana mulled over how they were all connected, but every memory ended in a question.

The chamber door scraped open, giving Viviana a start until Taveon's robust scent of pine and mist filled her senses. She wanted to jump from the bed and run to him, but quelled the childish urge and simply waited.

The clank of discarded weaponry prefaced a rustle of garments, then she followed his footfalls to the right side of the bed. His heavy breathing hovered over her. Her heart fluttered waiting for him to speak.

"I did not beat her," he stated bluntly. "I could not, knowing what she meant to ye."

Though his tone conveyed failure, Viviana felt relieved. "Thank you," she said simply, knowing he wouldn't come to her bed without her acceptance. She wanted to ask questions, to learn what he'd discovered, but first she needed Taveon to know she supported him. She raised the coverlet.

He accepted the unspoken invitation without hesitation and crawled atop her, supporting his weight on his elbows. "Ye are on my side of the bed."

Her smile came with hesitance. She guessed his words were naught more than an attempt to hide what he wasn't saying. "I was unaware we had separate sides." She curled her arms around his sinewy back and damned the thin layer of material depriving her of his heat.

He buried his bristled cheek into the crook of her neck. "I missed ye." Sadness, tension, worry spilled from his body, from his words, and Viviana wanted to weep for him, knowing his pride would prevent him from admitting the day had defeated him.

She entwined her legs with his. This was where she was supposed to be, holding this giant man and offering him strength. It felt right.
He
felt right. "You are weary?"

"Aye. That I am, and ye are cold." His calloused palm traveled up the length of her thigh, pushing her undertunic over her hips so he could warm her backside with his hot hand. His manhood grew hard against her pelvis.

Glorious heat flashed through her body. "You should sleep."

"I will." He kissed her earlobe, her neck, her collarbone, then hesitated. His body stiffened as he searched for the chain that was not around her neck. "Where is the amulet?"

His concern for the talisman was certainly warranted. Still, she felt a tinge of hurt. "It was burning my skin. I took it off and hid it."

"Where?"

"Beneath the mattress."

His exhale warmed her neck. Worry forgotten, he bent and circled her breast with his nose. "'Tis a terrible hiding place." He kissed her nipple through her undertunic and drew her leg up high to his hip.