My Cursed Highlander (24 page)

"Ye are a liar," he bellowed. "Ye read the missive the same as I."

Viviana shook her head, devastated by his accusations. "M'laird, I cannot read."

His silence could never undo what he'd said. Nothing would ever be as it was.

"Viviana, I—"

"Get out." She pointed in the direction of the door, not wanting his apologies. "This ignorant, lying whore would like to sleep alone."

Chapter 17

"I had her. I had her affections. I had her trust." Unable to look his kinsmen in the eyes, Taveon blankly stared at the empty pewter mugs atop their table in the barroom. He felt more vile than a wart on a toad's scrotum. How would he ever regain her trust after what he'd said? He slouched and pounded his forehead atop the wooden surface.

"'Twill be better on the morrow. Right? 'Twas an error in judgment." Remi tried to console him. "A simple mistake."

He choked out a laugh and raised his head off the tabletop. "I called her a whore."

Remi winced, then hid behind his goblet.

After hearing what had transpired at Chillion Castle, Monroe, whose life he'd threatened only hours earlier, retrieved a pair of dice from inside his doublet. "Odds we continue our journey through France. Evens we go back to Montreux and kill the pig." He tossed the dice.

Seven.

All three men grunted in disappointment.

"'Tis for the best." Taveon clutched his aching skull. "Seeking vengeance will not gain me my wife's favor."

"She will forgive ye." Remi was so naive.

"Have ye met my wife? She is wee high," Taveon held his hand to his chest, "purple eyes, black hair, and a penchant for holding on to her temper."

Monroe waved a serving maid to their table to refill their cups. "Then we find a way for ye to woo her and ease her temper. I have no desire to carry the lassie on my back another day." Monroe gave Taveon a side-long glance, as if testing him.

He owed the man words. "Monroe, if I ever behave like such a dunderheid, ye have permission to kill me."

"Aye, m'laird. Will do." Monroe's half smile granted Taveon the slightest reprieve from his turmoil.

"So what do we do about your wife?" Remi blinked and took a long draw of mead.

"
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.