“Aye. And she married the laird of Clan MacSgain a month passed. Clan Cariston is no more and the damn MacSgain’s nigh doubled in size. ‘Tis what will happen to Clan Kraig should ye not produce a male heir.”
Taveon paused. He would never wish a child on Viviana. Deep down he knew he’d married her because the curse could not touch her. He already bore the guilt of taking Nessa’s life. And the shadow of Da’s insanity was never far from his mind. “I’m not Clan Kraig’s only son. Fortunately, I have Keegan. Cora-Rose will birth more bairns. One is sure to be a boy.” Taveon no longer cared to act the pawn in whatever game Laird MacKaskill was playing. They fought for the same cause; to save Cora-Rose. Mayhap the man sought reassurance. “I have not traveled all this distance to let Elise win.”
“And if ye fail?”
Taveon turned and met Laird MacKaskill’s eyes. “Failure is not an option.”
“But it is a possibility,” he clucked and curled a mischievous smile, which was odd given the subject matter.
Taveon’s agitation grew in volume. What in the name of Zeus did the man want from him? “Think ye I can give ye terms?”
“Aye. Should ye fail to break the curse and Cora-Rose dies, I want your land.”
The salty air burned Taveon’s bulging eyeballs. “Ye are wowf.”
“Clan MacKaskill sits between your land and the MacSgain’s. ‘Tis doubtful Keegan would seek another wife, and ye refuse to take a mistress, so your clan would be leaderless upon ye and your brother’s death. The MacSgians would pounce on the opportunity to invade a clan ruled by women. My clan willnae stand a fighting chance against those numbers. Forgive me, son, I’m only protecting my heir’s interests.”
All of Laird MacKaskill’s arguments were based so far in the future Taveon could hardly see the point of the conversation. “Fine. I will sign my lands over to ye, if—”
“Thistle bites!” Laird MacKaskill exclaimed, as if he’d just caught what he’d been fishing for. “I knew it. I saw it in your eyes this afternoon. ‘Twas the same look Keegan wore just before he admitted it.”
“Admitted what?” Taveon asked, baffled.
“Ye are in love with your wife.”
Taveon’s guts fell to his toes. “What? Ye are completely addle-brained.” Sarcasm hid the glimmer of question in his mind.
“A mon would not give up his kingdom for a woman, lest he was in love with her.” A wide smile formed over the spout of the flask as Laird MacKaskill swallowed another quaff of whisky.
Taveon didn’t share his good humor. His chest heaved, his head shook. He didn’t want to love Viviana, but could feel his heart trying to break free of the prison he’d locked it in. He stared at Laird MacKaskill, feeling as though he’d been slapped. His arms hung limp at his sides and the hair stood up on at the nape of his neck.
“Fear not, son. The Cariston chieftain dinnae marry the MacSgain. ‘Twas the same lie I used to solicit the truth from your brother.”
Taveon blinked rapidly and held tight to the rail. The man was a meddling muckraker. “Did ye even want my land?”
“Nay. But ye relinquished it with far less effort than Keegan.” Laird MacKaskill’s grin gleamed. He pushed the flask into Taveon’s hand, smacked him hard on the back, and then sauntered away whistling a jovial tune.
“Shite!” An unnerving feeling settled in Taveon’s gut. He poured a generous amount of whisky down his gullet in an attempt to drown the sensation. ‘Twas not true. Da had taught him to guard his heart.
“Shite!” He turned a full circle, his mind searched for an excuse to deny the pressure building behind his ribs.
She is stubborn.
She is strong. He argued with his inner voice.
Gulping breaths burned his dry throat. He angled the flask over his mouth and emptied the contents.
The woman is always cold. She can barely dress herself. She sleeps on your side of the bed. And she has a forked tongue.
But she makes your blood boiling when she’s undressed in that bed, teasing you with that tongue.
“Shite! Shite! Shite!” He was in love with his wife.
The ship spun on an axis. His nostrils flared and his fingertips dug into the rail wanting to rip something in two.
Damned if he would love his wife and not have her return his affection.
Chapter 21
“Feed me to the fish,” Viviana begged, thinking she should be used to the rocking after a sennight.
Taveon chuckled and scooped her up from the velvet settee where they’d been reading. She had no desire to spend the eve hugging the privy pot, but it seemed that’s all she’d done since boarding Satan’s ship—the name she lovingly coined Laird MacKaskill’s demon vessel. Her humiliation had reached soaring levels, but her husband refused to leave her side after he’d found her sprawled in a heap of misery on the floor of the cabin.
As if her weight was no burden at all, Taveon carried her to the bed. The instant he set her atop the feather tic, she rolled onto her aching stomach and whimpered. Soothing fingers massaged the muscles along her spine through her simple undertunic, coaxing her into relaxation.
“And how would ye have me explain to Makayla that I fed her new mum to the sea creatures?” Taveon’s words sent the ache in her stomach straight to her heart. He’d spoken of his daughter often over the past several days, but never had he referred to Viviana as the girl’s mother. She wanted more than anything to have a purpose, to be more than just the woman who came with the amulet. She wanted to have someone depend on her and mayhap even love her. If she succeeded in nothing else in life, she was determined to make Makayla a good mother.
Viviana’s head grew thick with fatigue and perspiration broke out over her cold skin. She shivered and a heartbeat later Taveon kissed her shoulder through the linen.
How could those lips be responsible for spouting such hurtful words?
“The morrow will be better,” he assured her and tucked her beneath the mass of heavy blankets, the same as he had every night when the sickness worsened. His weight left the bed, and the latch clicked open on the pot belly stove. Only moments later did he raise the coverlet at the foot of the bed and set a toasted brick wrapped in flannelette beside her leg. Warmth pushed the cold from her skin and made her yawn. A weight akin to ten stones sat on her back making movement nigh impossible. The concoction of ginger root and rosemary Taveon made her drink nightly thickened the haze in her head with every passing second.
A rustle of clothing ensued, followed by the squeak on the latch of the binnacle lantern. Taveon released an audible exhale when he settled into the wide-back chair beside the desk—the same chair he’d slept in since they’d arrived on the ship. The first chord of the same lullaby he sang nightly hummed through the cabin and soothed her like warm milk.
She came with the amulet. Those damn words were determined to take up residence in her head and never leave. If Taveon saw her as an unwanted burden then he certainly didn’t act like it. His actions contradicted his words and confused her. “Why do you stay with me?” Her muffled question was barely audible as her face was currently buried in the bolster.
“Because ye are my wife,” he said simply and continued his tune.
Then why do you not share my bed? She never voiced the question before she gave in to a sleep that turned restless in the small hours of night.
While her heart tried to cling to his hurtful words, the fleeting images of her husband’s long lean fingers playing her skin like a string instrument invaded her mind. His presence in her head awoke her body, and his blue eyes caressed her soul, holding her rapt in bliss-filled paradise. Tossing and turning, her body heat reached sweltering levels with memories of their coupling. The aches in her limbs faded, only to be replaced with a stronger, more violent discomfort spiraling in her loins. She tried to blame the sickness, but she’d known this particular ache before—an ache only Taveon had been able to satisfy.
* * *
A steady whistle followed b
y a whisky tenor moan played in her ear. Viviana smiled, listening to his tune. The man even sang in his sleep.
She pushed back the heavy covers and flattened her feet on the floor. A breath of crisp air filled her lungs as she waited for illness to attack her, but she felt almost human this morn. The sound of crewmen bustling about the deck echoed behind the cabin door. Standing on weak legs, she wrapped a wool blanket around her shoulders, then cautiously padded toward the desk to locate the tablet Taveon always wrote in before he found his sleep. She wondered if his note would be a simple instruction for her to remain abed, or a lesson on new words, or mayhap he’d written her another poem about her beauty as he had yester morn.
Of course, he was trying to worm his way back into her good graces, and truth be told, it was working.
Anxious to read the message, she raised the wooden cover and ran her fingertips over the etched letters. Only two words were carved into the wax this day: F-O-R-G-I-V-E M-E.
Her heart jumped. She traced the words again, thinking she’d misread them.
Throughout the many days that had passed since leaving Chillion Castle, Taveon never once had asked for her forgiveness. Instead, he’d taught her to read and catered to her every need while she’d been ill. She suspected it was not in his nature to grovel, but rather make amends by earning her forgiveness.
Following the edge of the desk to where he slept in the chair, she breathed in the spice of him. Her hand extended, wanting to wake him and accept his apology.
She came with the amulet, echoed in her head and made her pull back her hand. She tightened the wool around her neck and stepped backward. There was a passion inside her she wanted to share, but fear of rejection turned her craven.
She pivoted and found the small door at the rear of the cabin. Seeking solitude, she stepped onto the narrow balcony overhanging the stern of the ship and listened to the waves breaking against the hull. She filled her lungs with salty air and thought about the life that lie ahead of her. They would arrive in Scotland soon. Only days, in fact, separated her from the place she would call home.
A daughter awaited her, a sister, a brother. Would she meet their approval? Would they accept her for who she was or would they make assumptions about her the way Taveon had? She supposed she could continue to fight her husband, to toss barbs like the obstinate child he surely thought her to be. Or she could accept that the feelings she held for him had gone far beyond attraction and pray he wouldn’t reject her.
“Viviana?” Taveon suddenly appeared beside her, his deep tone riddled with concern. “Are ye well?”
“For the nonce.” She smiled in the direction of his voice. It was a small smile, but inside her heart danced with acceptance, and her body was nigh ready to attack. Taveon Kraig was a man of integrity, a man she was proud to call husband, a man she wanted in her life, in her heart, and in her bed.
She held out her hand.
Long, warm fingers entwined with hers and brought light to her eyes. The scene that graced her could have only been painted by God Himself. Pinks and golds sat on the horizon preparing for the sun’s entry. Dawn reflected off smooth water spread out as far as his eyes could see.
Sensations tickled her skin. She was awestruck by the vision and even more so by the warm, radiant colors. Every day they became richer, more vibrant. “What do you think the colors mean?”
Taveon wrapped a second arm around her and cradled her in front of him. His vision shifted momentarily to slide down her neck, then he returned his gaze to the sea. “Mayhap the stone is gaining power the closer we get to Ravenhurst.”
“Mayhap,” she agreed, but felt certain there was more to the amulet’s magic than mere geography.
“Or mayhap it has to do with your mood,” he suggested, resting his chin atop her head. At that moment, the sun peered over the horizon in an explosion of yellow and orange.
“Mayhap.” The colors seemed brighter when she was happy, and she was certain she’d never been happier in her life than she was at this moment. She pulled his hands inside the wool and curled his arms around her waist. Being held by him felt right, it felt safe… it felt like forever.
“Did ye read my note?” His tone was soft, sad, but full of hope. He kissed her hair then nestled his roughened cheek into the crook of her neck. A calloused hand caressed her forearm.
She sensed his tension. “I did.”
“And?”
She turned in his arms and pressed her lips against his bare chest. Her heart had already forgiven him.
He sucked in air and jerked.
“It is in the past,” she assured him, feeling powerful for eliciting a tremor from such a strong warrior. Sparse chest hair tickled her nose just before she twirled her tongue around his pert little nipple. He tasted like fine wine; rich with spice and cedar.
Long fingers dug into her ribs. “Viviana.” Her name caught in his throat, then he gripped her upper arm with a force that demanded her attention. “I need to hear the words.”
The wool fell away from her shoulders and icy air blew through her thread-bare undertunic. She tilted her head upward. His gaze fixed on her. Pink tinted her cheeks, hooded lids covered half her violet eyes, and her glossed lips were parted, waiting for him to kiss her. The man had to be blind not to see her state of arousal. She couldn’t possibly look more wanton.
She supposed she could torment him, even make him beg for forgiveness, but what good would come of it? Another day of frustration, of feigning ignorance to the tension between them? She wanted to be done with the suffering. “It was a mistake.”
He grabbed hold of the hair at her nape and pulled her head back. His eyes closed, darkening her world, then his lips brushed hers. “I need the words, Venus.”
“I forgive you,” she whispered between his lips and stood on her toes to reach his mouth. A rush of freedom passed through her body as she nibbled his bottom lip. Her timid approach was met with a kiss made of primal aggression. An aggression she’d craved since their union. He pushed her jaw wide with the press of his thumb and invaded her mouth with his tongue. Their teeth clicked, their tongues entwined, and the thrill of it all invoked a desire inside her that nigh scorched her skin.
Her breasts swelled. Her mons swelled.
Oh, cazzo!
While ravishing her mouth, his hot hands cupped her backside and pressed her pelvis into a rock hard erection that strained against the laces of his braies. She could do little more than cling to his broad shoulders and pray he noticed her sensitive nipples poking him in the chest.
“I want you,” she whispered, uncertain whether or not she’d spoken the words aloud. Anticipation stirred in her nether region and turned to silky wetness. Mannaggia. She was behaving like a brazen paramour.
He glanced overhead, not doubt leery of onlookers, then raised the hem of her undertunic to her waist. Wind lashed at the moisture gathered between her thighs like a whip and caused her to jerk against the rail.
His heavy breathing drowned out the lull of waves. He studied her, as if contemplating where he would start and where he would finish. Her lips were red, abused by his kiss. Her erect nipples tented the thin material of her undertunic, and the slight covering of fuzz at the apex of her thighs couldn’t hide the pink frills peeking out of her swollen flesh.
His gaze devoured her and stripped her of modesty just before he delved deft fingers between her folds—two digits, in unison.
She cried out and latched onto his arms, startled by his assault.
“Oh, sweetling, ye are so hot, so wet… so ready,” he crooned into her ear.
Heat scorched her cheeks, embarrassed by her state of arousal. Viviana wiggled in a paltry attempt to escape his embrace and tucked her chin to her chest.
He retracted his fingers as quickly as he’d inserted them and freed from himself from his braies. “Do ye see what ye do to me?” He looked down at his cock.
His manhood looked bigger than she remembered, long, thick, red and erect with a pearl
of his seed sitting atop the bulbous knob. Saliva pooled in her mouth wondering what he would taste like. She’d never gotten on her knees before her husbands. Radolfo reserved such acts for his whores, and Luciano didn’t care how she performed her conjugal duties so long as she did. But it was different with Taveon. She wanted to taste him, to hear his cry of pleasure when she took him into her mouth.
Just as her knees bent, Taveon picked her up, and for a brief moment she thought he would carry her inside the cabin, but that notion was quickly extinguished when he propped her bare bottom atop the cold rail.
Fearful of falling, she grabbed hold of his upper arms, her nails piercing the skin.
“Trust me,” he demanded and before she understood his intent, his hands wrapped around her buttocks spreading her wide enough to slide the head of his erection into her aching core.
She gasped, surprised by his fervor, and linked her ankles around his waist.
One thrust was all it took to bury himself inside her.
“Oh, God!” he cried.
She yelled in unison. Not a moan or a whimper, but a wail of wondrous torture. Sweat broke out at her temples and between her breasts while the muscles inside her pulsed around him.
Taveon looked over the edge at the glistening water below. “Shite!” He raised her off the rail and fell back against the bulkhead. His heart raced, pounding in time with hers like they were one in the same. The growl building deep in his chest vibrated against her skin—a warning that the beast inside him had waited far too long to be unleashed.
He showed no mercy as he slammed her repeatedly against his pelvis.
It was wonderful. The need. The carnality. The untamed passion. Him.
She squeezed her thighs around his hips and panted, her climax on the edge, demanding to be set free. So close…
Thrust.
“Damn-it-to-Hell!” He stilled inside her and the heat of his seed exploded against her quivering walls.
No! She wanted to scream. Her untouched breasts ached, her mons burned on the verge of a bliss that never came. She retracted her nails from his shoulder and slid her hand between them, desperate to find fulfillment.
My Cursed Highlander Page 20