“Keep the amulet away from me,” she issued the warning just before her legs gave out, and she buckled over at the waist.
Viviana gasped the same time Sister De Rosa cried out. The sound shook Viviana to the bone. She wrapped her hands around Keegan’s forearm, but quickly realized the man would be of little comfort. He hadn’t moved or blinked since discovering their soothsayer’s betrayal.
What was happening? Who was she talking to and why was Sister De Rosa even here in Scotland claiming to be a soothsayer? The questions multiplied in Viviana’s head at an alarming speed, but before she could ask a single one, a child’s cry broke through the chaos.
Keegan slowly turned, moving his gaze away from the scene. Lily stood beside unmoving, her eyes round and shining with terror. Having seen too many children go uncomforted at the orphanage, Viviana held a hand out to the girl only feet away. “Do not be afraid.”
“No!” Sister De Rosa screamed. “Do not touch her! Run, Lily!”
Without hesitation, the girl tossed the foxtails to the ground, spun, and raced into the wood behind the cottage. Her fawn-colored kirtle disappeared amidst the brambles almost instantly.
Viviana feared Taveon would pop Sister De Rosa’s arms from her body when he dragged her to his mount. “Monroe, fetch up Lily and bring her to Ravenhurst.” Without releasing his hold, he retrieved a strand of rope from the saddlebags and bound the woman’s hands and ankles. Without care or respect for Sister De Rosa’s station, he tossed her over the nape of his steed on her belly. She hardly put up a fight, nor did she protest when he secured another rope from her ankles to her hands beneath the horse’s neck. He mounted behind her and took up the reins.
Keegan remained stock still. “Jesu. What am I to do?” His voice cracked, and his entire being began to tremble.
Putting her own fears aside, Viviana moved around his broad form wanting to comfort the man, wanting to assure him the wife he loved would be well. She held his limp hand and opened her mouth.
Words never formed.
“This is not over, brother. I give ye my word on Da’s grave,” Taveon assured him in a tone filled with determination.
Keegan remained silent, his gaze fell to his boot tips, then his eyes slid shut.
“Escort my wife back to the keep. We will learn the truth behind Sister De Rosa’s manipulations if I have to beat it out of her myself.”
* * *
Taveon’s anger kept his blood running hot, albeit the chamber was cold enough to freeze fire. “Come now, Marea. Tell me I dinnae waste the last three months of my life for naught.” With his words came a swirling cloud of mist. The only bit of information he’d managed to coax from the bitch’s tongue was her name, and he couldn’t be certain even that were true.
A single pitch-pine torch illuminated the small chamber in a dungeon that hadn’t been used since Da caught border thieves stealing his chattel. Seepage glittered in two paths down the stone walls to the chains that bound Marea’s bruised wrists. Stripped to her undertunic, her back faced him, and her forehead pressed against the rough-hewn stone. Kneeling, she’d been poised for whipping for hours, but Taveon couldn’t bring himself to issue the first blow.
How could he? She was Makayla’s only friend’s mother, not to mention the person who’d cared for Viviana half her life. The worried look on his wife’s face stared at him in his mind’s eye. She’d been repulsed by his lack of compassion at the cot-house, but what was he to do?
Eyes burning from exhaustion, Taveon rubbed the back of his neck with the hand not holding the whip and prayed for strength. “I have provided for ye nigh a year. Given ye shelter and used my own coin to pay the miller to keep ye and Lily’s bellies from suffering the hunger pains. Have ye naught to offer me aside from your name?”
Her silence only added to his humiliation and further incensed him. He’d been foolish to believe her false promises. She’d stirred her damn leaves in the sugar water and said she could break the curse if he went to Italy and retrieved the amulet. ‘Twas a lie. A lie that had devastated Keegan.
The grief he’d seen in Keegan’s blank stare was painfully familiar. Da had worn the same look for ten years before it finally took his life. He’d died a coward’s death. A warrior should die in battle so that he might stand proud before God on his day of judgment.
Keegan would know the splendor of such a day. He would not suffer the same fate as Da.
“Damn-it-to-hell. Must I draw your blood to gain a smidgen of truth from your traitorous lips?” Spurred by determination, Taveon stood, braced his legs apart, and willed himself to warm her shoulders with the knotted whip. “How is it a nun living in Italy knew about Clan Kraig’s curse? And how did ye know the location of the amulet?” He snapped the whip beside her ear, gaining the pop that might scare her into submission.
The chains rattled when Marea jumped, but she only curled her fingers around the links to brace herself for the blow. The woman didn’t even have the sense to beg for a reprieve.
Fueled by anger and agitation, Taveon latched onto her undertunic at her nape and jerked downward. The rip of material prefaced her cries and set Taveon’s skin to crawling. He stared at her bare back pebbled with goose-flesh and marred with a handful of pink scars. Her ribs swelled with every deep intake of breath, and the gentle curves that defined her as a woman stilled his actions.
Shite. He turned away. If only she were a man or mayhap English. Mayhap then he could deliver the blow.
“M’laird,” a male voice came behind him.
Thankful for the distraction, Taveon turned to find Monroe at his back, Remi stood beside, both blowing tendrils of curling air out of their nostrils.
“We cannae find the child.” Monroe stared at the woman, then at the whip in Taveon’s hand, making him feel like the monster he knew he had to be.
“You must go back,” Marea pleaded over her shoulder, shivering. “You must search until you find her.”
“Tell me how to break the curse, and I will send three dozen warriors into the wood to find her.” He intended to do so regardless. Lily was not to blame for her mum’s treachery.
“I cannot.”
Taveon wanted to shake her. He wanted to strangle the words from her mouth. “Then Lily will suffer this night in the cold. The dark willnae hide her from wolves. If ye love your daughter, ye will tell me how to break the curse.”
“Please. She has suffered enough.” Marea sobbed. Her head fell.
“And I will protect her if ye cede.”
“Give me your word as a Christian, you will keep her safe should anything happen to me.” Her entire body jerked as if Taveon had struck her. “Shut up!” The woman battled her conscious the same as she had the better part of her interrogation.
“I give ye my word on my da’s grave.”
“You will treat her as one of your own.” Her breathing quickened. A mass moved beneath Marea’s skin. “Give her every privilege you would your own daughter.” The last of her bid came out strangled. She coughed.
Taveon stepped closer, anticipation making his palms itch. “Ye have my word.”
“The woman who cursed your clan…” Two thin lines drew a pink path over her shoulder, whelping her skin. Marea cried out.
“Christalmighty,” Monroe whispered and took a step back, as did Remi.
Taveon couldn’t fight the chill sliding over his skin. He shivered and glanced at the knout in his hand, thinking he’d whipped her, knowing he must have. Where else had the marks come from? He dropped the whip and rubbed his eyes, trying to focus. Exhaustion had him hallucinating.
Marea pulled air into her lungs, but before she could speak, another furious red slash ripped across her back. She screamed again and clung to the chains. Her head fell back. “…she lives within me.”
A bulge moved over her ribs. It looked like a small animal, a field mouse mayhap, beneath her skin.
But that was impossible.
Then five straight lines tore through her flesh f
rom her shoulder to the base of her back. Marea screamed as blood spilled over her ribs and spread into her pale undertunic bunched at her waist. “Help me.”
Taveon couldn’t think. His head hurt, felt cold, numb. What did she mean, lives within her?
Marea’s scream cut off abruptly, then the weight of her body sank and her breathing went shallow.
“Ye gods and little fishes,” Remi whispered and gulped.
Taveon just stood there, staring at her, waiting for her to transform into some fiend with hooves and horns like he’d seen in the paintings at the Medici Palace. He’d been desperate for her to tell him something… anything, but he hadn’t expected…
A caress brushed the hairs at Taveon’s nape. He jerked toward his kinsmen, hoping to find one of them touching him, all the while knowing they hadn’t. Monroe’s skin was ashen. Remi’s eyes were wide, unblinking.
“What in the name of Zeus just happened?” Taveon asked, needing to fill the silence with anything besides the jarring beat of his pulse.
Though not a religious man, Remi crossed himself—twice. Another step backward put him outside the chamber.
Monroe’s head turned toward Taveon, but the dark orbs of his eyes remained fixed in the corners, as if to look away from the woman might leave his soul unprotected. “It might be a difficult task, but mayhap ‘tis time ye drag a priest onto your land.”
* * *
Taveon and Remi stood guard in the doorway while Meghan tended Marea’s wounds atop a straw-filled mattress in a guest chamber. Though a fire blazed in the hearth, it seemed the cold had followed them from the dungeon to the east tower where they’d moved Marea’s limp body. The cold frightened him. It was eerie, uncanny, unexplained, and yet something inside him whispered, It’s her.
Elise was so close he could smell the decaying scent of her wretchedness, but still she was out of his grasp. He would return with the vicar by morn and mayhap learn more about how he could end the curse. With any luck, Lily would be found by then as well. Monroe had taken the bloodhounds and three dozen of the clan’s finest hunters into the timber surrounding Marea’s cot-house to continue the search. Taveon could seek out Makayla’s assistance to make the girl feel at ease and mayhap even gain her assistance.
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
My Cursed Highlander Page 27