My Cursed Highlander by Kimberly Killion

the outer edge of her ear. "We could have been good together. You and I."
    "Viviana?" A sharp angry voice coming from the doorway doused Taveon's seduction like water to a flame.
    He made eye contact with a red-faced Lorenzo the same moment Viviana jerked in his arms.
    "Messer Lorenzo!" She batted at Taveon's hand still dipped into her gown.
    "Shite!" None too gently, Taveon ripped his hand from her favors and put a respectable distance between them.
    "I see you have decided to marry the Scotsman after all." Lorenzo looked down his flaring nose at her. "I will see that the arrangements are made."
    "No!" she pleaded and shimmied herself back into her bodice. " Per favore, no. Non è che cosa pensate. Lo scotsman era andare giusto... " Viviana launched into the Tuscan dialect. Her words spilled from her mouth so quickly Taveon could only understand one word in five.
    Shite. Shite. Shite! He should have turned left. He opened his mouth and waited for a pause to add to her argument, but neither she, nor Lorenzo paid him any concern. The woman had obviously made her decision. She wanted no part of a marriage to him.
    He could hardly blame her. She lived like a princess here in Italy. He was selfish to want her for his own. 'Twas best he leave and set her from his mind.
    Taveon slipped around Lorenzo and into the corridor, leaving the two Italians in a heated debate.
    "You will abide by my wishes!" Lorenzo's voice boomed throughout the corridor and stilled Taveon's flight.
    He rubbed his eyes and inhaled the citrus scent lingering on his person. His fingers still tingled where he'd touched her skin.
    A hum vibrated through him. He closed his eyes and shook his head. Leave her.
    He glanced back. "Fare the well, Venus."
    He moved quickly through the palace and into the courtyard abuzz with activity. The courtiers danced via torchlight to the tune set by an ensemble of musicians; a lute player, a string player, and a minstrel. Every attendant was garbed in the finest silks and decorated with expensive baubles. He slowed beside a table laden with viands.
    "Good eve," an elderly man greeted him while he ate a quince sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar.
    Taveon dipped his head in reply. A whole calf's head, gilded and silvered, sat in the center surrounded by olives as a condiment. This world suited Viviana far better than a land so boggy a man couldn't grow a turnip. Half his clan would leave if they had anywhere else to go. 'Twas not a place for a woman of her breeding.
    He stuffed a few peppery olives in his mouth, hoping to free himself of her taste, then took the downward steps into the orchard.
    A nicker and neigh greeted him as he entered the stable and located the stall housing his speckled mare. He fastened the bridle and led the horse from the stall just as a rush of footsteps drew his attention. Ten armed Medici sentries outfitted in gold and crimson marched in time and filled the wide aisle, each resting his hand on the pommel of his weapon.
    The guard leading the small battalion drew his sword.
    Taveon looked behind him.
    The stable was vacant, save for him.
    "Damn-it-to-Hell!" He unsheathed the two weapons he had on his person. Where was Monroe when he needed him?
    The remaining nine guards wrenched their swords from their scabbards with a screeching hiss and stared at him with intent.
    Taveon's eyelids stretched wide. His pulse quickened. He studied his opponents and wished for his broadsword. Since entering this peaceful nation, he hadn't had need for such weaponry.
    Until now.
    "Surrender your weapons," the guard at the forefront ordered.
    Not one of them matched his size, but their numbers tipped the scale in their favor. This was not going to end well. Determined to outwit them, he twirled his dirks in unison, making a show of his expertise.
    "You are outnumbered, Signore Kraig. Stand down." The Medici leader demanded while the other sentries formed a circle around Taveon.
    "I think I'll fight, if it's all the same to