Moirra's Heart Series: The Complete Collection ( Moirra's Heart Series: The Complete Collection (The Moirra's Heart Series Book 3)) Read online

  Moirra’s Heart Series

  The Complete Collection

  Suzan Tisdale

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Also by Suzan Tisdale

  1. One

  2. Two

  3. Three

  4. Four

  5. Five

  6. Six

  7. Seven

  8. Eight

  9. Nine

  10. Ten

  11. Eleven

  12. Twelve

  13. Thirteen

  14. Fourteen

  Epilogue

  Dedication

  Prologue to Saving Moirra’s Heart

  15. One

  16. Two

  17. Three

  18. Four

  19. Five

  20. Six

  21. Seven

  22. Eight

  23. Nine

  24. Ten

  25. Eleven

  26. Twelve

  27. Thirteen

  28. Fourteen

  29. Fifteen

  30. Sixteen

  31. Seventeen

  32. Eighteen

  33. Nineteen

  34. Twenty

  35. Twenty One

  36. Twenty-Two

  37. Twenty-Three

  38. Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Suzan Tisdale

  Copyright © 2014 Suzan Tisdale

  Cover by: Seductive Designs

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN: 1943244022

  ISBN-13: 978-1-943244-02-7

  For all lovers of Scottish Historical Romance

  For Sue-Ellen Welfonder, you inspire me to be a better writer.

  For Ceci Giltenan, my friend and sister from another mister, I love you.

  For Lily Baldwin, the little sister I never had.

  May there always be men in kilts and strong breezes…..

  Also by Suzan Tisdale

  The Clan MacDougall Series

  Laiden’s Daughter

  Findley’s Lass

  Wee William’s Woman

  McKenna’s Honor

  The Clan Graham Series

  Rowan’s Lady

  Frederick’s Queen

  The Clan McDunnah Series

  Caelen’s Wife - Book One: A Murmur of Providence

  Caelen’s Wife - Book Two - A Whisper of Fate

  Caelen’s Wife - Book Three - A Breath of Promise

  Moirra’s Heart Series

  Stealing Moirra’s Heart - Part of The Highland Winds Collection and now as a single novella.

  Saving Moirra’s Heart - Book Two of the Moirra’s Heart Series

  With Dreams Only Of You

  The Legend of the Theodosia Sword

  One

  Moirra Dundotter needed a man.

  As much as she hated to admit it, ’twas true.

  But not just any man. She needed one with a strong back and, preferably, a malleable mind.

  With a dispirited heart, she made her way through the winding streets of the small town of Glenkirby. Paying no attention to the beautiful, bright summer morn, her mind was elsewhere engaged, focused on finding a man who would suit her needs. The longer she thought on it, the more frustrated she became for her options were few.

  At nearly thirty years of age and widowed three times now, she was not considered a fine catch by the men of her clan or the little town she was now making her way through. The men who knew her thought her far too stubborn for her own good — not one to bend easily to a man’s will — and far too blunt, no matter how pretty they might consider her to be for a woman of her advanced age.

  The fact that her first two husbands had died and the last one had been missing for months now did nothing to help her current situation. Moirra had a reputation for losing husbands.

  ’Twasn’t that she needed the comfort or love of a man. She’d had that once, with her first husband. Passion and lust with the second. Her last husband she tried very hard to forget.

  Nay, she simply needed a man who could help her tend to her fields and animals. A husband would also keep the arrogant farmer to her north from offering another proposal. A husband who might also keep Sheriff Wilgart from asking more uncomfortable questions as they pertained to her aforementioned missing husband.

  If she could not find a husband here in Glenkirby, she’d have to travel some three days to the next town. The pickings here were slim at best. Any unmarried man was either too young or far too old. Or worse yet, put off by her reputation and unwilling to enter into marriage with her. Even Malcomb McFarland wouldn’t have her and he was widowed with five children at home in desperate need of a mother.

  Entering the town square, Moirra was ready to give up hope, return home and pack her things, when a commotion ahead caught her attention. Making her way through a small crowd of people, she was finally able to see clearly what was — or more specifically who — was making the commotion.

  ’Twas an odd scene before her. A large, well muscled man, was locked in the pillory. That in and of itself was not so odd. What was odd was the fact that he was dressed in fine clothing and was currently swearing at the auld woman who had just tossed a rotten cabbage at his head. From the look on the auld woman’s face, she neither spoke nor understood the French words that flew from his mouth.

  But Moirra understood every word. Her mother, God rest her soul, had been French. “Vieille sorciere ride. Vous estes en cooler parce que vows avez perdu botre ta jeunesse.” Wrinkled auld hag. You’re angry because ye lost yer youth.

  Moirra studied him closely for a time. Even locked in the pillory as he was, there was an educated air about him. Although he was quite dirty at the moment, what with bits of rotted cabbage dangling from his dark hair and his muddy trews and boots, it didn’t appear to Moirra that that was his normal state of dress. With her curiosity piqued, she drew closer.

  A young boy, mayhap no aulder than ten summers, began taunting the man. “Dunnae where ye be from, ye big lout, but here, we do no’ steal!” The boy threw something unrecognizable at the man’s head before running away.

  “Les puce son trop bon pour ton cul.” Fleas are too good for your arse.

  The man hid his anger behind a big smile that showed straight white teeth. ’Twas all Moirra could do not to giggle. Though his French was impeccable, something in his countenance — if one could have such a thing whilst locked in a pillory — told her French was his second language. She’d always been quite good at sizing up a person’s character. Well, almost always. She’d been quite wrong about husband number three and did her best to push the thought of him from her mind.

  Moirra might not know who this man was, but she sensed he was no thief. She took a step closer. Exceedingly handsome, even if he was dirty and covered with bits of rotten food. ’Twas his smile that pulled her in even closer. His full lips, when drawn back as they were, revealed beautiful, straight white teeth.

  His large hands were balled into fists, and she could just make out the faint line where a ring had once been worn, on the small finger of his right hand. A signet ring mayhap? ’Twas possible when she took all the bits and pieces as a
whole.

  ’Twas quite possible that he was a man of means, or had been at one time. Mayhap he had fallen on hard times, for she couldn’t think of another reason why a man who appeared to be educated and affluent — again, when taken as a whole — would be locked in a pillory in the center of Glenkirby. The scenario made perfectly good sense to Moirra. Wanting to know if she was correct in her assumptions, she drew even closer.

  Another small boy, friend no doubt of the first, decided that he, too, wanted to taunt and torment the man. “Thief, thief, thief!” he teased. “And no’ a verra good one, neither!”

  The man growled at the child and lunged forward. The pillory shook and rattled as he fought to be free of it. The little boy looked ready to wet himself, his eyes growing as wide as wagon wheels. He stepped back and stumbled, landing on his rear end with a thud. The man growled and lunged a second time. The boy scrambled to his feet and ran away.

  A loud, nearly melodious laugh filled the air. ’Twasn’t the laugh of a tetched man, but rather one who was quite enjoying himself. Odd, but not the least bit off-putting or terrifying in her way of thinking. Moirra bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing out loud as she enjoyed the scene playing out before her.

  ’Twas then that an idea began to form in her mind. A former man of means, down on his luck, ending up in Glenkirby of all places, now locked in a pillory for stealing, cursing at auld women and terrifying little boys, and he seemed to be taking great enjoyment from it. If she were correct, the man was harmless.

  If her instincts were off, as she had been not long ago, well, things could end up going ghastly wrong again. Still, the man in the pillory was as good as any other choice she might have at the moment. What she needed was a chance to look into his eyes and see. Moirra was a firm believer that one could gain a sense of a person’s character just by looking into their eyes.

  She searched the immediate vicinity for the bailie and found him leaning back in a chair, his eyes closed. Good.

  While the man continued to laugh and watch the small children fleeing, Moirra quietly made her way to the pillory. She leaned in and whispered, in perfect French, “Somethin’ tells me ye be no thief.”

  The man turned abruptly, his bright green eyes flashed with a hint of confusion before he masked it with air of nonchalance. Those bright eyes sparkled in the sun, and something in their twinkle warned her that she would have to tread very carefully with this man. He was dangerous. Och, not the he’ll slice your throat whilst ye sleep kind of dangerous. Nay, he was the kind of dangerous that made women do foolish and stupid things.

  He gave her a quick glance up and down, flashed that brilliant white smile and laughed. They were close enough that she could feel his warm breath on her cheek. “I am many things, lass. All around bastard, ne’er-do-well, and rakehell. But I be no thief.”

  The smoothness of his deep voice felt like a gentle caress against her skin and left a warm feeling deep in her belly. Dark hair cut short framed a most magnificent face. A perfect nose sat atop full lips. Lips that reminded her just how long it had been since she’d last joined with a man. Those lips held a promise, a dangerous promise of things she should not be thinking about. Moirra was a woman full-grown for heaven’s sake, not some innocent lass. Still, the images that flittered about her mind were enough to make her skin burn red. She swallowed hard and did her best to pretend those pleasurable and wicked thoughts had never entered her mind.

  “What is yer name?” she asked, in the Scots language.

  Instead of answering, he took another up-and-down glance, his eyes taking their time to make their way from her head to her toes. He let them linger far longer on her bosom than might be considered proper. It made her heart pound against her breastbone.

  Returning to the French, she asked him again for his name and again, he did not answer. The man might be stubborn, but he’d met his match in Moirra Dundotter. “Fine, I shall call ye John. Pillory John.”

  He snorted dismissively, but did not take his eyes from hers.

  “Pillory John, I have a proposition fer ye,” she began. He raised a brow and grinned. Moirra shook her head and rolled her eyes. “No’ that kind of proposition,” she told him. “I need a husband.”

  “I thought ye said ’twasn’t that kind of proposition,” he argued with a wry smile.

  “’Twould be a marriage in name only, Pillory John. I need a husband who can help me tend me fields and animals and offer me and me girls some protection.”

  He raised his head, as much as he could considering the confines of the pillory and looked aghast. “Let me add to the list of things I am no’, lass. I am no’ a procurer of women!” This time he spoke in plain Scots, clearly insulted by what he assumed she had meant.

  Moirra wasn’t sure if she should feel insulted he thought her a whore, or take it as a compliment. She’d reserve her decision for a later time. “Let me assure ye, that I may be many things. Stubborn, blunt and sharp-tongued. But I be no whore.”

  Pillory John blinked and turned red with shame.

  “Me girls are no’ whores either. They be me daughters, Mariote, Esa, Muriale, and Orabilis,” she explained. “They be four and ten, two and ten, eleven, and six.”

  He blinked again and started to say something but stopped.

  Moirra waited a moment before going on. “Now, here is how I see it. Ye be a man locked in a pillory. Ye appear to be an educated man from the way ye speak the French. The fine clothes ye be wearin’ tell me ye be a man who might no’ be accustomed to being locked in a pillory or anywhere else fer that matter. Yer muscles and build and white teeth tell me ye be in fine health, no’ the kind of man who lives hand to mouth or steals to make his livin’. Am I right so far?”

  He stared at her for a brief moment before she received a nod of confirmation.

  “Now I be a woman in need of a husband, a man who can help me with me farm and me daughters. I be no’ the kind of woman afraid of hard work. I be a widow with no prospects of findin’ a husband here and I’ve no desire to walk three days to Rossburn to try to find one there.” She paused briefly to make sure he understood her position. “I need a husband and ye need out of the pillory. So me proposition is that ye agree to marry me and I’ll pay the bailie and we can get on with our day.”

  From his expression, Moirra knew he was trying to ascertain her soundness of mind.

  “Do we have an agreement?” she asked him.

  He lifted his head and looked appalled. “Nay, we do no’! Add the title of husband and father to the list of things I do no’ do, lass.”

  “Then ye like bein’ in the pillory?”

  She watched as he ground his teeth together and thought on it.

  “Ye appear to have been here fer some time, Pillory John. Has anyone else offered to pay yer bail to see ye free?”

  He looked away.

  Moirra feigned a heavy, disappointed sigh. “Verra well then, Pillory John. If ye be no’ interested in helpin’ a poor widow woman tend to a few acres of crops and a handful of animals, I can understand. ’Tis a pity though, fer even though ye be dirty and locked in a pillory, ye still be a fine lookin’ man.” She let the innuendo linger in the air as she stood and brushed imaginary dust from the green skirt of her dress. “’Twas verra nice meetin’ ye Pillory John. Mayhap if ye do no’ bark and curse at everyone who comes by, someone else might set ye free.”

  She started to turn away when she was stopped by the melodious voice. “Wait,” he said, sounding quite disheartened. “Ye say it be a marriage in name only. Does that mean I am free to leave any time I like?”

  Moirra wiped the smile from her face before turning back to him. “Ye may leave after we’ve brought in the crops. But only after all the crops have been harvested.”

  ’Twas his turn to sigh. “Verra well then, we have a bargain.”

  “Good,” Moirra said as she rested a hand on her hip. “Do no’ fash yerself, Pillory John. Ye do no’ have to do all a husband’s duties. J
ust help me tend the fields and animals, and protect me daughters. Harvest time is only two months away.”

  From his crest-fallen expression, Moirra sensed her words gave him no comfort.

  * * *

  Pillory John, he mused. I suppose that be a better name than Chamberpot Charles.

  He’d been in that blasted pillory for nearly four days, accused by a thief of being a thief. The bastard had bumped into him, and with finesse and precision, he had planted the stolen item — an inexpensive silver necklace — inside John’s pocket. Before he’d realized what had happened, he was being hauled to the gaol and tossed into a rat infested cell. The following morning he was summarily tried, found guilty, and sentenced to forty-five days in the pillory.

  He was no thief. The events that led up to his being in the pillory had started two months ago, when he’d been set upon by brigands. Had he not been so thoroughly drunk at the time, he’d have done a much better job at defending himself. As it was, the bloody bastards had taken every last possession he owned, including his horse.

  After he had sobered up, which was not difficult since he had no coin left, he set out to find the fools. Since luck had not been on his side these past years, he really had no genuine hope of finding the men who had taken his money pouch, his clothes, his weapons and horse. But he was nothing if not determined. Besides, he had no family left and no welcoming home to return to. Sober for the first time in years, he finally had a mission in life.

  Two weeks ago, by chance and chance alone, he happened upon the three men who had stolen from him. With a clear mind — something he wasn’t accustomed to — he waited for the perfect opportunity to right the wrong done to him. Instead of charging in like a deranged man, he waited until nighttime when the fools were good and drunk, as they had done to him.

  Practicing catlike maneuvers he hadn’t until that moment known he possessed, he retrieved his weapons first. Catching the drunken men unaware had sent a thrill up and down his spine. Sobriety had its advantages. In short order, he was able to get back a few of his belongings and his horse. He left three drunk and very angry men as naked as the day they were born, standing in the middle of the forest, their horses scattered hither and yon. It had been the single most exciting event of his life to date.