His Highland Heart

by Willa Blair

  HIS HIGHLAND HEART

  His Highland Heart Series Book 1

  Willa Blair

  Contents

  Excerpt

  Title

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Coming Soon!

  His Highland Love Excerpt

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Afterword

  A man knelt beside her, pounding on her back and muttering, “Spit it out, lass. Breathe. Ye are well.” She thought she’d met all of her captors, but she didn’t recognize his voice. She didn’t want to owe any of the Ross men her life. That would seal her fate to his. Donas would give her to this man.

  Grit clung to her face as she pushed up onto her hands and knees, still coughing up seawater. Her hair hung in damp tendrils to the sand, blocking her view of her savior, and his of her. At least he had ceased pounding on her when she’d moved. Her coughing eased.

  Her wet cloak clung to her back and draped down her sides like a tent, but her shift, now soaked, was nearly transparent where it stuck to her skin. She sank onto her heels, gathered her sopping cloak around her for cover, if not for warmth, then scooped her hair out of her face and took her first clear breath.

  The man sat back and regarded her with sea green eyes under russet brows. A stranger!

  Muireall’s gasp set her to coughing again, but she held up a hand to stop him when he reached for her back. “Nay!” she hissed, then got her breath back. “Give me a minute afore ye pound me back into the sand.” She thought she’d seen every man in the Ross village. She hadn’t seen this one. She would have noticed him. Even features, broad shoulders, and kindness in the glinting green depths of his eyes. He looked at her with care, not as if he wanted to rend her sopping garments and take her here on the beach.

  A grin split his face, revealing even white teeth. “Arguing with yer leech so soon after he saves ye? Ye are well, then.”

  The man was possessed of a sense of humor, too.

  She glanced around while she heaved another breath. Ach, nay! She was still trapped in the far cove with a rising tide. And a stranger. “Who are ye?”

  The grin fled his face.

  In that instant, she knew. “Ye are from that wrecked birlinn, aye?”

  He nodded.

  Hope started to slowly unfurl in her chest. He was not a Ross! When she next opened her mouth to speak, he clapped a hand over it and grabbed her around the shoulders with the other.

  “Dinna scream,” he warned.

  HIS HIGHLAND HEART

  by

  Willa Blair

  Copyright © 2017 by Linda Williams

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN-13: 9781946153029

  Cover Art by: Tamra Westberry

  Other Titles Available at www.willablair.com

  Heart of Stone (Highland Talents Prequel)

  Highland Healer (Highland Talents Book 1)

  Highland Seer (Highland Talents Book 2)

  Highland Troth (Highland Talents Book 3)

  The Healer’s Gift (A Highland Talents Novella)

  When Highland Lightning Strikes (A Highland Talents Novella)

  Sweetie Pie (A Candy Hearts Novella)

  Waiting for the Laird

  His Highland Rose (His Highland Heart Prequel)

  His Highland Love (Coming 1 June)

  His Highland Bride (Coming this Fall)

  To Beverly Wymer, You’re the best cheering section any author could hope for. I’m so glad you’re mine!

  Chapter 1

  Scottish Highlands, 1410

  Euan Brodie hauled on the sail and fought the wind as if his life depended on it. His did—his and his crew's.

  They were nearing home. Though the Moray Firth was in a fine temper, he thought they could make port before nightfall. Then the wind shifted and began to howl, driving them northward, away from safe harbor. By staying out so late, they’d made a mistake—perhaps a fatal one. The fishing had been good, and they’d hoped to bring the joy of full bellies to their families. In this storm, they'd be the most fortunate of men to get home at all.

  Wind whipped the sail, and rough rigging tore through his hands, stripping flesh he could not feel. Icy water sprayed over the Tangie’s bow as she fought her way into a swell toward the nearer shore.

  “We’re no’ going to make it!” Eduard shouted, frustration pitching his voice high and ragged.

  Euan grimaced as the others gaped, wide-eyed, at the normally steady first mate.

  “Aye, we are,” he insisted, commanding their attention and forcing confidence into his tone despite having to shout into a howling storm. They had to make it. Had to. “Haul that sheet tight and hang on. We’ll soon reach the shore break. The tide will do the rest for us, and we’ll take down the bloody sail.”

  Suddenly, lightning cracked, deafening Euan even over the tumult of the storm. He turned his head away as the freshening squall blew icy pellets into his face. Almost there. If they could hang on a few more minutes, they’d beach the Tangie and be safe until the storm blew itself out.

  The wind shifted suddenly, from south to east. Too fast to save her, the Tangie heeled over, dipping the edge of the sail into the firth. It was more than she could take. For a moment, she lifted and hung, trying to roll herself upright, icy seawater dripping from the canvas. Euan shouted for the men to throw their weight to the high side, hoping to right her, but it was too little, too late. The wind gusted again, and the Tangie settled onto her low side, her pale sail a phantom carpet on the surface of the choppy sea.

  Euan dangled for a moment from the rope in his hands, hearing the others cry out as the tide took the ship and pushed them shoreward. They should reach the shallows soon, he realized.

  “Swim away!” he shouted and let go of the rope, sliding down the deck and into the icy water. He came up spluttering between the deck and the sail, the canvas now slowing sinking as rough seas sloshed over its surface. It would pull the Tangie down, and suck the men with it if they didna get clear. The others still hung from the upper side, frozen with indecision. “Dinna get caught under the sail!”

  He swam for clear water. Once he was out of danger from his vessel, he searched the surface for his men. “Eduard! Dugal! Calum! Can ye hear me? James, where are ye, lad? Swim, ye fools!” A barrel floated nearby. He forced his numb fingers around the ends and hung on, the icy water making his body feel leaden. It seemed like hours while he searched the roiling surface and waited for an answering shout, but he knew it was only minutes. The crashing surf and cracks of splintering wood were all he heard as waves shoved the Tangie onto rocks. The men, and young James, barely twelve winters old, were gone.

  With a heavy heart, he let go of the barrel and fought his way toward shore. He could let the waves push the barrel, and him with it, but if he lost consciousness from the cold, he’d sink below the surface and never be seen again. Better to swim. Though his
mind was muzzy, he could recall an old sailor telling him the effort would warm him and might save his life. Waves crashed all around him, threatening to pull him under and keep him there. He gasped for air every time his head broke the surface, concentrated on moving arms and legs leaden with cold, and kept going. Eventually, something hard scraped his knees and he shook his head to clear his eyes of saltwater. The rocky beach beckoned, mere yards ahead. Somehow, he got his feet under him, but couldn’t stay on them in the pounding waves, so he let the surf push him shoreward and fought against the undertow threatening to tug him away. In moments the waves propelled him onto a gritty beach. He dug in his elbows and crawled out of the water.

  He lay there, panting, gripping pebbles and coarse sand in both hands, then gathered the last vestiges of strength in his frozen body and hauled himself to his feet. Shuddering, he swore through chattering teeth, too tense with cold to summon the howl of rage and despair he wanted to unleash. The Tangie's sailing days were done. She was gone, sunk below the angry sea—a loss Brodie could scarce afford. He’d wrecked the first ship he’d been allowed to captain, and likely killed the crew. One more thing gone wrong in his life, the latest—and worst—in a long list.

  He should have gone down with them.

  Rolling waves and sheets of wind-driven rain confounded him, but he refused to accept that his men and young James were gone as well. He called, again and again until his throat was raw. Nothing answered but the shrieking wind and the crash of waves. He was alone, half-drowned, in enemy territory.

  Muireall Munro came awake to the sound of men shouting. She rubbed sleep from her eyes and rolled from her cot with a yawn. Disappointment nearly sent her back again. These were excited shouts, not battle cries, so this was not the rescue she prayed for.

  She recognized the voices of some of the men from the Ross village. Donas, the chief, for one, and Teague, who had forced her fellow captive, Tira into marriage on the trip back to Ross from Munro.

  Curious, Muireall threw her cloak around her shoulders and stepped outside the small cot she once shared with the other Munro captive, her friend Ella, but now had to herself. The pale pearl glow of early morning did not yet reveal the men, but she could hear them coming up the path from the cove.

  Muireall joined the other women already gathered nearby as the chief’s wife, Silas, spoke.

  “I’ve nay idea,” Silas was saying as her husband crested the hill with Teague, both soaked through. Between them, they carried hewn lumber.

  “Shipwreck!” Donas announced, grinning. “We dragged as much as we could get to onshore. The incoming tide will carry more onto the beach during the day.”

  Thomas, who had recently taken Ella as his wife, arrived on their heels with others carrying loops of rope. “There’s plenty more o’ this, too heavy to carry. We’ll leave it below to dry out for a day or two. Sailcloth, as well.”

  “And the sailors?” That from sweet Ella, answered quickly with hoots and laughter.

  “Looking for a new man, are ye?” Silas asked with a grin. “Have ye worn out puir Thomas already?”

  “Nay, but…” Ella blushed and dropped her gaze to her feet.

  Muireall cringed, embarrassed for her friend by the coarse comments directed at her.

  “Nay men,” Thomas spat with a frown at his pretty new wife. “Must be dead.”

  Muireall hid a shudder. Had she been cursed with the kind of beauty Ella possessed, she might be the unlucky one under Thomas every night. As it was, no Ross had chosen her—yet. They awaited her next moonblood, to prove she carried no other man’s babe before one of them got about putting theirs in her. If she’d counted correctly, she didn’t have much longer to wait before she bled again. Then she’d be doomed.

  “Bodies’ll wash ashore in a day or two,” Donas interjected, “and we’ll see if they’ve got anything of value on them.”

  Muireall gave a grim nod to that pronouncement. Aye, they would. She’d heard these men boast around the evening fires about what they’d done when unpredictable winter storms pushed an unwary ship their way. There might be coin, or leather goods, even weapons worth the salvage, along with the ship itself, or what was left of it, not lying on the bottom of the sea.

  “Come on, lasses, let’s see what the lads missed,” Silas ordered. Wed to their chief, her word was as much law as his. The women would look for food, crates of fish, metal implements—anything useful in the village, while the men focused on the ship, weapons, and dealing with survivors. Allies got escorted to the village. Enemies went back into the sea, throats cut for being foolish enough to live through a shipwreck onto Donas Ross’s land.

  Muireall’s neck prickled at the thought of desperate strangers on the beach below, but Thomas had said there were none, so the women would be safe enough heading down to the cove.

  Silas frowned at her and gestured, clearly giving her no time to dress. Obedient, she gathered her cloak about her and followed the other women down the cliff path. Now the roar of last night’s storm was over, waves lapped at the shore. The men had not exaggerated. They’d reap a good, if grim, harvest from this wreck. From what she could see, there might be enough left of the birlinn to rebuild it without too much work. The men aboard her must have drowned, sucked below the waves in the darkness.

  This morning, the sun pierced between remnants of leaden clouds. Shafts of brilliance danced on the crests of bigger waves out in the firth. The sea had yet to settle, so Donas could be right and more from this doomed ship might wash ashore over the next day or two.

  Muireall headed downwind, in the direction the tide should have carried more of the wreck. Ella quickly joined her and the two walked the shoreline, happy to get away from the other women. They searched for small items in the cove and splashed along the water’s edge, hoping to find something of value that would win Silas’s and Donas’s favor. Muireall expected the sea had carried the smaller, lighter things farther down the coast. The women she and Ella left behind might find little of use staying close to the wreck.

  “They willna worry about us?” Ella fretted, looking back over her shoulder.

  Muireall snorted. “Of course no’. There’s nowhere to go from here.” She pointed. Cliffs lining the next cove extended into deep water on the far side, blocking access to the northward coastline from the beach.

  “I see Tira is sticking close to Silas.”

  Ella’s frown was an expression Muireall had seen her wear all too often since they’d been taken, and more so since Thomas had claimed her.

  “She’s making the best of a bad situation, I suppose,” Ella continued, charitably, which was more like the Ella Muireall knew.

  “Teague aspires to Donas’s inner circle,” Muireall reminded her. “Tira must think gaining Silas’s favor will help.”

  “It might, aye.”

  “And what about Thomas?”

  “He seems more interested in enjoying his new bride than currying favor with Donas.”

  Ella’s bleak tone made Muireall glance sharply her way. Her lips were pressed together and her fists clenched. Muireall took her friend’s fist in her hand and tucked her fingers under Ella’s. “I wish there was something we could do to get away from here.”

  “There is naught to do but learn to live the life we’ve been given,” Ella replied. “At least for Tira and me. There’s still hope for ye.”

  Muireall shook her head and kept walking, trying to put the Rosses out of her mind. She knew several of the men had their eye on her. She just didn’t know which one Donas would award her to.

  “Hope? The only hope I have is to die before one of them can claim me.”

  Ella stopped walking and tugged Muireall’s hand. “Ach, Muireall, dinna say that. Dinna even think it. ’Tis no’ so bad, truly. Thomas is kind enough…at least when he’s no’ around the other men. I just miss my family.”

  Muireall heard the lie in Ella’s voice. She missed more than her family. She missed the life they’d had, and the prospect o
f marrying the man she loved, a future now lost to her. He’d think her dead, and if he ever found out what had happened to her, he’d wish it so.

  “And ye ken I worry for Georgie,” Muireall told her. “’Twas a selfish thing for me to say. I do so want to get back to him…” She let go of Ella’s hand and turned away.

  “Ye have tried. And suffered for it. Twice.” Ella put a hand on her arm, stopping her. “Ye must give up trying to escape. Georgie is being cared for, I dinna doubt it.”

  Muireall thought of the nearly healed stripes on her back and stiffened her spine. “Nay, I’ll never give up.” The first time she’d snuck away, she’d been confined to the cot without food and little water for three days, a guard posted at the door. The second time, she’d run and been caught before she got out of sight of the Ross village. For that, Donas had given her three lashes, while stripped to her shift. It could have been worse—he’d threatened to strip her of the meager protection the shift provided, but Silas had intervened, so he’d told her the next time she would suffer more lashes. But she’d learned her lesson. The next time she ran, she’d be better prepared. Until then, she did everything she could to appear meek and cowed, unlikely to defy the Ross chief ever again.

  She glanced back at the women blocking the climb to the village—and to the next cove behind them. That way lay home, just not today. “I canna escape from here this day, so let’s make the best of our walk so we can get back to a warm fire.”

  Before long, she found a cook pot tumbling in the surf, and both she and Ella got soaked to the thighs retrieving it. They dragged it above the high tide line and set it in a depression in the sand to collect on the way back. If they were lucky, none of the others would have looked up from the beach at their feet to see them retrieve it. She hoped they would not notice it in the sand if they came this far, and claim the find for their own.