Moirra looked away from him. “I hope and pray that be no’ the case, John.”
He was glad she made no attempt to convince him that Mariote would be as right as rain by morn.
“Moirra, I think it might be best if I slept in the barn,” he told her.
She turned around to face him and for a moment, he thought he saw a flicker of regret and hurt in her eyes and he felt a momentary pang of guilt. She was a beautiful, desirable woman. A widow. He supposed she longed for companionship and a physical relationship.
He took a step forward and placed his hands on her arms and smiled. “I can assure ye, lass, that were yer home not filled with four lasses, one of which hates me vehemently, I’d no’ hesitate to join ye in yer bed.”
Moirra studied him closely but remained silent.
“But I think, fer now, we should allow yer daughters time to get used to havin’ me here before we ask them to get used to havin’ me in yer bed.”
After a few moments, her shoulders relaxed a bit and she had to agree. “I think ye be right, John.”
He let her go and looked around the small barn until he found a ladder leading to a loft. “I think the loft is as good a place as any to sleep this night.”
“Ye should no’ have to sleep out here,” she told him.
“Och!” he chuckled. “I’ve slept in far worse places, lass. Remember? Ye saved me just this morn from a fate worse than death.”
Moirra laughed along with him. “I’ll get ye some spare blankets,” she said as she turned to walk away. She paused in the doorway. “I thank ye, John, fer bein’ understandin’. I be verra glad yer here.”
She did not wait for any response and made her way out of the barn.
* * *
Had he been someone she knew prior to today, Moirra might have insisted that they consummate their handfasting. Had she not been so worried over her children, or more specifically, Mariote, she would have insisted John share her bed this night. Were it only a perfect world.
* * *
“I like him,” Orabilis whispered to her sisters. “He’s nice.” Climbing across the bed, she slid under the covers. The loft held two beds, with a small table set between. A lone candle illuminated the dark space as the girls settled in for the night.
Mariote snorted derisively. “I don’t like him.” Mariote pulled back the blankets and slid into the bed she shared with Orabilis.
“But I do like him,” Orabilis repeated as she scooted over to allow her older sister room.
Muriale added her own thoughts to the mix. “I like him too. He tells good stories.”
Esa elbowed Muriale in the ribs. “Wheest. Mariote is right. He be a man. And ye canna trust a one of them.”
Muriale would not be silenced. “Mum says all men are alike in only some things, but each man be different.”
“Bah!” Mariote whispered harshly. “All men be the same deep down. Lustful demons all of them.”
“What does lustful mean?” Orabilis asked.
Mariote did not want to have to explain that to her six-year-old sister. “It means ye canna trust them. Now, go to sleep.”
“But I do trust him. I like his eyes. Mum says ye can tell a person’s true character by lookin’ into their eyes.”
’Twas Esa’s turn to snort. “Mum says many things and no’ all of them necessarily true.”
“Mum wouldna lie ’bout such a thing,” Orabilis said defensively. Always her mother’s champion.
Mariote looked around the loft to be certain everyone was settled in before blowing out the candle. Light from candles below kept the loft from being bathed in complete darkness. Putting out the candle was Mariote’s way of signifying the conversation was over. However, neither Orabilis nor Muriale were ready to let the matter settle.
“I think John is verra nice and I don’t care what the two of ye think. Ye mustn’t judge one man based on the misdeeds of another.”
Mariote bolted upright in the bed. “Ye think what Gunnar Wilgart did to me was a misdeed?” she asked angrily.
Muriale and Esa sat up in their bed. “Nay!” Muriale said. “I do no’ think that, Mariote! What he did was unforgivable. And might I remind ye what I did when —”
Esa spun to face her sister and placed a hand over her mouth. “Wheest!” she whispered harshly. “We promised never to speak of that night!”
When Esa saw that Muriale understood, she slowly removed her hand.
Muriale took a deep breath before exhaling it slowly. “Mariote, what happened that night was unforgivable.” She cast a look of warning to Esa. “’Twas a terrifying, horrible thing and I hate to think of what would have happened had I not arrived when I did.” She paused, choosing her words carefully. Her heart ached for what had almost happened to Mariote. She hated how that night changed Mariote from the fun, sweet, high-spirited lass, to the cold, afraid, untrusting person she was today. That night had changed all of them in one way or another, save for Orabilis. Blessedly, Orabilis had been in bed with the ague and had slept through the entire ordeal.
“Mariote, I canna pretend to ken exactly how ye feel any more than ye can pretend to ken what I feel over what I did. But I can sleep at night and I will no’ close off me heart to everyone. I pray that someday, yer heart will no’ be so burdened and heavy.”
Mariote remained quiet, unable to respond. Whenever she thought of that dark, ugly night, she felt sick to her stomach. Nay, she could not understand how Muriale felt, couldn’t understand how she was able to go on with her life as if nothing bad had happened.
Mariote wanted to forget, Lord how she wished she could simply wipe the memories from her mind. But it was not as easy for her as it was for Muriale, Esa, and their mother. The event was still too fresh; the wounds to her heart and mind were like open, gangrenous, festering sores. She was doubtful that she’d ever be able to forget that night.
Four
John had settled into the loft and in no time, he was sound asleep. Exhaustion had claimed him almost before he laid his head down.
Hours later, he woke with a start, shooting upright in his makeshift bed. Screams, the kind of screams that turn a man’s blood to ice tore through the quiet night. They were coming from the cottage. He grabbed his plaid, draped it haphazardly around his waist, lifted his sword and flew down the ladder. Within a matter of moments, he was busting down the door to the cottage, looking for the intruders who he was certain were there, torturing Moirra and her daughters.
The door banged against the wall of the cottage as he raced inside. He stood in the dark and empty kitchen, blood pounding through his veins, rushing in his ears as he looked about the tiny space. He heard whimpering coming from the loft above and as he made his way toward the ladder, little Orabilis began to climb down.
“Orabilis!” he called out to her as he rushed to help her down. “Are ye hurt? Is someone abovestairs?” he grabbed the little girl and held her close.
“I be no’ hurt,” she said. “Mum is abovestairs,” she said sleepily. “I’m to fetch milk.”
John was not quite certain he had heard her correctly. “Milk?” he asked as he held the child away to get a better look at her.
“Aye,” she said with a nod. “Fer Mariote. She had another bad dream.”
Relief washed over him as he put the child down. ’Twas then that Moirra’s head popped out from above. “John?” she said his name, surprised to see him standing half naked in the middle of her home in the middle of the night. “What be the matter?”
He stood, dazed and dumbfounded. The screams that had woken him from a sound sleep had been loud enough to wake the dead. “I heard screamin’,” he said as he felt the blood rush from his face.
Moirra’s face fell and she quickly climbed down the ladder. “Are ye well?” she asked as she helped him into a chair.
He had been certain they were under some sort of attack. Certain brigands or criminals of one sort or another had been in the home, attacking Moirra and her daughters. He g
ave a shake of his head, hoping it would bring a bit of clarity. “Am I well?” he managed to ask. “I was nearly scared out of me skin thinkin’ ye were all being attacked!” he exclaimed.
“I be so sorry, John,” Moirra said as she cast a weary look toward the loft. “Ye see, Mariote sometimes has bad dreams.”
Mariote. He should have known.
“Bad dreams?” he asked incredulously. “Bad dreams that cause her to scream loud enough to wake the dead and scare the wits out of a man?”
“I be sorry, John.”
He was growing weary of constant need to apologize on behalf of Mariote. He was growing weary of the complicated half grown young woman who hated him with unrestrained passion, who now lay above stairs sobbing. He had never been mistaken for a patient man. Angry for having the life scared out of him, he was fully prepared to march up the ladder and paddle Mariote’s arse.
Then he heard her sobs and her sisters’ gentle wheests that all would be well.
Then he felt guilty.
Mariote’s voice floated down from above. “I be sorry I woke ye,” she told her sisters between sobs.
“Do no’ fash over it, Mariote. Ye canna help the bad dreams. Wheest now,” Esa said.
John looked up at Moirra who was twisting her hands together nervously. “What does she dream of?” he asked in a low tone.
Moirra turned pale. “All manner of things.”
Had she been telling the full truth, John knew, she wouldn’t have taken so long to answer. Fear flickered briefly in Moirra’s eyes before she cast her gaze to the floor.
Deep in his gut he knew something terrible had happened. Something that Moirra could not speak of. He could not blame her for not sharing whatever it was that haunted Mariote’s dreams, for he was still a stranger.
When he’d first met Moirra, she appeared to be a strong, independent woman. Feisty and blunt she was, until it came to Mariote and whatever secret they kept between them. Her countenance changed, she wrung her hands together, and paled whenever the subject was broached.
He couldn’t push for answers for he felt he didn’t have a right to them. He was a temporary husband and nothing more.
“Does she have them often?” he asked softly.
Moirra nodded and continued to wring her hands together, unable to look him in the eye.
“Is there anythin’ I can do?”
His question apparently surprised her for she finally looked up at him with a most puzzled expression. “Nay,” she finally answered.
He let out a heavy breath and stood. “Verra well, then. I shall return to the barn. But if ye need me, please, Moirra, do no’ hesitate to yell.”
He gave her a bow and quit the cottage.
* * *
Morning came far too soon for anyone’s liking. After being scared half to death by Mariote’s screams, it had taken John more than an hour to fall back to sleep.
When the cock crowed at dawn, John cursed under his breath and threatened to roast the bloody thing if it did not stop its incessant crowing. His anger and cursing fell on deaf rooster ears.
The new family broke their fast over eggs, sausage and bread before heading out to tend to morning tasks. John, Moirra, and Mariote went to the fields and pulled weeds all through the morn. By the time they stopped for the noonin’ meal, John’s back ached with a fierceness he’d not felt in some years.
Before the turn of events that lead him here, he’d not been accustomed to such hard work. He was accustomed to living a life of luxury, and, at times, life as a warrior, but only under the most dire circumstances.
As the sun beat down and the sweat poured off his face and the tip of his nose, he found himself wishing for a cold mug of ale in a dark tavern somewhere.
The women were far more accustomed to the hard work. They talked to one another while they pulled weeds. John did his best to keep his eyes and focus on the task at hand, but his eyes apparently had a mind and will all their own, as did his manhood.
Neither one would pay any attention when he insisted they stop looking so lasciviously at the beautiful woman bent over, pulling weeds. His eyes wouldn’t look away and his manhood decided it, too, wanted a wee peek at the lovely Moirra and tried to extricate itself from his trews.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
’Twasn’t at all like him to stare at a woman like this. The more he stared after her, the more he felt like a young lad again, lusting after a chambermaid. But Moirra was no young, inexperienced maiden. She was a woman full grown. A beautiful, beguiling, soft woman, with curves and bosom aplenty.
Moirra chose that moment to stand and stretch her back. A sheen of perspiration glistened across her forehead and cheeks. The breeze played with her hair, twirling the loose strands around her neck and face. When she pressed her hands to her back and stretched, his breath was stolen away.
He’d married Aphrodite, a goddess, a beautiful woman.
And he couldn’t lay one damned finger on her.
Aye. God had a sense of humor all right.
Five
Mariote’s screams woke the dead again, his second night on the little farm. As he’d done the night before, John went racing half naked into the cottage, roused out of a deep sleep from the first day of hard labor he’d ever endured, only to find Mariote sobbing, her mother trying to comfort her and little Orabilis climbing down the stairs for milk.
John wondered mayhap if whisky wouldn’t be more in order. After making sure all was well, he drug his weary body back to the loft. He fell asleep before he laid his head upon his pillow.
With aching muscles, a sore back, and exhausted beyond his own comprehension, John dragged himself to breakfast the following morn. The females in residence were seemingly unaffected by either the hard work or the lack of sleep. He wasn’t sure if he should despise them for it, or stare in apt admiration. When he caught himself doing the latter, he reined in his emotions and ate as quickly as he could.
Whilst a few small acres of land might not appear to be much, the work required to ensure a bountiful harvest was backbreaking, tiresome, and grueling. As the morning wore on, with him stooped over like a rickety old man, he began to wish he was back in the pillory. Public humiliation began to look less and less a trial with each weed he pulled out of the ground.
Blame. That’s what he needed. Someone to blame for the mess he was in. The three thieves who had started this ordeal, that is where the blame lie. Had he not been robbed he wouldn’t have been tempted to live a life of sobriety. The temptation to turn his life around, take control of it, would not have been dangled in front of him like a bar wench dangling her wares in front of a man who’d been gone to sea for five years.
The bar wench his mind conjured, had skin the color of cream and just as smooth. The wench had long hair that fell in waves down her back and a pair of plump breasts that begged to be touched.
Before his eyes, the wench transformed from a dark haired, young and supple creature to a more mature woman with hair the color of spun gold and green eyes that sparkled like emeralds in the sun. She transformed into Moirra.
Lustful thoughts abounded. Images of him taking Moirra up to the loft, pulling her clothes off with his teeth, and making wild, passionate love to her, nearly knocked him off his feet. The images battered around in his mind, like loose stones in a basket. When he tried closing his eyes the images only became clearer.
Sweat ran down his back, beaded on his forehead and upper lip. Suddenly it felt quite warm in the field, even with the strong breeze coming in from the west. He wiped his brow on the sleeve of his tunic and gave his head a fierce shake. His mind raced for some plausible explanation.
Mayhap he’d been in the sun too long. Mayhap he’d gone too long without a woman.
Yes, he assured himself, that was it. A combination of too much hard work, being too long in the sun, and far too long without a woman warming his bed. There could be no other explanation. ’Twasn’t actually Moirra he wanted. Any woman would do.
> Mayhap, in a few days time, he could come up with some excuse to make his way back to the village and find a willing wench. He could not expect Moirra to satisfy his physical urges. ’Twasn’t a real marriage between them. Just a temporary handfasting and nothing more.
Feeling more hopeful, he returned his attention back to the blasted weeds. He glanced up again, to see Moirra not far from him, bent over, and yanking on weeds. She did have an ample bosom and it was damned near to spilling out from her dress! Tiny beads of perspiration dotted her décolletage and glistened in the late morning sun. Coming upon a particularly stubborn weed, she wrapped both hands around it and tugged. He thought ’twas one of the most erotic things he’d ever seen and he couldn’t wrap his head around why.
He cursed under his breath and turned his back to her. If he continued to ogle her, she’d think him nothing more than a perverse lecher. And just why the bloody hell her opinion of him mattered, he could not understand. But it did matter and that fact terrified him. The fear had the same effect as having been tossed into a freezing loch in the middle of January.
All lustful thoughts evaporated, replaced with a tremendous amount of fear and confusion.
How on earth was he going to survive the next two months?
Six
They’d only been married a few days when Thomas McGregor came calling.
It took only moments in the man’s company for John to realize Moirra had made no exaggerations regarding the man. He was an arrogant fool.
John was mending the chicken coop while Moirra was washing clothes when Thomas McGregor rode into the yard atop a massive Highland pony.
Thomas McGregor stared down at John with a furrowed brow and just a hint of anger in his bright eyes. John dropped his hammer and stood to his full height, resting his fingertips on his hips and stared back.
Without taking his eyes from John, Thomas called out to Moirra. “So ’tis true then?”
Moirra's Heart Series: The Complete Collection ( Moirra's Heart Series: The Complete Collection (The Moirra's Heart Series Book 3)) Page 5