Mourning is an ugly affair yet Muriale McCullum’s crushed heart somehow still beats.
It has been nearly a year since she lost the love of her life. Worried that she might never recover from the loss, her parents decide to send her to Edinburgh, with her sister Orabillis in tow. They hope that time away from her memories of Patrick will help heal her broken heart.
When Muriale meets the handsome knight, Rory MacLeod, she begins to realize that life just might be worth living again.
But will the madman she encounters in the dark and dirty streets of Edinburgh stop her heart from beating forever, or will she find the courage to fight and allow herself to live again?
The life of a Knight has meant devotion to king and country. But when handsome Rory MacLeod meets Muriale McCullum, he begins to question everything.
On a quest to find a madman, it’s a race against time to find the courage to give Muriale his heart and keep her from being the next victim.
Genre: FICTION / Romance / Historical / ScottishThis is the third book in my Daughters of Moirra Dundotter Series. Sales have been quite good but expect they will increase even more when I release the final book in the series. Since it's release, it has sold more than 6,000 ebook copies. I
Muriale McCullum was in mourning. The love of her life -- Patrick MacConnell -- had been killed ten months and nine days ago. The ache in her heart was so profound and intense that she firmly believed she would never be the same again.
She was still wearing black and would continue to do so all the rest of her days. Days, which she frequently prayed were not many. If her heart didn’t stop beating soon, she’d just curl up on his grave and wait for the sweet release of death.
Mourning was agony.
Had Patrick not been killed in the senseless attack by the Buchanans, they would have been married in August. And God willing, she’d be with child by now.
Not only had the Buchanan’s stolen Patrick’s life, they’d stolen Muriale’s future and her heart. Not only would she mourn Patrick’s death until the last beat of her heart, she would hate and despise the Buchanans throughout eternity.
’Twas a dreary spring afternoon, nearing the end of May. The gray skies, the blustery wind, and heavy mist kept most people indoors. But not Muriale.
As she had done every day since Patrick’s death, she was at his graveside. Muriale didn’t care about the puddle that soaked her blue woolen gown, or the water seeping into her boots. Neither did she care about the gusts of winds swirling around her, pulling long strands of hair from her braid. Winds that turned her skin to gooseflesh.
“Patrick, I miss ye,” she whispered to his grave. “I dinnae believe I can live much longer without ye.”
