Synopsis

 

From the Realm of Time continues the saga of Roman General Marcus Augustus Valerias nine years after his climactic war with the Huns, and five years after the Romans’ catastrophic defeat at Adrianople.  In 383 AD, Valerias has retired to an estate near Milan with his wife, Claire, a former queen of a kingdom in Britannia, and their two daughters. A life of contentment at the estate eludes Valerias and Claire as they face religious strife in the Christian community, unrest in her former kingdom incited by a usurper queen, reconciliation with her estranged son, and the pending massive invasion of Britannia by the Saxons. Their interactions with a diverse group of characters create an epic story of treachery, courage, war, and love set against the backdrop of the relentless passage of time.

 

 

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Excerpt

 

CHAPTER I

 

Turning Point 378 AD

 

It was difficult to tell who was breathing harder—the man or the horse. The man because of the overwhelming fear of his impending death; the horse because of the terror pulsing through the man, who pushed it to run even harder. Both were in full agreement to flee the area as quickly as possible.

The man was Flavius Julius Valens Augustus, the Eastern Roman emperor. He had just witnessed the destruction of his mighty army by the Goths at a place called Adrianople, located approximately one hundred and thirty miles northwest from his capital at Constantinople.t was difficult to tell who was breathing harder—the man or the horse. The man because of the overwhelming fear of his impending death; the horse because of the terror pulsing through the man, who pushed it to run even harder. Both were in full agreement to flee the area as quickly as possible.

What started out as a great day for the empire was now a complete disaster. The Roman army had been crushed by the Goths, with the remnants in full flight. All the Roman soldiers who were wounded or could not escape were slaughtered unmercifully. Death watched with glee as blood washed over the countryside.

Emperor Valens believed that if he was captured, the Goths would parade him about as a spoil of their victory. The Goths would seal his fate in a manner similar to that of Roman Emperor Valerian, who had been captured by the Persian King Shapur I a century earlier. He accepted as truth the persistent rumors that the unfortunate late emperor had been flayed alive and his skin stuffed with straw.

Valens moved his thoughts away from that dreadful scenario and, in a brief moment of clarity, sensed a pain in his side. When he tried to rub the area, he felt a sharp, burning sensation. The arrow wedged inside his rib cage had penetrated his left lung. Blood oozed from the wound and soaked his clothes. His breaths became labored. Perhaps I will die before the Goths capture me, he thought, and said a quick prayer to God to save his soul.

In the chaos after the battle, Valens had been separated from his guard, his generals, and his loyal eunuchs. However, he was fortunate because it was twilight; darkness was about to envelop the landscape. The moonless night would provide cover for him. Unfortunately, Emperor Valens was not a man who could survive on his own.

A large man with dark skin in Roman battle dress rode up beside Valens on a black horse. At first, Valens did not know what to think of him. He was thankful, though—the large man was a Roman. But the pain took over his mind and before Valens could say anything, the large man easily pulled him onto his own horse.

“I am a loyal subject of Rome, Emperor,” the large man said reassuringly. “I will take you to safety. I have friends in the woods across that ridge.”

“What friends? And who are you?” Valens spoke meekly with eyes that could barely make out the shape of his rescuer.

“In time, Emperor. Now, just rest.”

The two men rode by a barn where several Roman soldiers stood nearby. One solider recognized Valens and shouted for him and the large rider to join them in the barn.

“I am taking the emperor to safety in the woods,” the large man shouted. “I would not stay in that barn, if I was you. The Goths will trap you in there. You will have better fortune in the woods.”

The soldiers were barely visible in the growing darkness. They again urged Valens and his rider to join them, but the large man just waved. He continued to carry Valens by horseback into the woods.

The forest was abundant with vegetation; thickets of scrub dodged the dark shadows of the tall canopies. Even in the August heat, coolness permeated the woods.

Valens lost and regained consciousness several times as the large man wound his way over the forest floor. Once when he awoke, Valens inquired, “How can you know where we are going?”

The large man answered, “It is marked. Even at night I can follow the trail. We will be at our destination soon. Rest, Emperor.”

About a half hour later, the two men slowly rode into a clearing. An old woodcutter’s hut appeared to the south, illuminated by a torch. The hut had a poorly covered thatched roof with old wooden walls on three sides. The south side of the hut was partially exposed to the elements. It had been years since anyone had used it, as was evident from its dilapidated condition.

The man gently lifted Valens off his horse and carried him into the shelter. A large pile of leaves covered an area on the dirt floor at the back, serving as a rudimentary bed. The large man carefully laid Valens down, the dry leaves rustling as he settled. He opened Valens’ tunic and stared at the wound. He straightened again and walked outside with a grimace.

The man surveyed the area around the hut. When he saw no sign of life, he gave the call of a night bird. He waited a short time before he repeated the call. He walked back into the hut and stood silently. He lit a second small torch and mounted it on the inside wall. Flickers of light from the torch broke the dark’s hold. He could hear Valens’ raspy cough, but could do nothing.

From the southwest, three figures emerged from the forest and rode slowly on their horses through the clearing. The man in front was thin and short with a mustache that smothered his upper lip and curved down on both sides of his mouth. He carried a lighted torch. Behind him came an older man with short, almost gray hair and a neatly cropped beard. The last to arrive was a woman in her mid-thirties. She had a pretty face with long, black hair that curled across the top of her cloak. Her face was starkly pale in the torchlight, which contrasted sharply with her crimson cloak and dark hair. She was someone who would be noticed in a crowd—and by an emperor. She had become Valens’ mistress within days of their initial meeting.

 

 

About the Author

 

Scott resides in Bayside, Wisconsin, with his wife, Marcie. He is a retired environmental consultant with a strong interest in natural resources. Scott enjoys spending time with his three adult children and writing. Into the Realm of Time is Scott’s debut novel. From the Realm of Time is the sequel to Into the Realm of Time.

 

Website

 

 

 

Synopsis

 

It is 372 AD, and the Roman Empire roils on the cusp of its great decline. The fierce Roman General Marcus Augustus Valerias seeks an escape from his brutal military life. The General leaves his legions for frontier Britannia, but his search for a simpler new life is not to be. His destiny becomes entangled with the conflicts of a desperate widowed queen, a troubled Christian priest, a cruel Roman army deserter, and two ruthlessly ambitious Hun brothers, as they struggle with love, power, religion, greed, and the demons of their pasts. The climatic epic battle between mighty armies will decide the fate of these individuals and their peoples. Yet their actions serve as only a temporary ripple in the relentless passage of time.

 

 

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Excerpt

 

CHAPTER III

 

JOSEPH

 

A disheveled figure in chains was being brought up the pathway east of the main tent by two soldiers. The man walked sluggishly and offered no resistance to the soldiers before being placed before the General. He was midsized and appeared to be about thirty years old. The man’s clothes were loose-fitting and torn; dirt and grime masked their color. His hair and beard were scraggly and cut in an asymmetrical manner, and his brown eyes were tired. The General examined the man from head to toe.

“You are a Christian priest, are you not?” inquired the General, his assumption based on past experience with such men.

“I am a servant of the Lord,” the man answered calmly.

“Good,” said the General in such a tone that the unkempt man could not tell if it meant a good or bad thing.

The General looked to Cratus. “Take Gul and his band of peasants to the stockade. I will announce their fate shortly.” To Bukarma he said, “Bring the priest inside my command quarters. I would like to question him further.” His words were ominous.

The General’s men knew that the shroud of death hovered over the priest as much as over Gul’s men. Several of them who had been in the preceding council meeting had already returned to the tent. As it grew darker, a cool breeze prompted the rest of the men who had lingered to also make their way inside.

“Revious, glad you could make at least one of our council meetings,” the General spoke in almost a light-hearted manner to a newcomer.

The man called Revious acknowledged the General. “I am more glad to be alive and in one piece than to have made all of your meetings.”

Revious was clearly not a Roman, but that made no difference to Valerias. The General’s chief scout in these parts was valuable for his intelligence and knowledge of several of the Goth dialects. He was an Alan from east of the Danube and his remit was mostly to report on enemies of Rome. He also, on occasion, kept an eye on Valerias’ enemies closer to home.

Revious had a slight build and clean-shaven face. His laugh came easily and on occasion, he would lightly tease the General. Fifteen years of loyal service had earned Revious the General’s complete trust—although he knew his limits and never exceeded them. When needed, though, Revious could be as cold-blooded as any of the Romans. Revious had a staff of a couple dozen scouts, many of whom were known only to him.

After the brief and welcome exchange with the scout, the General turned once more to the priest.

“Tell me, priest, what is your name?” His voice was flat and emotionless.

“I am Father Joseph, faithful servant of Christ,” said the priest, his tone direct.

“Good. I know you are a follower of the supposed son of God,” the General said, and then added mockingly, “do you know who I am?”

“Yes, you are the Roman, General Valerias.”

“That is correct. And how did you know that?” the General inquired again with a seemingly vague interest in the answer.

“Because your reputation is well known in the land,” Joseph replied without giving much thought to his response.

“What reputation, and what land are you referring to, priest?” The intensity of the General’s interest increased.

Again, Joseph responded ambivalently. “You are the commander of legions in this area, and the land I referred to is this area.”

“Has Joseph always been your name?”

“Since I was born again in Christ’s name.”

“Where are you from?” the General asked, changing the subject. He already had obtained part of the information he needed from Joseph.

“I am from Rome.”

Before Joseph could continue, the General asked, “How far have you traveled outside of Rome?”

“Generally not far. I was a grain merchant who stayed in the family shop in Rome. But I traveled a little with my father. I also trained as a physician.”

“Well, you are neither of those now, are you? And you are not in your shop in Rome.” The General’s tone was becoming serious. “When did you become a priest?”

“About three years ago.”

“And what caused you to leave your reputable positions as a merchant and physician to become a Christian priest?” The General was becoming agitated. Still, Joseph did not seem to pick up on these signals. The council members, though, became quiet. The room waited for Joseph’s reply.

“God came to me in a dream and told me to become a Christian and spread the Good Word and bring comfort to the oppressed.”

“And how did you end up with the Goths?” the General sternly asked. The question was a loaded one, but Joseph gave little thought to his reply.

“My bishop sent me to save the souls of barbarian Goths,” Joseph answered matter-of-factly.

“Didn’t you fear for your life, traveling from Rome to outer areas of the empire? Didn’t you feel threatened?”

“Oh no, not at all. I was treated as a messenger of God and Christ and the church. I was wholly accepted by the Goths.” Joseph acted almost like he was reading a report to his bishop.

The General did not like his condescending tone and asked, “Then, to be a good Christian priest, you must believe in peace among the people.”

“I do believe in peace—”

Before Joseph could utter another word, the General pointedly asked, “Then why are you traveling with a band of Goths to wage war on Rome?”

“I—” Joseph began to answer.

But he was immediately cut off by Valerias, who followed up angrily, “Did you not know this was a Goth war party committing itself to battle with my army? Did you not know that blood would be spilled here today when you left with the Goths? I want to know, priest, was Mostar Gulivus involved in this conspiracy against Rome, or was it the fool Gul’s own plot?”

Joseph finally realized he was in trouble. The extent of the trouble was still unclear to him, but he was now worried. Joseph had heard about General Valerias and his infamous treatment of his enemies, both outside and inside the empire. Still, he did not believe he was in mortal danger. After all, he did not think the General would actually harm a member of the church, regardless of what he had heard. Joseph assumed he would probably get a verbal reprimand and be sent packing back to Rome. So he decided to call the General’s bluff.

“General, I am a simple follower of Christ on a mission to convert lost souls. I see no harm in helping show the unconverted the way of God.” Outwardly, he hoped he appeared persuasive and calm. However, the turbulence in his stomach was another story.

Joseph’s hand twitched nervously, and the General observed this. Joseph stopped talking and waited.

“So you decided not to answer my question, priest.” The words slithered off the General’s tongue. “Refusing to answer indicates to me that you are an enemy of Rome and Constantinople. Now, I will give you one more chance—is Mostar Gulivus or his son, Gul, responsible for this pathetic attempt today?”

Joseph, as a servant of God in a newly Christian empire, again assumed nothing traumatic would happen to him. He knew, though, that as the General’s questioning continued, the dialogue had become an interrogation.

Joseph decided to be coy and nervously said, “What does it matter?”

“Because it will determine whether I attack the Goth clan of Mostar Gulivus. You will assist me in my assessment, or I will have no choice but to execute you as a traitor to the empire and then destroy the Goth clan. The choice is yours, priest.” The General spoke sharply as he issued those words.

Joseph noted that the General’s council room was eerily silent. All eyes were fixed on him and the General. Joseph concluded his only way out of this bad situation was to again bluff and see if the General would let him go.

Joseph summoned all his courage and forcefully said, “I am a Christian priest, a citizen of Rome, and a man of God. I have to answer only to my superiors in Rome and to God. You will now excuse me, as I need to tend to the wounded Goths.”

With those words, Joseph turned and moved toward the entrance of the tent.

 

 

About the Author

 

Scott resides in Bayside, Wisconsin, with his wife, Marcie. He is a retired environmental consultant with a strong interest in natural resources. Scott enjoys spending time with his three adult children and writing. Into the Realm of Time is Scott’s debut novel. From the Realm of Time is the sequel to Into the Realm of Time.

 

Website

 

 

 

Lady Sophia – a novella

 

Published: 4^th December 2020

 

Genre: Historical romance fiction

 

Pages: 81 (paperback)

 

 

Synopsis

 

The story begins in Venice in 1720 when a young woman, Sophia Pocock, traveling with her chaperone, Aunt Matilda, decides to escape from the confines of their rented palazzo on the Grand Canal on the day of the Festival di Sensa.  Free for once, from the careful guardianship of her aunt, she makes two fateful decisions that will set her on a dangerous course, experimenting with the boundaries of acceptable genteel behavior.

Henry Jenkins, meanwhile, is on the loose, in pursuit of a hedonistic lifestyle.  He is in the city as part of his Grand Tour after his latest misdemeanor at home.  He is also in the crowd at the festival that day, accompanied by his friend James Connaught, as the pair ready themselves for the dubious delights of an evening in the company of the infamous Count Albanolo.

When the worlds of the three young people collide, their encounter will have repercussions that will follow them home and reverberate for years to come.

The novella is the first in a series of three, chronicling the lives and romantic relationships of a group of fictional characters who live in 18^th century West London. It introduces us to the young lives of a number of the characters who feature in ‘Artists and Spies’ thirty years later.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Excerpt

 

Chapter 1

 

VENICE

 

Sophia’s Escape

 

“If adventures will not befall a young lady in her own village, she must seek them abroad.” Jane Austen

 

Sophia frowned at her aunt.  Their conflict seemed to be constant at the moment.  Whatever Sophia asked of her, the answer was always an emphatic ‘no’.  So, it was no to a visit to the island of Murano in the company of other tourists, to watch glass being made; it was a no to the invitation to Count Albanolo’s party.

After frequent refusals, Sophia decided that she wouldn’t bother to ask any further.  If there was something she wished to do, she would find another way to achieve it, a way that didn’t have to involve being accompanied by Aunt Matilda.  She was frustrated that they had come to Venice, a place that was so full of energy and excitement, yet she had taken no part in anything.

Aunt Matilda sat opposite in serene ignorance of Sophia’s churning emotions, calmly drinking tea and eating a muffin.  She was a lady of predictable and conservative habits, so that travelling by carriage and six, and living in the Palazzo seemed to offer enough novelty to satisfy her.

In the weeks they had been in Venice, they had only done a little shopping, and visited an artist’s studio.

The painter, Signor Zapetti, had worked hard to charm the old lady, and convince her that a portrait of her niece would be the very thing to take home to Sophia’s papa, as a lasting souvenir of their trip. So Sophia had dressed carefully, in a sumptuous blue gown trimmed with lace for the sitting, wearing her 18th birthday gift, a gold enamelled fob watch on a chain, her pride and joy.  And unbeknown to Aunt, the artist had put another proposal to her, that she should occasionally model for him, and be an eye-catching addition to a Venetian palazzo wall.

Of course she had accepted, and took pleasure from the knowledge that she could model for the fresco because her aunt had turned down the invitation to the Villa Bellona and would never see the finished article.  She had worked out how to attend the sittings without her chaperone, and was expecting to complete them that afternoon.

Her aunt yawned.  ‘I must say, I believe this muffin is excellent.  Ring the bell, my dear, and we’ll have another.  Would you like another?’

‘No thank you Aunt.’

The bell sat a mere four feet from her aunt’s languid hand, but the suggestion that the lady might care to ring it for herself might have seemed impertinent.  Instead, Sophia did her duty, and on the return to her seat, yawned too.  It must be catching.  She was beginning to think that there was little more excitement to be wrung from Venice, but then pulled herself up, mentally.  What could she be thinking?  Of course there was!  She just needed to show a little more creativity, and all would be well.  She had an advantage.  It would not occur to Aunt Matilda that her niece would set out to deceive her.

At home in Amersham, Sophia probably never could, for life in the English provinces had been tame, she was kept close, and the neighbours knew every movement of everyone else in their circle.  In Venice, however, anything was possible.  She was an unknown foreigner who, in an evening mask, might remain completely disguised.

With a claim that she needed a lie-down, Sophia left her aunt in the salon, and without being seen by the servant, slipped out of the palazzo door into the side street.  Then she rounded the corner to the artist’s studio.  Once there, Signor Zapetti ushered her impatiently to the screen, behind which she quickly undressed.  She stepped onto the dais for her pose.  The afternoon sun glanced through the wide studio windows and touched the curves of Sophia’s figure.  It gilded her bare leg, and inched up her thigh as the sitting progressed.

Thank goodness it was spring, she thought, and almost shivered at the memory of standing naked on the same spot two months earlier, while rain had flung itself at the windows outside.  And in May, here she was, still trying to look as if she were Diana, Goddess of the Moon.  However, she could only afford to spend an hour here without discovery.  Signor Zapetti knew of her circumstances and seemed happy for his muse to be available, whenever she could.

From the platform, Sophia could see the great city below.  Its startling beauty never failed to enchant her.  The lagoon glittered, a sharp golden contrast to the soft, misty colours of the buildings, whose panorama of domes and spires gave the scene its familiar outline.  It was different to her Amersham home, where life for its inhabitants was narrow and restricted.  And then there was the climate.

Even in spring, the cold weather in the Chilterns could leave frost on the roofs of the cottages, huddled together along the road that ran between London and Aylesbury.  So she had longed for a change of scenery and people.  The move to Italy had seemed  to be a capital idea.  It was to be an adventure that would free her, at last, from her humdrum life in England.

She sighed.

‘Stay still, stupid girl,’ said the artist.  Then he added, more kindly, ‘I am nearly finished.  Give me five more minutes.’

She was familiar with such comments.  Five minutes would turn into thirty, and until the light faded, she would have to remain like a statue.  But today, she thought that she might be fortunate.  The artist was finishing his preparation, and hoped to start at the Villa Bellona within days.  The hour should be sufficient for the work, and then she could sneak back to the palazzo.

She tried to concentrate on her rôle as Diana the Huntress, holding an intricate bow in her left hand.  Her right hand appeared to be drawn forward by a dog on a leather leash.  The dog, for it was real rather than a prop, had already disgraced itself ten minutes earlier.  Though it had since been patient, she thought that it must surely be flagging.  She glanced down.  It had closed its eyes.

Finally Signor Zapetti put down his charcoal.  ‘There,’ he announced, ‘you begin to be immortalized.  Now go!’

The drawing was the preliminary study for artwork that had been commissioned for a magnificent palace, the home of his patron.  Sophia was to be the central figure of an allegorical painting representing Night, on the wall of Count Albanolo’s dining room.  Her nakedness would be very appealing to the Count’s friends and neighbours, connoisseurs of the female form, whose tastes ran to the exotic and the sensual.  Their hypocrisy about art was not lost on her, but she was a pragmatist and, in any case, relished the danger of the assignment.

The artist had his back to her as he examined the sketch, and he clearly expected her to leave without further conversation.  So she prodded the dog awake with her bare toes.  It yawned noisily and licked its lips, gazing at her in expectation.  The painter wanted her to keep it out of his way, so drawing on her clothes behind a screen, she smoothed the creases in her robe, and guided the dog down the staircase into the courtyard.  The creature, a brown and white gazelle hound, had been borrowed for the occasion and would soon be collected.  It seemed happy to settle onto the tiled floor in a bright square of sunlight that blazed down from the open sky, warming the spot where it curled up.

She made her way quietly through the courtyard door to the bridge over the canal and from there to St. Mark’s Square, where the famous astrological clock was chiming the hour.  She looked up at the carved figures who struck the bell, and longed for time to pass more quickly.  It was the week before Ascension Day, and Sophia felt a little thrill of excitement about the approaching Festival di Sensa.  The costume for her planned and secret attendance at the event had been carefully chosen.  It would be eye-catching enough to be seen in the crowds that would gather along the canal banks to watch the rowing competitions.  It was also appropriate for attendance at one of the lavish parties that followed, and to which she had been secretly invited by one of the painter’s clients.

She considered the outfit, newly finished and now hanging on the back of her chamber door, concealed beneath other clothes.  The dark green bodice sparkled with gold lace, and the colours were echoed in the mask that she had chosen for the occasion.  The ensemble looked much more expensive than it was.  She had developed blisters on her fingers, having painstakingly made the gown from cast-off brocade curtains, using her skill and imagination.

She justified the work in her own mind by viewing it as an investment, part of an opportunity to go to the ball undetected, and perhaps even fulfil her dreams of social advancement.  The artist’s payment for her modelling had barely paid for the trimmings, but now that the gown was finished, she would ensure that every moment that she wore it would make all the effort worthwhile.

For she had no desire to return to Amersham, without having profited from her time in this great city.  That return would be when her aunt, a woman of considerable fortune, but narrow tastes, grew tired of their time in Venice.  No, she pictured her return home as merely a visit, part of a triumphant progress through Buckinghamshire to visit her relations, before she returned to the imagined splendour of life in some country house or palazzo of her very own, with an aristocratic and adoring husband in tow.  All she had to do was give her aunt the slip, and find the right man.

 

 

 

About the Author

 

Pamela Stephen lives in Lincolnshire with her husband.  She retired from teaching after more than thirty years in schools and colleges.  Her interests include Art History and Architecture.

She is the author of ‘Artists and Spies’ a story about the life and work of a female artist in Georgian England.  This is her second historical novel and like ‘Lady Sophia’, is set in the Georgian era.  The characters portrayed in Lady Sophia originated in ‘Artists and Spies’, a story set in 1750s France and London.

 

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Truly Madly Plaid

 

by Eliza Knight

 

Publication Date: 12/29/2020

 

 

Synopsis

 

USA Today bestselling author Eliza Knight takes you into the heart of the Highlands, where these warriors are prepared to give up everything in the fight for their country.

 

Annie MacPherson’s world was torn apart when her family’s castle was ravaged during the war. Determined to aid her countrymen, she braves the battlefield and finds gravely wounded Lieutenant Craig MacLean. Soon her heart belongs to the fierce warrior.

As the English dragoons draw closer to Annie’s makeshift hospital, Craig knows they have to escape together if they’ll have any chance to survive. But when they come face-to-face with the enemy and Craig is imprisoned, Annie will have to risk everything she has to save the man she can’t live without.

History and adventure come to life in Eliza Knight’s thrilling Scottish Highland romance. Annie is based loosely on Anne MacKay, Anne Leith, and Lady Maxwell, who risked their lives to protect Jacobite soldiers by hiding them, healing their wounds, and helping them escape from enemy forces.

 

 

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Excerpt

 

April 5, 1746 

 

This was a mistake.

Every hair on the back of Lieutenant Craig MacLean’s neck stood on end, as though each one wielded its own sword against the enemy.

Without the protection of the fortress walls, they were sitting ducks tromping through the forest. An army with most of its men on foot would not be able to escape should a legion of redcoats cut off their path.

Winter had not stopped the sieges. Winter had not stopped death.

A vulture flew overhead, accompanied by two cronies as they cut a wide circular path in the graying sky. Were he and the men the dead meat they sought?

“We should go back,” he said to Graham MacPherson. “Your invitation was appreciated, but I’ve no’ got a good feeling about this.”

There was no telling when Cumberland’s men would make their move, and if the men were inebriated from drink and tired from too much celebrating, they’d not be ready for an attack.

Graham chuckled and tossed the end of a stick he’d been chewing at Craig. “Ye’re afraid of a few birds, are ye?”

“I’m no’ afraid of anything.”

“Let loose, MacLean. The men need to have some fun, and so do ye.”

The very last place that Craig wanted to be was riding toward Cullidunloch Castle. It wasn’t that he didn’t like castles or his host or the warm feast that Graham had promised or the ale that was certain to be flowing.

Craig liked all of those things quite a lot. More than a lot, if he were being honest. Toss in a bonnie wench or two to flirt with, and he’d be in his own version of heaven. But Cullidunloch Castle wasn’t only home to his best mate. It also happened to house a woman he’d been working hard to avoid for months. Graham’s sister Annie was very beautiful and very irksome. She was as brilliant as she was irritating, and despite that brilliance, the lass had conveniently forgotten the single encounter the two of them had shared.

He hadn’t forgotten. How could he? And now he was descending upon her home—her and Graham’s home—to partake of their hospitality. Her hospitality. If she was willing to give it.

Hospitality he would really like to have, considering he hadn’t had a warm bath in weeks. He’d only managed to keep himself from smelling like a chamber pot by swimming—when the lochs weren’t covered in a sheet of ice. His clothes were getting stiff from use, and he was fairly certain that his last good pair of hose now had a hole where his big toe was greedily trying to squeeze through.

At least right now they weren’t dealing with snow, though it was only early spring and another storm was inevitable in the Highlands. The temperatures had been rising steadily, enough so that the men in his regiment weren’t so fearful of freezing to death anymore. Unless of course it snowed tonight and Annie MacPherson tossed him out with the last of the evening’s rubbish. He wouldn’t put it past her.

Craig would have to make nice with her, though he found the very idea absurd. Graham didn’t need to know what a termagant his sister truly was. He’d never told his friend what had happened when he’d found Annie retching after battle.

To everyone else she encountered, Annie was sweet as sunshine. Even the men she had to stitch up while they writhed in pain called her their angel—men in his own regiment, men he’d trained and led into battle. She was lauded for her nursing skills and her bedside manner, which stung even more. Of course he sent his men to her to be mended; she was the best damn healer he’d ever seen.

And that was about all the amount of niceties he’d extend. Why had he been the only unlucky fellow to have encountered her waspish side?

He would never be caught openly acknowledging the bonniness of her face. The way her chin curved into a petite point or the way her eyebrows arched delicately over her mesmerizing eyes. Eyes that were the most incredible amber color.

Bloody hell.

Every time he looked at Annie, every time she smiled, he saw that derisive sneer she’d flashed at him the night he’d tried to help her. He’d seen a side of her he was certain no one else had, and he’d run as far as he bloody could—after making sure she was safely taken care of, that was.

He wasn’t a complete monster.

But he was quite all right with her believing he was, if that meant she’d stay the hell away from him.

“Is the pottage breakfast no’ agreeing with ye?” Graham’s teasing voice cut through Craig’s thoughts.

He snorted. “I’ve an iron stomach, lad.”

“Lad? I think I’ve got a year or two on ye. And ye forget we’ve been living together on campaign for months. Bean pottage is no’ your friend, mate.”

Craig snickered. “Are ye saying that ye’re in need of a latrine?”

“Debatable.”

Craig was glad for his friend’s distraction. Though he didn’t want to talk about beans or what happened after he ate them.

“Annie’s sure to have a hearty meal for the lot of us this evening.” Graham sounded so wistful, as though he were talking about something more fantastical than food. Like the war ending with Prince Charles Stuart sitting on the throne. Now that was something to long for.

Craig’s smile faded, and he nodded, having hoped to avoid any further conversation about Graham’s chit of a sister.

“I’m honored to be your guest.” This much was true.

“Honored?” Graham let out a guffaw. “Ye’re my brother in arms, mate.”

While they’d known each other for years, they’d become closer friends after having saved each other’s arses at the battle at Falkirk the January past.

“I’m certain Logan will want to spar with ye,” Graham was saying of his younger brother, who’d been sent home from the front with a grave injury. “And Annie, she’ll be there to sew ye up.”

Craig laughed, but only half-heartedly. If he had his way, he’d keep Annie the length of a jousting stick away from him—preferably farther—at all times.

***

Excerpted from Truly Madly Plaid by Eliza Knight. © 2020 by Eliza Knight. Used with permission of the publisher, Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc. All rights reserved.

 

About the Author

 

ELIZA KNIGHT is an award-winning and USA Today bestselling author of over fifty sizzling historical romances. When not reading, writing, or researching, she chases after her three children. In her spare time she likes daydreaming, wine-tasting, traveling, hiking, and visiting with family and friends. She lives in Maryland.

 

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Earl’s Well That Ends Well

 

by Jane Ashford

 

Publication Date: 12/29/2020

 

 

Synopsis

 

This beautiful, clean Regency romance from beloved author Jane Ashford takes you to a glittering world of revelations and romance, where a lonely earl can find love where he least expects it…

 

Arthur Shelton, Earl of Macklin, has helped four young noblemen recover from grief and find love, but he’s learned to live his own life as a widower. Yet when he returns home after traveling, his estate feels too empty, and he quickly heads to London. There, he encounters Teresa Alvarez de Granada, a charming Spanish noblewoman and is immediately entranced.

There is no room for earls in the quiet, safe life Teresa has finally found for herself. The earl might be charming and handsome, but she knows firsthand how dangerous attraction can be. The more determined Teresa is to discourage Arthur, the more entangled they get, and it’s only a matter of time before her respect for him starts to feel a lot like love.

 

 

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Excerpt

 

It was a lovely spot. The carpet of blue blossoms wound back into the trees like rivulets of color, beckoning one deeper into the shade of branches in new leaf. A stream ran nearby, the gurgle of water blending with birdsong. The blossoms’ sweet scent filled the air.

Senora Alvarez turned in a circle to take it all in. “Maravilloso!” She held out her arms as if to embrace the landscape and laughed.

It was the first time Arthur had seen her really laugh, and he found it glorious – the musical sound, the flash of her dark eyes, the joyous gesture, the curve of her lips. She seemed lit from within, as if a shadow had been whisked away and the brilliance inside revealed. This was how she should always be, he thought, glowing, carefree. To be the thing that made her happy – that would be an achievement!

“I have been meaning to take up some cobbles behind my house and make a place for a garden,” she said. “Why have I put it off? I must do it at once. This is…comida para el alma. Food for the soul.”

Removing a few cobbles sounded meager. Arthur had gardens galore at his estates. He wished he could give her one. But a garden wasn’t like a jewel, to be handed over. Even if she would easily accept gifts, which she would not.

“I think Mr. Dolan would be glad to pull them out,” she went on as if the plan was unfolding in her mind.

“Dolan?”

Senora Alvarez turned as if she’d forgotten he was there. “One of my neighbors is a builder.”

“Ah. Friend of yours?” He was not, of course, jealous. That would be ridiculous.

The query seemed to arrest and then amuse her. “He is, along with others on my street, ever since we rid ourselves of Dilch. That canalla bullied Mr. Dolan’s son.”

And she had stopped it. Arthur had never known a woman so self-sufficient. She had a life he knew nothing of, a network of friends. He felt he wasn’t quite one of them, and this galled.

“People talk and do small favors for each other now. It is pleasant.” She walked deeper into the wood, looking right and left as if to drink everything in. She was enraptured, and Arthur found himself envying a swathe of flowers. The idea made him laugh.

Senora Alvarez looked over her shoulder at him. “You find this amusing? That people should be kind?”

“Not that.”

She raised dark eyebrows.

“I was laughing at myself.”

“You were?” She sounded surprised.

“Why shouldn’t I? In particular.”

“You are an earl.”

“And that means I cannot be ridiculous? The title conveys no such immunity. Alas.” He smiled at her.

For some reason, she looked uneasy.

“And I have found laughter the remedy for a great many ills,” Arthur added. Senora Alvarez seemed mystified, or…annoyed? That couldn’t be right. Why should she be? Just a moment ago she’d been delighted. “Is something wrong?”

“You puzzle me…sometimes.”

“But I am the most transparent of men,” he joked. He was so pleased to learn that she thought about him that he added, “What do you wish to know? I have no secrets.”

Her expression revealed his mistake. Senora Alvarez didn’t care to discuss secrets. She had too many of her own. “I ask nothing of you,” she replied, turning to walk on.

Disappointed, with her and himself, Arthur followed. Tom had wandered off, as he tended to do. There’d been no sign of him since they left the carriage. They were alone in a world of color and birdsong and scent. Perhaps the peaceful beauty of the place would soothe her temper, Arthur thought. But he didn’t know what would gain her confidence.

The gurgle of the stream grew louder, and then there it was, a thread of clear water tumbling over rocks. Bluebells, ferns, and mosses bent over the banks. Soft moisture wafted through the air. Senora Alvarez breathed it in. “Hermosa,” she said.

She was, but Arthur was not foolish enough to voice his opinion. He could not resist stepping closer.

A partridge erupted out of the bracken with a violent whirr of wings. Arthur started, twisted one boot heel on a stone, missed his footing with the other, and stumbled toward the stream.

She caught him with an arm about his waist, stopping his slide to a certain dunking. They teetered together on the bank. He held onto her shoulders to regain his balance. Though she was much smaller, her grip was strong, her footing solid. She could hold her own and more. Her body felt soft and supple against his as they came safely to rest.

Arthur looked down. Her face was inches away. Her dark eyes were wide, her lovely lips slightly parted, as if primed for a kiss. She raised her chin. He bent his head to touch them with his, an instant of exquisite pleasure.

She jerked away, nearly sending him reeling once again. Her expression had gone stark. All the beautiful animation had drained out of it. “Do not play such games with me,” she said.

“Games?”

“I told you that what I said at the theater meant nothing!”

“So you did,” replied Arthur, stung. “And I heard you.”

“Yet you try to take advantage.”

“The bird startled me. I tripped.”

“Into my lips.” Her tone was contemptuous.

“I beg your pardon. In the moment I thought you…”

“You know nothing about me. But I will tell you that I despise tricks like that.”

“It was no such thing.”

She made a derisive sound.

She had no grounds to address him with such disdain, to practically call him a liar. “Do you doubt my word?”

“I observe your actions,” she answered, moving away from him. “Where has Tom gone?”

“I have no idea.”

“Tom?” she called. “Where are you?”

“Here,” came the reply from downstream “Come and see. There’s a waterfall.”

Senora Alvarez walked away.

***

Excerpted from Earl’s Well That Ends Well by Jane Ashford. © 2020 by Jane Ashford. Used with permission of the publisher, Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc. All rights reserved.

 

 

About the Author

 

Jane Ashford discovered Georgette Heyer in junior high school and was captivated by the glittering world and witty language of Regency England. That delight was part of what led her to study English literature and travel widely in Britain and Europe. She has written historical and contemporary romances, and her books have been published in Sweden, Italy, England, Denmark, France, Russia, Latvia, the Czech Republic, Slovakia, and Spain, as well as the United States. Jane has been nominated for a Career Achievement Award by RT Book Reviews. She lives in Beverly Hills, CA.

 

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Synopsis

 

A fresh exploration of American feminist history told through the lens of the beauty pageant world.

Many predicted that pageants would disappear by the 21st century. Yet they are thriving. America’s most enduring contest, Miss America, celebrates its 100th anniversary in 2020. Why do they persist? In Here She Is, Hilary Levey Friedman reveals the surprising ways pageants have been an empowering feminist tradition. She traces the role of pageants in many of the feminist movement’s signature achievements, including bringing women into the public sphere, helping them become leaders in business and politics, providing increased educational opportunities, and giving them a voice in the age of #MeToo.

Using her unique perspective as a NOW state president, daughter to Miss America 1970, sometimes pageant judge, and scholar, Friedman explores how pageants became so deeply embedded in American life from their origins as a P.T. Barnum spectacle at the birth of the suffrage movement, through Miss Universe’s bathing beauties to the talent- and achievement-based competitions of today. She looks at how pageantry has morphed into culture everywhere from The Bachelor and RuPaul’s Drag Race to cheer and specialized contests like those for children, Indigenous women, and contestants with disabilities. Friedman also acknowledges the damaging and unrealistic expectations pageants place on women in society and discusses the controversies, including Miss America’s ableist and racist history, Trump’s ownership of the Miss Universe Organization, and the death of child pageant-winner JonBenet Ramsey.

Presenting a more complex narrative than what’s been previously portrayed, Here She Is shows that as American women continue to evolve, so too will beauty pageants.

 

 

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Review

 

If you grew up watching the Miss America pageant, or even the Miss USA pageant, then this book might be of interest to you. The book is chock full of history about how the pageants came to be, their predecessors, and what has been achieved through the decades to improve the pageant and the women that participated. The pageant world is not without scandal or the whims of what men wanted or expected from such shows. But, as with most everything else, the pageants have improved and are not simply a beauty contest. They focus on real-world issues and the women have had to move along with the times to improve themselves and the society around them.

I vaguely recall the small town that I attended for high school having a pageant. I don’t know if the winner actually went on to compete in Miss Texas or not and since I know a past winner, I should ask her if she competed. I remember the fancy gowns and the talent portion from my attendance at the event and even though I was the same age as these women, I had no desire to be a part of this world. That didn’t stop me from enjoying watching it on television growing up, trying to guess who might be chosen, and being amazed at the talents these women possessed.

The author did a wonderful job of researching the book. There are many notations for where the information was gathered and you could spend hours just looking up the articles and other information. There are a few spots with incorrect information, some I noticed and others I learned from other reviews, but overall I thought the history was intriguing and never would have guessed that P.T Barnum had beauty contests as part of his show.

The book is not fast-paced due to the amount of information presented within its covers. But the look into feminism and how it got its start, women seeking something better, and even the #MeToo movement references are mind-boggling. I enjoyed all of the stories and how this all played into our history.

Overall we give this 3 1/2 paws and if you were ever in a pageant or just curious how it has progressed to what we have today, then this book will definitely fill in the gaps.

 

 

 

 

 

 

About the Author

 

Hilary Levey Friedman is the author of Here She Is: The Complicated Reign of the Beauty Pageant in America. She is a sociologist at Brown University, where she has taught a popular course titled “Beauty Pageants in American Society.” She is a leading researcher in pageantry, merging her mother’s past experiences as Miss America 1970 with her interests as a glitz- and glamour-loving sometimes pageant judge, and a mentor to Miss America 2018. Friedman also serves as the president of the Rhode Island chapter of the National Organization for Women. Her first book, Playing to Win, focused on children’s competitive afterschool activities.

 

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Erin’s Children

Historical Fiction

The Sequel to Kelegeen

BWL Publishing, Inc. (December 1, 2020

Paperback: 412 pages

 

 

Synopsis

 

In 1851 Irish Famine survivor, Meg O’Connor, buys passage to America for her younger sister, Kathleen, and arranges employment for her as a maid. Kathleen’s feisty spirit soon puts her at odds with her employers, the bigoted and predatory Pratts. Driven from their home, Kathleen ends up on a wild adventure taking her to places she could never have imagined.

As a domestic servant in the Worcester, Massachusetts home of the kindly Claprood family, Meg enjoys a life beyond her wildest imaginings. Yet she must keep her marriage to Rory Quinn a secret. Rory, still in Ireland, eagerly awaits the day he will join her. But as the only jobs open to Irish men pay poorly, Rory’s imminent arrival threatens to plunge her back into dire poverty.

On the eve of the Civil War, while America is being rent asunder by the fight over slavery, Irish Catholics wage their own war with the growing anti-immigrant Know Nothing party. Through grave doubts, dangers, and turmoil, Meg and Kathleen must rely on their faith and the resilient bonds of sisterhood to survive and claim their destinies in a new and often hostile land.

 

 

 

 

Guest Post

 

How Long Have You Been Writing?

 

That’s a question I’m often asked in interviews. It’s not easy to answer. I suppose it depends on how one defines writing. Does it mean actually putting words on paper in the form of a story or does it mean the creative process of forming stories in the mind before they ever reach paper or screen?

If it’s the former, then it must have been when I was in junior high school. We had to write a story for an English class. Mine was chosen to be published in the school’s newspaper. Two English teachers pulled me out of another class and brought me to the empty cafeteria to work with me on polishing the story for publication. It was the first time I felt as though there might be something special about my writing. It was a very good feeling.

Throughout high school whenever we had a writing assignment for an essay or short story, mine was almost always the one the teacher would pick to read aloud. In an environment where I often felt invisible (or in some cases, wished I could have been) this was a huge boost to my self-esteem.

I kept writing off and on during and after high school. I started college with the plan of becoming an elementary school teacher, but due to a perfect storm of problems, I dropped out and got a job. But I kept writing. I wasn’t great at it. All the short stories I sent to publications were rejected and with good reason. I also wrote a middle grade novel that never saw the publishing light of day, but I did prove to myself that I could complete an entire novel. I had the imagination and creativity for writing, but I had not yet learned the craft and technique. But I wanted to so I read books on writing and took courses.

In my mid-twenties I went back to college and earned my undergraduate degree in history. History has always been one of my greatest loves. I was thrilled to put that degree to use as a Museum Assistant in the Department of Research, Collections, and Library at Old Sturbridge Village, a living history museum that depicts life in an 1830s New England village. I worked with top-level research historians, museum curators, and costumed interpreters. It was an invaluable experience that would benefit me greatly by teaching me how to do the research necessary for writing historical fiction.

Shortly before I landed the job at Old Sturbridge Village I joined the Worcester Writer’s Workshop. I spent the next several years meeting on a weekly basis with a group of dedicated writers. We wrote together and critiqued each other’s work. That’s where I really learned the craft of writing. I will be forever grateful to the group. It was there that I wrote the first draft of what would become Kelegeen, my debut novel.

If by writing one means the creative process of conjuring stories in the mind, which, of course, is essential as one cannot write a story one has not thought about at least a little, then I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember.

I’ve no idea when it first started, but I can recall spending countless hours imagining all sorts of stories. It seemed to happen naturally. It was never something I purposely decided to do. Often it began with a picture. I’d see a photograph in a magazine, a catalog, a book, wherever and something about it would capture my imagination. Without realizing it, my mind would be begin creating a story around the picture complete with plot and characters. It still happens, but to this day I cannot explain why some images trigger that involuntary daydream response and others do not.

Besides pictures, the place I happened to be at the time might also lead to a “mind story.” This was especially true when I was very young. I remember being in a department store with my parents. They were taking a long time picking out whatever they were there to buy and I was bored. Before I knew it my mind had turned the store into a palace and I was a princess. Invaders were attacking and I had to take charge.

I was often rightly accused of daydreaming in school when I should have been doing my schoolwork. I couldn’t help it. If something I read or saw caught my fancy I’d suddenly become preoccupied with the story taking shape in my mind. It got me into a fair amount of trouble at times. Now I am grateful that I was given the gifts of imagination and creativity. They are part of me for a reason. I’ve made a promise to myself that I will always use them to create, to the best of my ability, stories that my readers will become utterly lost in, that will take them to another time and place, stories they wish would never end.

 

 

About the Author

 

Eileen O’Finlan calls her writing “history with a twist” because she is intrigued by the unusual and little known aspects of history – the stories on history’s margins, the things rarely taught in the classroom. For her, that’s where history really gets fun.

Born in Springfield, Massachusetts, her family moved to Worcester when she was two.  Four years later they moved to Holden where Eileen grew up and where she now resides with her 93 year old mother and two cats.

Eileen holds a Bachelor’s degree in history and a Master’s Degree in Pastoral Ministry.  She works full time for the Diocese of Worcester and teaches online courses in Catholic studies for the University of Dayton, Ohio.  She is proud to say that Pope Francis owns a copy of her debut novel, Kelegeen. Erin’s Children is her second novel and the sequel to her debut novel, Kelegeen.

 

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Giveaway

 

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Synopsis

 

Inspired by family stories.

Ming wishes for three things at Christmas. First, to sing in the school Christmas choir. Second, to have a Christmas tree like the one in the department store window. And third, to feel she belongs somewhere.

As a daughter of immigrants in 1930s California, Ming is often treated differently than other children at school. She’s pointedly not invited to sing in the Christmas choir. At home, when Ming lobbies her parents for a Christmas tree, her mother scolds her for trying to be American. Ming doesn’t seem to fit in anywhere: she’s not quite American enough at school, not quite Chinese enough at home.

Seeing his daughter’s unhappiness, Pop takes her into the mountains to visit a wise old friend. Always happy for an adventure with her kind father, Ming hopes to persuade Pop to bring home a mountain pine to be their Christmas tree. But he has something else in mind, something that will help Ming draw strength from nature, from their Chinese heritage, and from deep and enduring family ties.

 

 

 

 

Review

 

I love stories that are aimed towards children to teach them about history but end up teaching adults something as well.

This story is set in the 1930s and features Ming, a Chinese girl, set in a town in California. She doesn’t fit in and has very few wishes, but what she wants more than anything is to sing in the choir at school and have a Christmas tree. However, Mom says no, and Dad agrees with her. But what Ming doesn’t expect is to take a trip with her dad to meet some friends of her grandfather and learn about her heritage. There is even a surprise for Ming at the end of the journey.

The story is educational and inspirational as we follow Ming throughout her day.

Let’s talk about the illustrations. The illustrator does an amazing job of portraying Ming’s story and the 1930s. I like that the inside front cover reflects the town of Merced City, California, where this story is set. There are even key landmarks of what the town looked like in those days.  The back inside cover shows the route that Ming and her father take to visit the family friends in Mariposa Grove.  Each picture that graces the pages of the story is full of life and color. There is one page that depicts intricate carvings in the cabin at Mariposa Grove.

This is a wonderful story to educate young minds about other cultures and history.  We give this book 5 paws up.

 

 

 

 

 

About the Author

 

Susan L. Gong is a former teacher of Mandarin Chinese. She holds a BA in English literature and an MA in creative writing. She and her family have lived in Asia, Europe, and North America.

 

About the Illustrator

 

Mashario Tateishi is a professional artist who specializes in digital and traditional painting and illustration. He also does calligraphy, graphic design, and mural painting. He was born and raised in Sasebo, Japan, next to a beautiful mountain and waterway. He lives in Fukoka, Japan.

 

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ONCE UPON A MAIL ORDER BRIDE

 

Outlaw Mail Order Brides, #4

 

by

 

Linda Broday

 

 

Categories: Western / Historical Romance

Publisher: Sourcebooks Casablanca

Date of Publication: November 24, 2020

Number of Pages: 352 pages

 

 

Scroll down for Giveaway!

 

 

 

 

Accused of crimes he didn’t commit, ex-preacher Ridge Steele is forced to give up everything he knew and make his home with outlaws. Desperate for someone to confide in, he strikes up correspondence with mail-order bride Adeline Jancy, finding in her the open heart he’s been searching for. Upon her arrival, Ridge discovers Addie only communicates through the written word, but he knows a little of what trauma can do to a person and vows to stand by her side.

Addie is eager to start a new life with the kind ex-preacher and the little boy she’s stolen away from her father―a zealot priest of a terrorized flock. As her small family settles into life at Hope’s Crossing, she even begins to find the voice, and confidence, she’d lost so long ago.

But danger is not far behind, and her father will not be denied. While Addie desperately fights the man who destroyed her childhood, a determined Ridge races to the rescue. The star-crossed lovers will need more than prayers to survive this final challenge…and find their way back to each other again.

 

 

 

 

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Praise

 

“An awesome culmination to a great western romance series!” ~ Fresh Fiction

“Broday concludes the Outlaw Mail Order Bride series with a sizzling finale that features a tantalizingly slow build to intimate trust that catapults into adrenaline packed ardor.” ~ Booklist

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over twenty historical western romance novels and short stories. I reside in the Texas Panhandle on land the American Indian and Comancheros once roamed, and at times if the breeze is just right, I can hear their voices whispering in the wind. Texas’ rich history is one reason I set all my stories here where cowboys are still caretakers of the land. I’m inspired every day by their immense dedication and love for the wide-open spaces.

When I’m not writing, I collect old coins and I’ve also been accused (quite unfairly I might add) of making a nuisance of myself at museums, libraries, and historical places. I’m also a movie buff and love sitting in a dark theater, watching the magic unfold on the screen. As long as I’m confessing…chocolate is my best friend. It just soothes my soul.

 

 

 

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————————————— 

 

GIVEAWAY!  GIVEAWAY!  GIVEAWAY!

 

 FOUR WINNERS 

 

GRAND PRIZE:

 

Full Autographed Set of the Mail Order Bride Series

 

2^ND and 3^RD PRIZE:

 

Autographed copy of Once Upon a Mail Order Bride

 

4^TH PRIZE: $10 Amazon Gift Card

 

(US Only. Giveaway Ends Midnight, CST, 12/11/2020.)

 

 

 

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Visit the Lone Star Literary Life Tour Page

For direct links to each post on this tour, updated daily,

or visit the blogs directly:

 

12/1/2020	Book Trailer	StoreyBook Reviews
12/1/2020	BONUS Post	Hall Ways Blog
12/2/2020	Excerpt	Forgotten Winds
12/3/2020	Review	Carpe Diem Chronicles
12/4/2020	Review	Momma on the Rocks
12/5/2020	Character Interview	All the Ups and Downs
12/6/2020	Excerpt	The Clueless Gent
12/7/2020	Review	Missus Gonzo
12/8/2020	Guest Post	The Page Unbound
12/9/2020	Review	Chapter Break Book Blog
12/10/2020	Review	Reading by Moonlight

 

 

 

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Synopsis

 

Love in the time of war.

 

Highland Heart is a sensual historical romance set in England and the Scottish Highlands in 1745 at the time of the second Jacobite Rebellion. (Think Tom Jones!) The romantic involvement is between a French aristocrat who is part Scottish and a British army officer who finds her as desirable as she finds him. Try as hard as they might, their overwhelming passion for each other cannot be denied. But people and events come between them nearly destroying their relationship since they are politically on opposite sides.

 

 

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Excerpt

 

“What will you do with him?” Madeleine asked, her face pale, lower lip trembling.

“He’ll be our prisoner until we’re well out of here. I’ll not be hung as a traitor by the English.”

Andrew turned to Gareth. “They say you’re a brave soldier and that your men respect you. We’ll do you no harm. Unlike your people, we’re not butchers.”

But Gareth wasn’t accepting what her cousin said. It took the same four men to subdue him, and finally, the giant, Fergus, rendered Gareth unconscious with a hard blow to the jaw.

“Is he all right?” she asked with a wavering voice.

“He’ll be fine, lassie,” Andrew reassured her.

“There was no other way to get the bonds on him,” Fergus said. “The mon has the strength of a demon.”

She remained in the cave, waiting for Gareth to regain consciousness, unable to bring herself to leave until she knew for certain that he would truly be all right. As he began to moan softly, she brought a cloth and some water to wash the blood from his face.

When his eyes opened, Gareth at first looked puzzled. Then a flicker of memory came into those glittering sapphire eyes and he seemed to recall the circumstances which brought him into his current situation.

“Untie me,” he demanded of her in a soft, urgent voice.

She shook her head. “I cannot do it. They won’t hurt you. Andrew promised.”

“The promise of a barbarian? And what’s that worth?” He sounded bitter and cynical.

“At least as much as yours,” she countered, pressing his bruised face a little too gingerly with the cloth. “My cousin is a man of honor.”

“Careful!” he said, squirming from the pain.

“You’ve nothing to fear.”

“As if I could trust you!” he spat out angrily.

She stared at him in surprise. “You think I betrayed you in some way?”

“Didn’t you? You knew I followed you here and you told them.”

“I did no such thing! I never dreamed you’d follow us. Why would I? And why did you follow us anyway?” She eyed him suspiciously.

“I thought you might be coming to your cousin.”

“How clever you are,” she said.

“Not near clever enough.”

Her heart hurt; she felt a deep sense of regret and disappointment. He obviously held a low opinion of her.

Andrew joined them at that moment. “Madeleine, I think we might try a bit of a ploy. Tell my mother what has happened. Ask her what she thinks about telling the English soldiers that we hold Eriksen. We could promise to return him if they leave here.”

“They have orders, MacCarnan. If I die, the next man in line will take command, and so forth. It will never end until you’re taken into custody or dead. I’m a worthless hostage to you.” Gareth’s voice was quiet and tightly controlled.

“We’ll see,” her cousin said.

Madeleine saw that Andrew’s face had grown paler and he looked very weak. Gently, she helped him to lie down. He pressed his cheek to hers and kissed her affectionately on the lips. She felt Gareth’s accusing eyes upon her and could hardly breathe as if a granite weight were pressed against her chest.

“Someday, there will be a time for us. I promise ye that, my bonnie lass.” Andrew’s smile was warm as the sun on a summer’s day.

“Rest now,” she said. “Grow strong that you may leave this place.”

His hand held hers until he finally slept. Turning away from Andrew, she saw Gareth’s eyes coldly watching her. His expression was so closed, she hardly knew what he was thinking. The extent of the control he could exercise over his emotions truly amazed her. It also frightened her. He gave away nothing.

“Come here,” he said in a voice that was deadly calm. His hooded eyes possessed her own the way a cobra would mesmerize its victim.

She did not want to move, yet her legs seemed to carry her of their own volition.

“Tell my men where I am,” he said quietly. “Help me escape from here.”

“I cannot do that and you know it!”

“I know nothing of the sort. If you care about me at all then you must help me escape.”

She shook her head. “I do care, but what you ask is impossible.”

“Talk softly. They are paying no attention to us at the moment, but if you raise your voice again, you’ll alert them.”

She pressed a compress against his face and then to his lips which were also badly battered. His lips kissed her fingertips, sending queer little quivers through her belly and heat through her blood.

“Help me,” he whispered. “You must.” He began sucking on her fingertips.

She quickly pulled her hand away.

 

About the Author

 

Multiple award-winning author, Jacqueline Seewald, has taught creative, expository and technical writing at Rutgers University as well as high school English. She also worked as both an academic librarian and an educational media specialist. Twenty of her books of fiction have been published to critical praise. She enjoys painting landscapes and singing along to all kinds of music.

 

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