British Romance Fiction Blog

Miriam Newman: 'The King's Daughter'

2012-02-28T08:00:00.000Z

Blurb:

Born to a dying queen and anambitious king, Tarabenthia is heir to the crown of Alcinia. Yet when the idyll of her childhood ends shewill defy her father, tipping the balance in a world poised on the brink ofdestruction and leaving history to judge whether she is heroine or harlot.

In a time of war, what would yousurrender in the name of love?

Excerpt:

There was only one direction Icould look and that was down the road where we had just come. Now someone else was coming straight up themiddle so that people scattered like chickens. A young, unhelmeted Omani trooper was ridingdown that road on a fine long-legged gray horse,bawling in a voice which did not doubt its own authority. Though I couldn’t hear the words, I knew whathe was saying—troops were coming and he wanted the waycleared NOW.

I couldn’t clear the road. I was chained in it and knew my peril. There was a

curve in that road and by thetime they saw me, it would be too late. My only hope was

that Frado would unfasten themanacles and push me off the road and for a fraction of

a second I actually thought hemight do it, if only to avoid trouble with the Army. He

got free of a woman who had beenthrowing melons at his head when she ran for her

life and came back beside me, buthe was still in a fury and it was only to punch me

in the face.

I heard the gray horse score thecobblestones, launching into a full charge.

Sparksflew where his metal shoes beat on the stones as he came like evil incarnate,

ears pinned and teeth bared, headsnaking as he went straight for Frado. Fat as he was,

Frado could by no means get overthe wall on my side of the street and started to

trundle to the other side and,with that, the horse was on him. He wasobviously a

well-trained cavalry mount and Ithought the rider meant to let him savage his target.

But at the last moment thetrooper swung his horse just enough to clear Frado, jerked

his foot from the stirrup andkicked the slaver squarely in the back at a speed just under

that of a battle charge. The force was so great that it picked up thatmountain of a man

like a doll and deposited himface down near the opposite side of the street.

My vision had taken on thepreternatural sharpness that precedes seeing nothing

and I saw in heart-stoppingdetail the first of what seemed like a hundred horses coming

around the curve at a fastcanter. If I had been in bettercondition, I would have

wondered why a number like thatwas coming at such speed through a country at peace,

but just then I was in nocondition to care. I lay there likesomething thrown on the

midden heap.

That point man didn’t have thejob, though, because he was slow or stupid. I

heard the noise of his horsecoming back and saw a boy no older than myself with a

shining mane of chestnut hairalready dropping from his trotting mount and running

towards me with the horse closebehind. With no time to spare, heclucked his horse

over me in the position a warhorse takes to shield a fallen rider, dropped the reins

and threw himself on top ofme. He was protecting me with his body,arms curled

over my head, pulling my faceinto his chest, so I saw little of what followed, but I

heard it: the tremendous din of all those horseshoes,riders cursing, horses snorting

in surprise, and the squealingand kicking of the horse over top of us. That boy was

holding me like a lover and Icould feel from his involuntary shudders that he was

inches from death, but he nevermoved and neither did his horse. Thetroopers didn’t

want to kill their own man andhorses listen to each other better than they do to us, so

between the efforts of riders andthe violence of the gray horse trying to save his rider

the line shifted and passed and Iwas still alive.

Links:

Print edition: http://www.amazon.com/Kings-Daughter-Chronicles-Alcinia-Part/dp/1469971968/

Ebook: http://rebeccajvickery.com/online-store.php

Review of Tangled Love

2012-02-25T10:15:00.000Z

I am delighted to share this review of Tangled Love which is at Amazon.uk kindle books.

Love, betrayal, treasure trove,
By

J. Pittam "Maythorn" (Hertfordshire, England)

This review is for: Tangled Love (Kindle Edition)
I very much enjoyed this new author. Tangled Love is set at the turn of the 18th century it follows the fortunes of Richelda, poverty-stricken daughter of a now-dead Jacobite. Richelda is haunted by the childhood oath she made at her father's instigation, to regain their ancestral home. She knows she has little chance of fulfilling that dream - until her wealthy aunt promises to make Richelda her heiress. But there is a condition; she must marry the man of her aunt's choosing- Viscount Lord Chesney. Richelda's feelings for Chesney are ambivalent and her heart already belongs to her peniless childhood companion, Dudley.

Love and betrayal, misplaced loyalties, even the promise of a treasure trove make this an charming story with a well-rounded, believable heroine and a delicious hero. Rosemary Morris's attention to historical detail brings period and place vividly to life. More please.

All the best,
Rosemary Morris

Guest Blog with Helen Hollick

2012-02-22T07:43:00.001Z

I'm delighted to announce that I am a guest of Helen Hollick, the international best seller, at:http://helen-myguests.blogspot.com.

Helen asked me to invite ten guests - visit the blog to find out who I invited. I hope you will find them intriguing,

All the best,
Rosemary

www.rosemarymorris.co.uk

Tangled Love the tale of two great houses and their owners set in 1706 available now from MuseItUppublishing,Kindle,Kobo,Sony-e-reader and elsewhere.

A Noble Place out now!

2012-02-22T06:31:00.000Z

A Noble Place by Anne Brear

A Noble Place is set mostly in Berrima and surrounding district of the Southern Highlands of New South Wales.

Blurb
Australia 1850. Phillippa Noble, strong minded, spirited and adventurous, urges and encourages her
parents and her twin to emigrate to the distant land of Australia to begin again. In a new country they can
put their tainted past behind them, and Pippa can forget the unrequited love she felt for a distant cousin.
Pippa blossoms in the new country and is determined that their horse stud will be the finest in the land.
However, circumstances ensure that not all is golden. For every success, she has to bear up under the
challenges of bushfire, death, the return of an old love and danger on the goldfields. Her strength is tested
as she tries to find the right path to happiness, but it is the near loss of her dearest friend that makes her
realise true contentment rests within her grasp and she must not let it go.

EXCERPT
The sharp scent of eucalyptus permeated the air and Pippa sniffed deeply, wondrously. At intervals, trees
thick with blooms of yellow, which she knew to be called wattles, punctuated the grey-green landscape and
gum trees let their little blooms of red dance in the breeze. She jerked suddenly as a low branch jagged at
her skirt. Her father helped to extricate the material and when her petticoat's lace hem tore, she cared little. Nothing and no one could spoil this day.
Gerald grimaced at the ruined fabric. "˜You should not have come, my dear."
"˜Nonsense, Father." Pippa grinned. "A little hardship strengthens character."
"Mr Noble." Robson gestured to a large eucalyptus trunk. The surveyor's initials were cut deep into the bark.
Gerald consulted his maps. "This ridge ends another ten yards further on."
Pippa hurried the remaining distance, nearly tripping in her haste. She stepped beyond a large tree and
stopped. Below, bathed in golden glory, lay their valley. Tingles of excitement mixed with reverent joy
sucked her breath away. She scanned the horizon of rugged hills and then gazed down at the inviting valley. It was everything she'd dreamed of and more because it was real. "It's perfect."
"How in God's name are we to get down there with the wagon?" Robson mumbled, breaking her spell of
wonder. He walked closer to the edge and peered down at the jagged outcrops of rocks and boulders that
broke up the density of the trees.
Gerald took off his hat and wiped his sweating forehead with a handkerchief. "Maybe further along there is
an easier route down."
They walked on for another hundred yards before finding another tree with the surveyor's initials marked in it
and also an arrow scratched next to them. Robson pointed to a gentler slope and a roughly cut track
snaking through the trees and scrub. "If the surveyor went down there, then that must be the easiest way."
He frowned. "I wonder if he took transports."
"Likely packhorses." Gerald studied his maps again.
Pippa walked to the edge of the slope. She paused to gauge the steepness and then reached for a nearby
sapling to keep her steady as she edged her way down.
"Pippa!"
Her father's shout made her stop and glance back. "It's all right, Father. Hold on to the trees."
Robson and Gerald hurried towards her and gingerly made their way down to her side. Gerald gripped her
arm. "You are too headstrong. It was a foolish thing to do."
She tossed her head. "I wasn't going to be left behind."
"You'll be the death of me, girl," Gerald panted and wiped his forehead again.
As they concentrated on getting safely to the bottom, the sounds of the bush intensified. An unseen bird
made the sound of a whiplash cutting the air, flies buzzed, twigs snapped underfoot and small lizards
slithered over rocks.
The track brought them out on the left side of the valley. At the bottom, the trees and scrub thinned out to
grassy plains. Emerging out of the shade, the heat intensified. Pippa wished she had brought her parasol
with her, but had left it in the gig so she could hold her skirts up with both hands. Sweat trickled inside her
collar and dampened her bonnet. She licked her dry lips. "Is there water close by?"
"Here, miss, I have water with me." Robson handed her a leather-bound canteen.
"Thank you." She stopped to drink and chuckled as the cool and pleasant water trickled down her chin.
Drinking from a canteen was an art she had not yet mastered.
"Do you see that thin line of gum trees in the middle over there?" Robson pointed in front of them.
Pippa studied the ragged thin line and nodded.
"Those trees edge the creek bank." He turned to Gerald. "Do you see that flat rise to the right of the creek
bend, Mr Noble?"
"Aye, lad, I do."
Robson smiled. "I think it would make an ideal homestead site."
Gerald slapped Robson on the shoulder. "I think you may be right, my man."
Pippa hesitated as the two men walked on. She slowly turned a full circle, taking in the broad sweep of the
valley. Acres of waist-high brown grass rippled in the infinite breeze like a long slow wave on a lazy sea.
She strolled on, enjoying the feeling of walking on her own land. She now understood the power it gave men
and why they did almost anything to acquire property. They broke their backs trying to keep it viable in the
hard times and, in good times, they looked to buy more.
The intensity of her feelings was frightening. Her land. Her future.

REVIEWS
Anne Whitfield has written a wonderful saga of passion, promise and survival featuring a strong and valiant
heroine who is in the same league as Catherine Cookson's Tilly Trotter and Barbara Taylor Bradford's
Emma Harte in A Woman of Substance. Courageous and independent, Pippa Noble is a heroine readers
will admire, cheer for and hope to emulate.
With its spellbinding blend of romance, heartbreak, passion and drama, A Noble Place is the perfect book
to curl up with on a cold autumn night. Don't miss it!
Review by Julie for SingleTitles.com

Buy now for Kindle!

http://www.amazon.com/A-Noble-Place-ebook/dp/B007BFIXKG/ref=sr_1_cc_1?s=aps&ie=UTF8&qid=1329790431&sr=1-1-catcorr

Happy Valentines! Come share the Romance!

2012-02-14T08:00:00.001Z

Happy Valentine's Day! Please come share the romance - tell us if you are doing anything romantic today and please feel free to add your romantic reads to the comments section below.

Tell us about your books and stories! If you have any offers or Giveaways for Valentines, please feel free to add those in the comments section, too!

Whispering Shadows

2012-02-10T08:30:00.000Z

Whispering Shadows is a romantic ghost story with a mystery, set close to Florence in Italy. I got the idea for it when visiting one of the many museums there. It was first published by Mills & Boon, later by Severn House, and is now enjoying a new life as an ebook.

Abigail Carter feels stifled as companion to Emilia Goodenough, and the responsibility of her wayward sister Polly. Then Emilia's nephew, Carl Montegne, sweeps the ladies off to Italy to help him search for the long lost family fortune. But even a romantic castello doesn't stem the friction between them - until the quest suddenly turns to danger, and Abigail discovers the extent of her feelings.

This short extract comes when Abigail is helping Carl to clean and restore his family's castello.

'What will you do with this place?’ she asked, and Carl’s jaw tightened as if she had no right to put such a question.
   ‘Live in it, what else?’
   She stared at him consideringly for a moment, but the question niggling in her mind had to be asked. ‘How could you afford to?’ By the narrowing of his eyes and the white line that formed above the rigid mouth Abigail saw she’d over stepped the boundary of good manners despite her efforts to the contrary. ‘I’m sorry; it really is none of my business.’ He looked so infuriated and yet oddly flattened by her question that she felt guilty and instinctively put out a hand. ‘Forget it. I had no right to ask.’ Desperately she looked about for a diversion. ‘What a very splendid fireplace. And that brass clock is showing the solar system, is it not? How lovely.’
   ‘My father was born here.’
     Abigail looked up at him in surprise. She saw by the tautness of the skin about the eyes the strain he was under, and by the set of his shoulders how he fought it. When he said nothing more she quickly averted her eyes from his face. ‘I dare say they used to cut logs the length of small trees for this dog grate.’ Anything to fill the awkward silence.
   Carl was still standing by the vast sideboard, fingering Saturn as if to etch it into his memory. ‘There would once have been pewter and silver plate on this sideboard, majolica from Urbino, and, on the floor, skins and embroidered rugs from the East. A house with money and style, but, I think, very little love. My father, Filippo, ran away from his home while still a young man because he did not get on with his own father, as I in my turn did not get on with mine.’

   ‘How very sad.’
   He shrugged as if it were of no account, yet she knew that was not the case. ‘My grandfather, Guiliano di Montegelo, was said to be very autocratic and had it in mind for my father to marry a rather dull elderly lady who had ample funds but few charms.’ Carl gave the ghost of a smile. ‘My father refused and ran away with my mother, Vittoria, a girl he had known all his life.’
   ‘How romantic.’ Abigail was staring at the softened face, entranced. But this sensitivity was soon masked and the tone became cool and practical once more.
   ‘Not in the least. They spent half a lifetime wandering like gypsies, determined not to return here, waiting for the old man to die, so wrapped up in their own needs there was no place in their life for anything or anyone else, not even a small boy.’
   ‘That’s why they sent you to England, to school?’
   ‘Let’s say that I was an encumbrance.’ The bitter tone showed how deeply the hurt had scored. ‘But the castle, now that the old man is long dead, and with no other di Montegelo left but me, is now entirely mine.’ There was grim satisfaction in the voice and the dark eyes glittered with purpose. ‘I intend, for the first time in my life, to have a real home. To stay here, in Italy, and build a new life. Whatever it takes to restore this place to its former beauty will be done. I have to do it, do you see?’ He glared at her then, and as he looked into her eyes the gaze softened slightly and he smiled. ‘I don’t mean to sound so vehement, but it is important to me. Can you understand?’
   Abigail nodded and came to stand before him, to rest her hands impulsively upon his. ‘Oh, I do. And I’m sure that you will achieve your aim. You can do anything in the world if you want to, my mother always says so, and I believe that, don’t you?’
   Carl laughed out loud and, taking her by surprise, wrapped his arms about her, hugging her to him. ‘I wish I could. It is a pleasantly comforting maxim. What a treasure you are. But there was little money with the inheritance, and precious few signs of family artefacts here.’ He sighed, looking about him with a grim resignation, but still not releasing her from his hold. She felt her own breathing move in accord with his. ‘I am not without funds, but this project is going to take all of them and more besides.’
   Abigail had both of her hands flat against his broad chest. She could feel his heartbeat, her own seeming to match it as she smiled up at him. ‘I believe you can do it.’His soft breath whispered over her lips as he looked down into her upturned face. She read a flicker of delight and surprise in his eyes, and something she didn’t dare name.
   After a long moment he allowed his lips to tilt into a smile.‘Every man, they say, needs a woman to believe in him.’ He continued to study her, his hands holding her fast against the hard length of him, so that Abigail could not have moved had she wanted to. Never had she been so close to a man before and it made her go hot and cold all over just thinking about it.‘I thank you,’ he said, and, reaching down, put his lips gently upon hers and kissed her.
   They tasted warm and slightly salty, and as Abigail melted against him she felt his hands curl into her back, gripping her tightly as if a spasm had shot through him. Then it was over and he was giving a half laugh, striding away from her, calling over his shoulder that they would do the rest of the house another day, while Abigail rocked upon her feet, her head in a spin.

You can download a longer sample or buy the book on Amazon:

2012-02-07T07:00:00.000Z

My first MM story and first from Samhain is out today. The story takes place in two locations, Wyoming and London. Well, and a bit of the south coast! I used a location I researched on Google and then later went to see it for myself. (See me in photo) Lucky Google had it right!

Stockbroker meets stock breaker. But who’s taming whom?

London stockbroker Jasper Randolph flies to Jackson Hole with hopes as high as the Grand Tetons. Hope that the getaway will force him to let loose, get dirty, and overcome a deep-seated phobia about horseback riding.

He hadn’t counted on an attraction to the dude ranch owner’s son, a man with sun-tousled hair, eyes bluer than Wyoming skies…and a father who’d rather eat tofu than accept his only son’s sexuality.

The moment Calum lays eyes on the uptight, buttoned-down Brit, he’s lost. But with his own saddlebags full of emotional baggage, he knows he should be looking at anything but Jasper’s spotless riding boots and tight-fitting jodhpurs. Trouble is, Jasper makes his heart buck like a wild horse trying to break free.

Despite the differences that set them oceans apart, they fall hard and fast. Trouble isn’t far behind, and they’re in for a rocky romantic ride. Especially since there’s growing evidence that someone is willing to do anything—no matter how dangerous—to poison their love.

Product Warnings

Mix one sun-bronzed cowboy with a yummy Brit who’d give Darcy in his wet shirt a run for his money. Mix gently. Try not to drool.

http://store.samhainpublishing.com/cowboys-down-p-6636.html

www.barbaraelsborg.com
www.barbaraelsborg.blogspot.com

David Russell's 'Further Explorations' now released!

2012-02-06T08:00:00.001Z

Published by Devine Destinies: 'Further Explorations' by David Russell

ISBN# 978-1-77111-060-0
Series: #0
Word Count: 11611
Page Count: 67
Heat Level: 2
Category: Contemporary Romance

Purchase Link: http://www.devinedestinies.com/further-explorations/

David Russell

Blurb

Energised by their lovely liberating experience, Janice and Cedric are determined to ‘spread their wings’ and take the world by storm, a two-person conspiracy. They head off physically in different directions, but remain in constant depth communication electronically, ever comparing notes, monitoring each other’s minds and experiences for a depth of mutual understanding. They may meet again fully equipped with a great depth of self-knowledge, and a knowledge of each other’s depth. They negotiate giddy peaks of high finance; Janice even does into ‘dreamscape’, making a pact with the devil. Further delights of sensuality are explored by both, with exotic partners; the depths and shallows of life are all embraced …

Excerpt

At last to be over there, down to earth, facing a new glitter, an array of visual and tactile delights… At last some real ice-breaking eye-contact in an all-American bar, and this time, massive breakthrough—no jitters! Zarinda’s iridescent, predatory eyes pierced through Adrian’s nerves and brain cells to his marrow. That perfect foil, seemingly non-existent in his past. With her swarthy skin and her obvious impulsiveness, she felt like the diametric opposite of Janice, therefore essential for him to complete his equation. On the first registering, Janice’s initial tentative quivering was erased by Zarinda’s radiant, undeflectable gaze. There was an ageless quality in her bearing, luscious blend of supple youth and maturity. These days there are those who can manage all that into their fifties and sixties.
Cedric blushed. “My impulses have recently been liberated. I have broken a blockage.”
She sized him up, down to the depths, with one penetrating glance. “You recently discovered the
right combination for your lock and now you can go ahead with me. Our vista is ever expanding.”

He had to go through the modulations of hair and skin colour, the gamut of cover, different sizes, too, but go easy on the cellulite, which was no great difficulty for him. To get the full relish and savour of all of this, he had to go through the wardrobe gamut that covered and garnished those bodies, lotions, fake tans and all, the flesh matching the photographs.

Meanwhile, Janice was sensually pulling on, zipping, buttoning those outfits whispering, “Have I perfected my magnetic allure?” He was going past the outfitters seeing his fantasy partners in and out of that array of garments through every shade of light and darkness…deliciously massed sensation of flesh, muscle and bone…the hardness of the latter sublimated as a foundation for suppleness, the crucial phrase, suspended on breath and tongue. “Undress me.”

They were in dream concert, synchronized and occasionally syncopated, strutting the world’s catwalks—starting horizontal, then ascending, oblique, to culminate in the spirit-bedroom, their path to ecstasy strewn with flowers of discarded velvet and shot silk. Their overwhelming electricity constantly recharged all the camera flashlights’ batteries. Their essence was diffused into the flashes. “Iconic perfection, darling!”

David Russell.

SEBASTIAN'S SALVATION

2012-02-05T02:14:00.005Z

My latest release, Sebastian's Salvation will be available on February 7, 2012 at Siren-BookStrand. The story occurs mostly in London with the heroine being the daughter of an earl. The hero is an American former Army Special Forces man. He's been wounded in a mission and is now the toast of London society as a painter of nudes. This story is a romantic suspense. Here's a link to the book trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z-DIBWvGsoI&feature=youtu.be

Excerpt:

Joanna Gresham passed Margaret in the hallway of Bast’s building. Margaret carried a saddle under her arm.
Margaret stopped her and hitched the saddle to a more comfortable position. "You one of the many?"
"Many what?"
"Clients of Bast’s?"
Joanna shook her head. "No. But I’m thinking about it. I was at his show last night and am very impressed."
"With the man or the artist?" The woman smiled coyly
"The artist of course." Joanna stood tall and looked down her nose at the impertinent woman. The nerve to ask me such a thing. As if I’d be interested in a hoodlum.
"Don’t have to get huffy, Lady Joanna. All the women in town are swooning over the man. Some are even commissioning portraits just to tempt him with their bodies. No harm meant."
Joanna ran her hands through her hair. "Sorry. Just moody, I guess."
"No problem. Enjoy your session."
"I don’t have a session. I’m just going to talk."
"Good luck then. I think you’ll like Bast. I gotta go. Late for a practice run."
"Good luck with practice. Ta, Margaret." Joanna waved good-bye and approached the door to Bast’s atelier. Why am I so nervous? He’s just a man I want to hire. Why should I feel so skittish? Joanna knocked lightly on the door.
The door burst open, and the man asked, "What did you for—"
He stopped short. "Uh. Sorry, I thought you were Margaret, come back for something she forgot. She always leaves something behind."
"Is that why you were already at the door?"
He smiled. "Yeah. I give her about three minutes after she leaves to come dashing back. I thought I timed it right." His smile got larger.
Why does his smile have to be so spectacular? He’s gorgeous even with that scar across his face. "Sorry, it’s just me. I’m not sure if you remember—"
"Of course, I do. You’re the lady in the alley, the one that needed no help with her aching feet. Come on in." He opened the door wider to allow her access to the loft.
Once they were inside, he showed her over to a client chair. He took a seat behind the desk, leaned across the top, and asked, "What can I do for you?"
She put one hand on the desktop and scraped her nail across the surface. "I was at your show last night—"
"Yeah, I know. I saw you, remember?"
"I recall." She frowned. Was the man determined to make her feel stupid?
"Sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean to interrupt you. Go on." Bast nodded his encouragement.
"I was thinking I might want a portrait of myself. Your work is impressive. Very tasteful. I know it seems like I’m just jumping on a trend, but I really am in awe of your abilities."
"Thank you, ma’am. I appreciate it. I’m a little full right now. The show last night garnered me a lot of commissions, and I’m afraid I don’t have time to add one more person to my schedule. I’ll be glad to put you on the waiting list." He pulled a pad out of his top drawer.
She stood, and the chair teetered and fell back against the wall. "I know what you’re doing. You jerk."
He leaned back in his chair and looked at her. His face showed no emotion. "What’s your problem, Lady?"
"Lady? You say it that way because you know who I am? You think you can be a sarcastic bastard to me?"
"Ma’am, you came in here, didn’t introduce yourself to me, and now you’re offended? I can’t figure that out. All I said was I have to put you on my waiting list. How you think that’s something offensive, I don’t know." He sat forward in the chair.
She glared. "I’m Lady Joanna Gresham. I don’t do waiting lists."
He stood up and walked around the desk to her. He got in her face and said, "I don’t do snobby Ladies. So, I suggest you get out of my studio."
Joanna pushed his chest. "I just bet you don’t do ladies." She looked around and took in the whole room and nodded toward the fainting couch under the window. "I bet you do the ladies right over there."
Enraged, he grabbed her arms and shoved her against the wall. He pressed against her. "If I wanted to do a lady, I’d do her right here against this wall." He lifted her off her feet as if she was no larger than a toy doll and pulled her over to the other client chair. He sat in it and pulled her on top of himself. "Or here in this chair."
She jerked off his lap and stumbled backward. "How dare you touch me, you arrogant—"
"What? Black bastard? Is that what you want to call me, your white holiness? Lady Joanna Gresham that doesn’t do waiting lists? Huh? Huh? That what you want to say?" He stood up.
She continued to back up. "You’re crazy. You know that? You’re insane."
He stalked toward her. "And you’re all alone here with me. A crazy, scar-faced, big black man who isn’t intimidated by a title. Now, what are you gonna do?"
"I’m leaving." She flounced toward the door.
Just as she got to the door and opened it, he slammed his hand on it and shut it. His body leaned against hers. He pressed against her and whispered, "I bet you always leave. When the going gets tough and you don’t get your way, you leave. Right?"
He let go of the door and stepped back. "Thank you for coming by, ma’am. I’ll be sure to not add you to the waiting list."
*******************************************************************

Visit me on the web here: http://jillianchantal.com/news/
twitter: https://twitter.com/JillianChantal
Buy link: http://www.bookstrand.com/sebastians-salvation

Gilli Allan: 'Torn'

2012-02-03T08:00:00.003Z

“I love this novel! It’s warm and witty and sharp and clever and it made me think,” says Margaret James.

“I found it deeply moving,” says Katie Fforde.

“...emotional, sad, happy, funny and just generally fab! ”says Kim Nash. For Kim’s full, Five Star review go to:
http://kimthebookworm.blogspot.com/2011/11/review-torn-by-gilli-allan.html

“...A clever, thought-provoking read ... I hope Gilli will write more novels like this one,” says Lally. For Lally’s full, Five Star review go to: http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/pdp/profile/AYMF754XCSYDW/ref=cm_cr_pr_pdp

“...TORN is anything but your standard romance with predictable conflicts and stereotypical characters. It's much much more, and a thoroughly enjoyable read,” says Sandra Nachlinger. For Sandy’s full, Five Star review go to:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/pdp/profile/AJ7YSXO03UGMH/ref=cm_cr_pr_pdp

“.... couldn't put it down. Romance in the real world. Highly recommended,” says Adele Granby.

“...Has a modern take on romance and doesn't flinch from the downsides. Well written, poignant with a very surprising ending, but still a feel good factor ... a 'must buy',” says Sacha.

Find the full reviews at:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/product-reviews/B004UVR81Y/ref=dp_top_cm_cr_acr_txt?ie=UTF8&showViewpoints=1

**************************************

To buy go to: http://www.amazon.co.uk/TORN-ebook/dp/B004UVR81Y

In TORN Jessica has escaped from her old life and moved to the country. All she wants, after the turbulence of the past, is to be a good mother to her young son, with no distractions and no temptations.

But things are never that simple. She soon finds that country living is not like the glossy magazines. Though the problems are different there are still problems. And the friends she makes and the issues she faces pull her in opposite directions.

If she could only get one aspect of her life right it would be a help, but her primary resolve - to avoid any kind of relationship with a man - is soon subverted. On her way to meet him for their first assignation she is racked with doubt about what she is about to do.

Excerpt ........

Veiled in frost and Old Man’s Beard, the trees and hedgerows which skirted the lane were grey overlaid on a backdrop of other greys – silver and charcoal, graphite and opal; the river beyond, and the gently rising landscape, dissolved into mist. The route was familiar enough; she had driven this way from Cherub’s nursery around the far side of Spine Hill many times before, but then she’d been heading into town – and she’d not been trembling. After delivering Rory she set off slowly, the speedometer barely reaching above twenty-five, and the nearer she got, the lower her speed dropped. She passed the driveway to the farm and shortly joined the eastern end of her own lane. She made the turn towards Warford then crossed Skirmish bridge.

Here, on the right, just a few feet of verge divided the boundary of Gore Farm from the road. In places the lichen-encrusted dry-stone wall had been repaired. Bright, implausible sections of newly laid stone interlinked with the old weathered wall in bleached blonde patches. Jess shook her head. Concentrate. Where was the signpost? Had she unquestioningly accepted Danny’s directions she should have been looking on the left but she knew it couldn’t be. At long last, when she spotted it, it might just as well have been a skeleton hanging on a gibbet.

She was bone cold and shivering as she made the right turn into the opening marked with the footpath finger-post. Her pulse raced, her thoughts whirled in a repeating loop: why am I doing this? The farm track seemed impossibly long. It became ever more overgrown. Elder and Blackthorn on either side scraped the car as it passed. The sharp, sudden whip crack, as a long frond of bramble slapped the windscreen, made her gasp. Her heart rattled against her ribs.

‘Oh God! Oh my God! This is the wrong way. I’m sure this is the wrong way! Perhaps the turning was on the left,’ she whispered to herself, even though it would have defied logic. ‘Where’s the pull in? I’m going to arrive at a dead end!’ But her worry was not about a lengthy stretch of reversing; a part of her did not want to find the discreet back way that led to Danny’s caravan at all. If the adventure had to be aborted she would feel relief from the acute sense of guilt that gripped her. The continuous chant from her conscience called her heartless and unnatural for abandoning her sick child. Yet Rory had seemed happy enough to be left; after several days incarcerated at home with only mother for company he’d become bored and grouchy. Rationally she knew that a few hours engaged in social activity was just what he needed to take his mind off his lingering snuffle and cough. But a part of her wanted to scrub this and go back for him. A part of her wanted to return home, unsullied.

Just as she despaired of finding the spot Danny had described, the track widened in front of a gate. After pulling in she just sat for a while, head bowed onto folded arms. Then she breathed in, squared her shoulders and opened the car door. Danny had said it would be safe to park here. It was obvious the track was hardly used except by the occasional walker or by Danny himself, going into town with his bike. The gate hadn’t been opened for years. An old chain and padlock, mahogany with rust, was wound round and about the gate and its post. Danny must heft his bike over the style – the only way into the field.

Though it felt as if she’d driven miles beyond the farm buildings she must have executed a loop. She was now only a few hundred yards above the caravan and beyond it the stone barns, which shielded the house from view. As she got closer she could hear the massed bleating of the pregnant ewes coming from the barn. A curtain twitched in the back window of the caravan, then suddenly he was there, pale and hesitant, standing by the tow bar end. They scarcely touched but he hustled her quickly up the front steps and inside, keeping himself between her and the farm buildings. A transistor radio was on. Danny turned off what sounded like Radio Four.

‘I was afraid you wouldn’t find me. I’m no good at directions.’

‘I found it easily.’ Why make the moment any more awkward by complaining he’d muddled left and right?

‘Is there anything you want Jess? Can I make you a cup of tea ... or?’

‘No nothing. This is madness Danny. What am I doing here?’ she blurted then was instantly mortified by his pained expression. He shrugged helplessly.

‘If you don’t know...?’

He looked as strained as she felt. Of course he was worried. He would have to be a man of blinding self-confidence not to feel a little concern about his performance, given the first mishap. Jess already knew he wasn’t that kind of man. He wasn’t a man at all, not yet, but he was brave – brave to have put himself on the line like this. Anxiety, guilt, responsibility all clamoured for ascendancy in her head. This was so unfair of her, to accept his invitation and then to blow hot and cold. And yet, and yet - she could not go through with something, believing it to be wrong, just to reprieve herself in his eyes. Could she?

‘I’m sorry, Danny. I feel about as sexy as a plate of cold, cabbage,’ she said, mournfully. Danny smiled and shrugged again.

‘It doesn’t matter. We can just sit and talk for a bit. I’d prob’ly be a let down on the sex side, anyway. You’ll not be missing much.’

This made her laugh. ‘Don’t be daft. I’m sure there are ways of getting round....’

‘My inexp’rience?’ He’d begun to seem more relaxed, more in command of the situation; almost as if, by admitting his lack of sexual prowess, he had defused the tension. Was he really only nineteen? He made her feel silly, tongue tied, inept.

Looking around she took in the dented walls, the dirty, cracked and broken linoleum which partially covered the floor. Yellow flowery curtains were drawn across the small windows diffusing the light and casting an amber gloom over the interior. At the kitchen end, a small Calor Gas cooker, its ceramic surface veined brown with age and baked on grease, was next to a little sink with a mucky looking draining board. A kettle and a few upturned mugs stood on the raw edged MDF work-top; below it, a curtain in dingy shades of brown and orange check, hung from a wire to the floor. A partial room divider separated the kitchenette from the living area. On one side a couple of metal-legged chairs with blue plastic seats shared the space with a small table, partly flapped down against the wall; its surface was marked by heat rings and old cigarette burns. Opposite, a multi-coloured cover, decorated with stars and moons and runic symbols, was draped over a narrow divan bed. Dangling from the ceiling above was a mobile hung with crystals and feathers. There were a few posters on the walls, in the ‘Save the Whale’, ‘Cherish Mother Earth’, and ‘Fur Looks Best on the Original Owner’ tradition. Even as she took in his sparse living arrangements Jessica was aware he was scrutinising her.

‘This van must be half a century old. Is it yours?’

‘No, the boss got it from somewhere for me to doss in. It’s all I need.’

‘Then you’re not very demanding.’ It was the lack of books, of magazines or newspapers that made the place seem so bare, she realised.

‘Even if I was living in a place as small as this I’d still want more around me in the way of possessions. Most of my stuff is still in store, but I had to have some personal stuff, books and so on, to move into the cottage with.’ There weren’t even any of the technological gizmos she might have expected to see in the room of a young man, except.... ‘Oh, is that your phone? You’ve found it?’ She stretched for the box, lying on a tilting shelf, by the divan. ‘Have you even opened it yet?’

Danny shrugged. ‘Pete knows I don’t like things like that. I don’t know why he gave it to me.’ From the growing assurance of earlier he seemed suddenly guarded. She tipped the phone out onto her palm then pressed a few of the keys. Apart from the name, Pete, and his number in the contacts list, it seemed unused; the memory empty.

‘Perhaps he wants to keep in touch?’

‘Doubt it.’ He stayed by the window, pulling back the curtain to look out.

‘When you said your brother had given you a mobile phone I assumed he’d passed on an old one,’ she said. ‘It’s a model I’ve been thinking of upgrading to. It’s got loads of extra apps. And he’s already set it up for you. It’s fully charged and you’ve loads of credit!’ she continued. ‘Wow! I’d like a brother like yours. I’ll put in my number and my email address. Look, that’s your number.’ Jess retrieved her own phone from her bag and entered Danny’s number into her contacts list, then entered her details into his. She fiddled a bit more and the phone went through its repertoire of call jingles. ‘Which one do you want? All you have to do is make sure you keep it charged up. And here’s the phone number to credit your account, when you need to. Look. The instructions are all here.’ She kept turning the phone in his direction, to show him the display, but he kept his back resolutely turned. ‘Aren’t you interested?’ she said at last. ‘Danny?’

He turned towards her then, but he was frowning. ‘Why are you so obsessed?’

‘I’m not. But if you started to use this ... kept it switched on ... we could keep in touch?’

He took the phone out of her hand and put it down without looking at it.

‘It’s not how I want to keep in touch. I prefer to see people face to face when I talk to them. I like to look in their eyes, see if they’re telling the truth.’

There were many practical objections she could make to this statement but, suddenly disconcerted by his level gaze, she sat down on the side of the divan. With a faint tinkle, the mobile hanging above her head, shimmied. Looking up she could see that it was a more intricate piece of work than she’d first thought; a lacy cat’s cradle of beads, feathers, a variety of different snail shells and crystals.

‘I love this. Where did you get it?’ She was thinking that Rory might like one over his bed – then that she would.

‘I made it. It’s a dream-catcher.’

‘You made it...! But it’s beautiful!’

He gave her a sideways look as if unsure of her underlying meaning.

‘I’m sorry, that came out wrong ... I mean it. It’s just ... a lovely thing.’

Almost haltingly, as if confused by her praise, Danny began to describe how he’d made it and the materials used.

‘And that bluey-green feather’s from a Jay, the gold one’s a Cock Pheasant, the white one with the speckles is from a Barn Owl.’

‘Danny?’ Jess ceased to look at the feathers he pointed out. She laid her palm against his cheek. ‘Ssshh.’ From then on their mouths were otherwise engaged. He might be young, he might be sexually inexperienced but in the kissing game he was a natural, Jess thought vaguely, before her brain switched to a mode where rational, sequential thought was replaced by instinct and need.

Release Day! AN INHERITANCE FOR THE BIRDS

2012-02-01T09:01:00.001Z

My latest Regency comedy novella, An Inheritance for the Birds, the next entry in The Wild Rose Press's Love Letters series, is now available. All the stories start with a letter that changes the hero's and heroine's lives. Mine is a letter about an inheritance, but there's a catch...

Available at The Wild Rose Press.

BLURB:

Make the ducks happy and win an estate!

Mr. Christopher "Kit" Winnington can't believe the letter from his late great-aunt's solicitor. In order to inherit her estate, he must win a contest against her companion, Miss Angela Stratton. Whoever makes his great-aunt's pet ducks happy wins.

A contest: What a cork-brained idea. This Miss Stratton is probably a sly spinster who camouflaged her grasping nature from his good-natured relative. There is no way he will let the estate go to a usurper.

Angela never expected her former employer to name her in her will. Most likely, this Mr. Winnington is a trumped-up jackanapes who expects her to give up without a fight. Well, she is made of sterner stuff.

The ducks quack in avian bliss while Kit and Angela dance a duet of desire as they do their utmost to make the ducks--and themselves--happy.

EXCERPT:
Yawning, he shut the door behind him. Enough ducks and prickly ladies for one day. After dropping his satchel by the bed, he dragged off his clothes and draped them over the chair back. He dug a nightshirt from the valise and donned the garment before he blew out both candles.

Bates had already drawn back the bedclothes. The counterpane was soft under Kit's palm, and covered a featherbed. He grinned. By any chance, had they used the down from the pet ducks to stuff the mattress and pillows?

After tying the bed curtains back, he settled into the soft cocoon and laced his fingers behind his head. Tomorrow, he would have it out with Miss Stratton about the steward's residence, but that was tomorrow. He fluffed up his pillow and turned onto his side…

"QUACK!"

A bundle of flapping, squawking feathers exploded from the depths of the covers and attacked him. Throwing his arms over his head for protection, Kit fell out of bed. He scrambled to his feet and bolted for the door, the thrashing, quacking explosion battering him. A serrated knife edge scraped over his upper arm. "Ow!" Batting at the avian attacker with one hand, he groped for the latch with the other.

The door swung open. Miss Stratton, her candle flame flickering, dashed into the chamber. "Esmeralda, you stop that right now!"

The feathered windstorm quacked once more and, in a graceful arc, fluttered to the floor.

Kit lowered his arms and gave a mental groan. A duck. He should have known.

Thank you all,
Linda
Linda Banche
Welcome to My World of Historical Hilarity!
http://www.lindabanche.com
http://lindabanche.blogspot.com

Rosemary Morris: 'Tangled Love'

2012-01-27T08:00:00.001Z

Prologue
1693

Nine year-old Richelda Shaw sat on the floor in her nursery. She pulled a quilt pulled over her head to block out the thunder pealing outside the ancient manor house while an even fiercer storm raged deep within. Eyes closed, remained as motionless as a marble statue.

Elsie, her mother’s personal maid, removed the quilt from her head. ‘Stand up child, there’s nothing to be frightened of. Come, your father’s waiting for you.’

Richelda trembled. Until now Father’s short visits from France meant gifts and laughter. This one made Mother cry while servants spoke in hushed tones.

Followed by Elsie, Richelda hurried down broad oak stairs. For a moment, she paused to admire lilies of the valley in a Delft bowl. Only yesterday, she picked the flowers to welcome Father home then arranged them with tender care. Now, the bowl stood on a chest, which stood beneath a pair of crossed broadswords hanging on the wall.

Elsie opened the great massive door of the great hall where Father stood to one side of an enormous hearth. Richelda hesitated. Her eyes searched for her mother before she walked across the floor, spread her skirts wide and knelt before him.

Father placed his right hand on her bent head. ‘Bless you, daughter, may God keep you safe.’ He smiled. ‘Stand up, child. Upon my word, sweetheart, your hair reminds me of a golden rose. How glad I am to see roses bloom in these troubled times.’

Richelda stood but dared not speak for she did not know him well.

Putting an arm round her waist, he drew her to him. ‘Come, do not be nervous of your father, child. Tell me if you know King James II holds court in France while his daughter, Mary, and William, his son-in-law, rule after seizing his throne?’

‘Yes, Mother told me we are well rid of King James and his Papist wife,’ she piped up, proud of her knowledge.

With a sigh, Father lifted her onto his knee. ‘Richelda, I must follow His Majesty for I swore an oath of allegiance to him. Tell me, child, while King James lives how can I with honour swear allegiance to his disloyal daughter and her husband?’

Unable to think of a reply, she lowered her head breathing in his spicy perfume.

Father held her closer. ‘Your mother pleads with me to declare myself for William and Mary. She begs me not to return to France, but I am obliged to serve King James. Do you understand?’

As she nodded her cheek brushed against his velvet coat. ‘Yes, I understand, my tutor told me why many gentlemen will not serve the new king and queen.’

‘If you remain in England, you will be safe. Bellemont is part of your mother’s dowry so I doubt it will be confiscated.’

If she remained in England! Startled, she stared at him.

Smiling, he popped her onto her feet. ‘We shall ride. I have something to show you.’

*****

Before long, they drew rein on the brow of a hill. Father pointed at a manor house in the valley. ‘Look at our ancestral home, Field House. The Roundheads confiscated it soon after the first King Charles’ execution. Richelda, I promised my father to do all in my power to regain the property.’ Grey-faced, he pressed his hand to his chest. ‘Alas, I have failed to keep my oath,’ he wheezed.

Richelda not only yearned to help him keep his promise to her grandfather, she also yearned to find the gold and jewels legend said her buccaneer ancestor, Sir Nicholas, hid.

She waited for her father to breathe easy before she spoke. ‘If we found the treasure trove you could buy Field House.’

‘Ah, you believe Sir Nicholas did not give all his plunder to Good Queen Bess,’ he teased.

‘Elsie told me legend says he hid some of his booty in Field House.’ The thought of it excited her. In his old age, when Sir Nicholas retired from seafaring, is it true that he put his ship’s figurehead, Lady Luck, in the great hall?’

‘Yes, for all I know she is still above a mighty fireplace carved with pomegranates, our family’s device.’

‘I would like to see it.’

‘One day, perhaps you will. Now, tell me if you know our family motto.’

‘Fortune favours the brave.’

‘Are you brave, my little lady? Will you swear on the Bible to do all in your power to regain Field House?’

To please him and excited by the possibility of discovering treasure she nodded.

About Rosemary Morris
Historical Novelist

From an early age Rosemary Morris wove stories. At school her favourite subjects were History and English Literature. Since leaving school and college she has immersed herself in reading historical novels and researching history.
She has now reached the point at which she has so many novels and reference books crowding her house that if she wants to buy a new one she is forced to consider getting rid of one. However, her birthday present – a kindle – will help to solve the problem.

In between writing, Rosemary spends time with her family, who live nearby. She enjoys visiting places of historical interest such as St Albans Cathedral and Hatfield House. She also enjoys needlework and knitting as well as her organic garden, in which she grows fruit, herbs and vegetables that she puts to good use in her vegetarian cuisine. Time spent gardening and cooking provides time to plan her novels.

Rosemary's books are available from MuseItUp Bookstore, Amazon US (Kindle, Print) Kindle Amazon UK, Barnes and Noble, Bookstrand - Mainstream, Sony e-reader, Kobo and Smashwords.

Please visit Rosemary's website at http://www.rosemarymorris.co.uk/ and her blog at http://rosemarymorris.blogspot.com/.

Warm Up Your Winter II - 'The Snow Bride' now at Amazon

2012-01-26T12:45:00.000Z

She is Beauty, but is he the Beast?

Elfrida, spirited, caring and beautiful, is also alone. She is the witch of the woods and no man dares to ask for her hand in marriage until a beast comes stalking brides and steals away her sister. Desperate, the lovely Elfrida offers herself as a sacrifice, as bridal bait, and she is seized by a man with fearful scars. Is he the beast?

In the depths of a frozen midwinter, in the heart of the woodland, Sir Magnus, battle-hardened knight of the Crusades, searches ceaselessly for three missing brides, pitting his wits and weapons against a nameless stalker of the snowy forest. Disfigured and hideously scarred, Magnus has finished with love, he thinks, until he rescues a fourth 'bride', the beautiful, red-haired Elfrida, whose innocent touch ignites in him a fierce passion that satisfies his deepest yearnings and darkest desires.

Now out at Bookstrand Publishing 2011
Order here.

Now out at Amazon, too!
Buy the ebook:

Amazon Kindle (US)
Amazon Kindle (UK)
Bookstrand

Read Chapter One

Here is another new excerpt to tempt you:

Elfrida stirred sluggishly, unable to remember where she was. Her back ached, and the rest of her body burned. She opened her eyes and sat up with a jerk, thinking of Christina.

Her head felt to be bobbing like an acorn cup in a stream, and her vision swam. As she tried to swing her legs, her sense of dizzy falling increased, becoming worse as she closed her eyes. She lashed out in the darkness, her flailing hands and feet connecting with straw, dusty hay, and ancient pelts.

“Christina?” she hissed, listening intently and praying now that the monster had brought her to the same place it had taken her sister.

She heard nothing but her own breath, and when she held that, nothing at all.

“Christina?” Fearing to reach out in this blackness that was more than night and dreading what she might find, Elfrida forced herself to stretch her arms. She trailed her fingers out into the ghastly void, tracing the unseen world with trembling hands.

Her body shook more than her hands, but she ignored the shuddering of her limbs, closed her eyes like a blind man, and searched.

She lay on a pallet, she realized, full of crackling, dry grass. When she scented and tasted the air, there was no blood. She did not share the space with grisly corpses.

I am alone and unfettered. Now her heart had stopped thudding in her ears, she listened again, hearing no one else. Chanting a charm to see in the dark, she tried again to shift her feet.

Light spilled into her eyes like scalding milk as a door opened and a massive figure lurched across the threshold. Elfrida launched herself at freedom, hurling a fistful of straw at the looming beast and ducking out for the light.

She fell instead, her legs buckling, her last sight that of softly falling snow.

* * * *

Magnus gathered the woman before she pitched facedown into the snow, returning her swiftly to the rough bed within the hut. Her tiny, bird-boned form terrified him. Clutching her was like ripping a fragile wood anemone up from its roots.

And she had fought him, wind-flower or not. She had charged at him.

“I wish, lass, that you would listen to me. I am not the Forest Grendel, nor have wish to be, nor ever have been.”

Just as earlier, in the clearing where he had first come upon her, a brilliant shock of life and color in a white, dead world, the woman gave no sign of hearing. She was cold again, freezing, while in his arms she had steamed with fever. He tugged off his cloak and bundled her into it, then piled his firewood and kindling onto the bare hearth.

A few strikes of his flints and he had a fire. He set snow to melt in the helmet he was using as a cauldron. He swept more dusty hay up from the floor and, sneezing, packed it round the still little figure.

No beast on two or four legs would hunt tonight, so that was one worry less. Finding this lean-to hut in the forest had been a godsend, but it would be cold.

Magnus went back out into the snow and led his horse into the hut, spreading what feed he had brought with him. He kept the door shut with his saddle, rubbed the palfrey down with the bay’s own horse blanket, and looked about for a lantern.

There was none, just as there were no buckets, nor wooden bowls hanging from the eaves. But, abandoned as it surely had been, the place was well roofed, and no snow swirled in through the wood and wattle walls. Whistling, Magnus dug through his pack and found a flask of ale, some hard cheese, two wizened apples, and a chunk of dark rye bread. He spoke softly to his horse, then looked again at the woman.

She was breathing steadily now, and her lips and cheeks had more color. By the glittering, rising fire he saw her as he had first in the forest clearing, an elf-child of beauty and grace, a willing sacrifice to the monster. Kneeling beside her, he longed to stroke her vivid red hair and kiss the small dimple in her chin. In sleep she had the calm, flawless face of a Madonna of Outremer and the bright locks of a Magdalene.

He had guessed who she was—the witch of the three villages, the good witch driven to desperation. Coming upon her in that snowfield, tied between two trees like a crucified child of fairy, his temper had been a black storm against the villagers for sparing their skins by flaying hers. Then he had seen her face, recognized that wild, stark, sunken-cheeked grief, seen the loose bonds and the terrible “feast,” and had understood.

Another young woman has been taken by the beast, someone you love.

She—Elfrida, that was her name, he remembered it now—Elfrida was either very foolish or very powerful, to offer herself as bait.

Lindsay Townsend
http://www.bookstrand.com/the-snow-bride/

Review: Theodora Goss, 'The Thorn and the Blossom'

2012-01-17T08:00:00.010Z

Theodora Goss
The Thorn and the Blossom: a Two-Sided Love Story
Quirk Books, 2012
ISBN: 978-1594745515

Reading The Thorn and the Blossom is an intriguingly different experience from the usual. The reader chooses whether to begin with Brendan's story, or to turn the book and begin with Evelyn.

I began with Brendan's story. My first delighted surprise was how the book itself behaved - it opened like an accordion. On one side you can read from one character's viewpoint, then you can turn the book over and read from the other protagonist's point of view. The whole book is beautifully produced, with heavy paper and lush illustrations, making reading it a very satisfying and tactile experience.

Each summer, Brendan works in his father's bookshop in the Cornish town of Clewes , a place he has lived all his life but one which no longer feels like home to him now that he is studying literature at Oxford . One day he encounters a striking, auburn-haired young woman in the shop and they introduce themselves - Brendan and Evelyn.

Brendan asks Evelyn to walk with him to a local circle of ancient standing stones called Gawan's Court - a place where, according to legend, the Arthurian knight Gawan and Cornish Queen Elowen had fought giants and fallen in love before being parted by a giantess's curse. While at the circle. Brendan sees Evelyn briefly as the tragic Queen Elowen. He dismisses the brief vision as unimportant, but is attracted to Evelyn and arranges to meet her again. This time they spend the week together and Brendan becomes convinced he is falling in love with the young American.

But there are obstacles. Evelyn will be leaving soon, returning to Boston , and there is a strange mystery about her. When Brendan kisses her, she reacts as if in horror and flees. She gives no explanation and Brendan is desolate.

Brendan puts his life back together. He completes his degree in medieval literature, finishes a translation of a long Cornish poem of 'The Tale of a Green Knight' - a Cornish version of Gawan and Elowen - and meets and marries another woman, Isabel.

Tragedy strikes again. Isabel is terribly injured in a riding accident and left in a deep coma. While she is still in this state in hospital, Evelyn reappears in Brendan's life when she applies for a college post where he also teaches.

They meet and resume a relationship, and this time it is consummated. Brendan makes a mistake, however, in not telling Evelyn about Isabel or her tragic condition. When Evelyn learns about Isabel and sees her in a coma, she flees again.

Will he win her back?

To learn if he does, I turned to the other half of the story, Evelyn's version.

Evelyn is fey. She sees the spirit world, including green men and fairies, and is deeply affected by it. Knowing this makes her behaviour more sympathetic and understandable, as it is suggested that she and Brendan are 'playing out' the love of Gawan and Elowen, only in a modern setting.

Both sides of the story end optimistically, with the hope that Brendan and Evelyn will defeat the curse that blighted Gawan and Elowen.

'The Thorn and the Blossom' is written in the style of a fable, with a lot of telling rather than showing. Despite this and despite feeling that the relationship between Brendan and his wife Isabel was rather under-developed, I found the story to be involving and rewarding - at times I almost felt to be inside the pages of a beautiful medieval manuscript.

It is a haunting, original read, if rather short, and I can certainly recommend it.

Lindsay Townsend

(Review of a copy sent unsolicited from the publisher.)

To Gain What's Lost out now.

2012-01-10T02:59:00.001Z

To Gain What's Lost is set in Victorian Yorkshire and is my latest release!

Blurb:
She thinks her life has changed for the better, her dark secrets hidden, but little does she know…
The daughter of a wealthy landowner in Yorkshire, England in 1864, Anna Thornton leads a privileged life. But she is not content. She wants her life to mean something and longs to be accepted for the free-thinking, independent woman she is. When the dashing, adventurer Matt Cowan sweeps her off her feet, she thinks she has finally met her soul mate. However, he’s not the man he seems to be. After he sails for South America, leaving her behind in England, Anna discovers she’s pregnant. Heartbroken she flees her family home, determined to keep her child’s illegitimacy a secret.

He has a few dark secrets of his own…
Brenton O’Mara is a strong, independent man who wants to make his own way without relying on his father’s wealth. He comes to Anna’s new home looking for work and convinces the reluctant woman to hire him. But Anna's wary of men, of love, and treats him as nothing more than the penniless laborer she believes him to be. Then, just when Anna seems to feel she is getting on with her new life, and Brenton believes he has a chance with her, the past rears up to confront them. Can Brenton and Anna learn to trust each other, or will they let yesterday destroy tomorrow?

Available in Kindle and paperback from various sources like Amazon.com

The Snow Bride - Two lovely reviews!

2012-01-05T14:15:00.001Z

She is Beauty, but is he the Beast?

Read Chapter One

Read Reviews:

The Celtic Rose

Ms. Townsend's tale of these two lonely people joining forces to track him to his lair is non-stop, rich and lyrical. Her voice is distinctive, her writing style a delight, and the ending is both satisfying and promising in that a sequel would be possible. 4 Celtic Roses.

Sizzling Hot Book Reviews

The Snow Bride is and entertaining medieval love story, one of my favorite kinds. I enjoyed that Magnus is willing to woo Elfrida by treating her as an equal, no matter how hard it is for him to do. They have their ups and downs as they learn each other, leading to confusion and doubt on occasion. Both are well rounded, sometimes stubborn and proud characters, and willing to give and take to work together to rescue Elfrida’s sister. I enjoyed the glimpses of life at a noble’s castle, the look at the peasant’s and villages life styles. The banter between Magnus and Elfrida was entertaining, as was the growing love between The Snow Bride and Magnus. 4 Hearts.

Buy the ebook:

Bookstrand

Lindsay Townsend

2012 The Sad and The Good

2012-01-02T08:34:00.000Z

One Year On

This time last year I was mourning the death of my mother at the age of one hundred. Although the last years of her life were impaired by macular vision and hearing loss, she remained mentally alert. When asked how she was, Mum always replied she was amongst life’s lucky ones because she had a lovely flat in a retirement home, good health compared to many others and sufficient money as well as a loving family. ‘Some people of my age,’ she said, ‘have no one and others have families who scarcely keep in touch.’

Mum’s last birthday was on Boxing Day, 2012. She enjoyed her party and took pleasure in her card from the Queen. On the night of the 28th she left her body in her sleep.

I still miss her very much but am not selfish enough to wish she had lived on suffering from ill health.

My nine year old grandson write this moving tribute to her, which the teacher did not dare to read to the class for fear she would cry.

Death

Why do people have to die?
Why can’t they stay with us forever?

When Mum and Dad told me Great Grandma had died
It felt as though all the happiness had been sucked out of the world by a giant black hole.
My heart had completely deflated.
No one can describe death.

If me and my dad and all the people who came for my great grandma could build a ladder to get her down
We really truly would.
Nobody can describe death.

In the church at the funeral, sadness on everyone’s faces,
My heart was in my boots,
It was like despair had taken over.
It was like the world was black.
Tears filled my eyes as people said all the kind things my great grandma had done.
I fought hard to keep them back.
But hearing all the good things she had done my heart filled like a champion weight lifter pushing it up.
Nobody can describe death.

Death creates a big black hole in you but you can fill it up with happy memories of the person that died.
But still…Nobody can describe death.

When he read it to me over the phone, tears welled up in my eyes, but I restrained my grief, remembering a quotation from the translation of The Bhagavad-Gita As It Is by A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada. “As the embodied soul continually passes, in this body, from boyhood to youth to old age, the soul similarly passes into another body at death.

This year I have achieved so much that my mother would have been pleased with. Three of my novels will be published in 2012. I have had two articles, first Baroness Orczy, and then The Scarlet Pimpernel, and a third, Samuel Pepys, will also be published in 2012 by Vintage Press.

I’m fortunate to be able to have children and grandchildren who I love dearly, to write historical fiction and articles and to garden organically. As Mum advised me, I’m counting my blessings.

My garden’s been very productive this year. From the time the rhubarb was ready to eat to now, when I have herbs and vegetables – Swiss chard, New Zealand Spinach, parsnips, turnips, red and green kale, brussel sprouts, – in the garden - carrots, marrows and pumpkins stored in the garden shed, and home grown veggies and fruit in the freezer, I have been at least 60% self-sufficient. The only disaster was the fate of 40 kilos of home grown potatoes stored in Hessian sacks in the garden shed which mice nibbled. They even nibbled the sacks!

Hopefully, 2012 will be happy for all of us, and I wish you all a healthy and prosperous New Year in which all your dreams come true.

Rosemary Morris
Historical Novelist

New releases from MuseItUp.
Tangled Love 27th January 2012.

Sunday’s Child June, 2012.
False Pretences, October 2012

http://www.rosemarymorris.co.uk

Guest Blog - Bekki Lynn: 'Annie and the Young Master

2011-12-29T10:44:00.000Z

Annie and the Young Master is an erotic historical fairy tale based on the old folk-tale 'Cap O' Rushes'. This is Bekki's re-interpretation of that intriguing fairy story.

Blurb:

Banished from her home, Lillian Basford picked herself up and set out to start a new life. When Samuel Wadkins came along and gave her a real-life taste of what her dreams with him had teased her with, she became torn between her life as it was and what it’d now become. [erotic historical]

ISBN: 978-1-4524-3636-4

Excerpt:

She scanned the room, taking in the gowns of reds, greens and blues, even gold, silver and purples. They made her pastel pink dress feel drab. Stepping back to take her leave, her eyes landed on his. He came toward her and she froze. How was she going to escape?

He stopped before her and bowed. “May I make your acquaintance?” he asked. “My name is Samuel Wadkins.”

Manners led her to curtsy. “Excuse me. I can not stay.”

He held his hand out to her. “I’d be pleased if you danced with me.”

His eyes held hers when they met. Lillian could not deny him. With her hand in his, he led her to the dance floor and laid a hand on her waist. She followed his lead easy enough, having danced with her father many times around the house.

“I’ve not seen you before, have I?” he asked.

“Would it matter?” she asked, her eyes lowered, voice quiet.

“Who’s your family?”

“Many questions. Am I to believe you’re in training for service?” she asked, tilting her head to look up at him.

“Forgive me.”

Samuel’s hand tightened on her waist as he whirled her around the floor, stopping to twirl and dip her. He held left her bent over his arm longer than necessary, his eyes penetrating hers. She worried he might see familiarity in her depths. Part of her wished not, part of her was glad to be near him even if she suffered another cold dip in the water to cool her wanting of his body. His eyes began to darken with desire and she shivered. If he laid her out now on the floor and loved her, the onlookers would be forgotten.

He drew her up, saying, “I feel I’ve seen into your eyes before. They’re such a unique blue, between the sky and the night.”

“It’s the lighting, maybe the event,” she murmured. Her heart pounded from both the dance and the desire steadily rising from being near him and remembering what it had felt like to have her body with his.

“I shall like to dance with you all night.”

She didn’t know what to say, but the change in the music temple set them off on a waltz. They glided around the floor as if they were alone. For her it seemed so. Their eyes watched one another as they whirled among others. If his could be trusted, he saw into her soul, the depths of heart. No laughter came from what he saw, but rather his eyes darkened with the same need she'd seen that morning too many fortnights ago.

When the music ended, he drew her close to him. She felt his breathlessness equal hers, from activity she would have believed had she not seen the growing need spread over his face. Was he so easily taken he couldn’t control himself? This thought pricked her heart, but she wanted to believe somewhere deep within him, a particle of him knew she to be Annie. It could wishful thinking or a way to save her heart for the moment, maybe.

He led her toward a table and handed her a glass of punch before guiding her through the nearest open door. She found herself in the night air, welcoming the breeze.

“I used to wonder about these affairs, but then I was sent off to school before I could attend.”

“Is it everything you imagined?”

“Yes, and no,” he said, closing the respectable distance between them. With a finger, he tipped her chin up. “There’s something about you, familiar.” His head bent near her ear and he whispered, “My body claims to know you in ways it desires.”

She swallowed and took a step backward. “Did your school teach you to be so forward?”

“Pardon my bluntness. I’m not normally brash.” He took her glass and set it down on the nearby table. “Shall we?” he asked, extending his arm.

Relieved to return to the dance floor, she wished for the normalcy the night should have had. Maybe know Samuel in an accepted sense of what's proper.

The chimes of a clock reached her. She listened and knew it to be the hour of ten. She must hurry home. Before the music began once more, she reached up on her toes and whispered in his ear. “Blessings to you, Samuel.” Then she turned to leave, but he pulled her back, holding her to his body.

His mouth claimed hers, releasing a hunger she should have kept back. Rather she drank and gave as she’d done that morning many weeks ago. The quiet of the room disturbed her and she pushed at him to let her go. “I have to go.” She ran from the room.

“Annie, wait!”

She heard him, but went for the buggy sitting beside the nearest carriage rather than wait for it brought up.

“Annie!” he called after her again.

Purchase Bekki's books at:
Smashwords, Kobo, Amazon, Lulu, Diesel, Sony, Barnes and Noble.

On the Right Track

2011-12-27T12:06:00.002Z

Like to read a snowy story? I have a short - and cheap - one night stand story out with Decadent Publishing. If you leave a comment on -
http://decadent1nightstand.blogspot.com/

You might win a free copy.

Always driving through life along the straight and narrow, Hollie wants a break from staying within the lines. She hopes a hookup at 1NightStand with a tall fair-haired guy who’s organized and sensible, likes small-breasted brunettes, and can deal with any crisis life throws at him, will jar her from the mundane path she’s been on.

Except what seemed like the perfect plan when she set off, turns into the worst idea ever as the snow falls thickly. Slipping and sliding, her arms numb from clenching the wheel, she becomes frantic to avoid what’s looming in front of her.

Dark-haired Nick is on his way to a party with hopes of connecting with a busty blonde—assuming he’s even on the right road and can dig himself out of a heap of snow before he freezes solid. Too bad he never plans ahead, no coat and no shovel in the car, and soon he won’t even see a road at all, let alone any vehicle barrelling down it.

When two hearts get lost in a snowstorm of what they think they want, can Madame Eve's magic put them back on the right track?

Don't you long for some summer heat?

2011-12-21T16:05:00.001Z

This time of year is cold and dismal, which is one reason why we all long for the sharp frost and pristine whiteness of snow to be found in the mountain countries of Europe and America. Often we're scheduled to go skiing right after the festive fortnight - it's usually the cheapest time, for one thing, and for another, we're ready for the break before girding our loins for the next bit of hard slog through January and February, the two most miserable months of the year. This year, for some reason we now cannot recall, we've chosen to delay our snow break until the end of January and I feel we've nothing to look forward to for such a long time.

Which makes me feel quite nostalgic for France and the heat of summer holidays. The flower perfumes and the shimmery heat of the Dordogne in July and August are hard to beat. We'll go back this summer, but in the mean time, why not settle down with a copy of SHADOWS and let the warmth of summer wrap around you as you read about Melissa and Rory and their budding relationship? They've gone for a holiday to an old water mill in the Dordogne, and though they love it, they're not so keen to discover they're not the only residents. They're not the sort you can ask to leave, either; they've been there for over two hundred years.
Will Rory and Melissa pull together, or will they let the ghosts drive them apart? Check out the link : http://www.amazon.co.uk/Shadows-ebook/dp/B006JBXJRA and discover for yourself!

Jen Black

Kick Starting the Muse

2011-12-20T10:40:00.001Z

I would be a rich woman if I received a pound each time someone tells me, “I could write a novel.” I usually ask why don’t you write it. More often than not the reply is, “I don’t have time.”

Time is the factor which separates writers from would be writers. There is always something which beckons a writer whether it is a mundane task such as doing the laundry, which I should make a start on right now, or accepting an invitation.

I would be even richer if I received a pound each time someone asks, “Where do you get your ideas from?” When the writing is not going well I’m tempted to smile and reply, “From the supermarket.” Actually, that’s not quite as far fetched as it seems. I’ve often overheard partial conversations that trigger an idea or seen a face which seems to step out of a historical era, a Roman soldier, a Norman Knight, a Mediaeval lady, a Franciscan monk, a Cavalier etc.

Potential material to kick start the muse is all around me and in non fiction, biographies and autobiographies. I am a historical novelist so my muse responds to something I read about times past, which must then translate itself onto the computer.

Stephen King wrote. “Don’t wait for the muse. This isn’t an Ouija board or spirit world we are talking about here, but just another job – like laying pipe or driving long-haul trucks.”

So, how have I trained my muse? I have always understood the importance of having a place to write in which my muse and I can settle down. Once it was at a desk in the corner of the living room, today it is the smallest bedroom in the house which I have converted into an office.

After long hard battles my sometimes reluctant muse now understands that I have a regular writing routine. I rise early in the morning, deal with some e-mails, edit the last few pages of the previous day’s work in progress and then write until 10 or 11 a.m. Later in the day I work from 4 or 5 p.m. to 8 or 9 p.m., and sometimes my muse prompts me at night with an idea.

Anyone can establish a writing routine. The important thing is to write for set periods whether they are long or short. For example, if we write half a page a day we will have finished a novel by the end of the year. A bonus is that the muse will respect this and, as the saying goes, knuckle down to work.

My muse stays with me most of the time. When I’m doing housework, gardening or shopping Muse helps me to plot and plan. Recently, while at the health suite enjoying my time in the Jacuzzi, my muse and I have been considering the sequel to my novel, Sunday’s Child. We have been tossing ideas backwards and forwards, rejecting some and building on others. By the time we settle at the computer or the laptop we will have a plot and theme.

Regardless of whether we are published or unpublished, if we are determined, with the help of our muses, we will find the time and space to write.

Rosemary Morris
Historical Novelist

Publisher MuseItUp
Tangled Love January, 2012
Sunday’s Child June 2012
False Pretences October 2012

www.rosemarymorris.co.uk

A. Faris - 'Last Christmas'

2011-12-19T08:00:00.021Z

When writing my first publication Out of Joint, it did not occur to me that I would be writing a second book that is part of the same universe (Wings of a Butterfly) a year later. It certainly did not occur to me that I would be asked to write a third for a Christmas anthology. Funny how things work out; apparently, people do read my historical-time-travel-paranormal stories (and I assume, like them.)

Last Christmas inhabits the same 'verse, where demons mess about with the timeline, witches and vampires police the timeline, and love involves time paradoxes. The heroine, Nadine, is a time agent who has no time for Christmas. She's a jaded and cynical witch, who works on Christmas Eve. On the trail of a time insurgent, she does not expect to find love instead.

Buylink: http://www.decadentpublishing.com/product_info.php?products_id=415&osCsid=qj8n73s2d3h97eef6rhdhf76f1

Last Christmas is also in a print anthology Yule be Mine Vol. 2, published by Decadent Publishing. (Buylink: http://www.amazon.com/Yule-Be-Mine-Seleste-deLaney/dp/1613330286).

In the spirit of giving, I am holding a draw for Yule be Mine Vol. 2. To enter the draw, simply include your email address (eg, faris DOT writes AT gmail DOT com) with your comment. I will contact the winner for his/her mailing address by 21st Dec.

Bio:

A. Faris loves stories, be it in the form of prose, poetry, plays, music, paintings. Above all, she loves stories of romance and love. Not surprising then, to find her writing romance. Since being an author is a full-time job for the lucky few, she also works as a translator, proofreader, teacher and Mum (which also includes in the job description ‘cook’, ‘cleaning lady’, ‘driver’ and ‘handyman’).

You can find her at http://afariswrites.wordpress.com/, where she reflects on narratives, occasionally sidetracking into the minutiae of life and, when she has to, indulges in some self-promotion.

Blurb:

‘Tis the season to be merry…

But not when you’re on the trail of a time insurgent, and facing a demon’s servant at every turn.

For Nadine Venus, Christmas is a jinx. Two deaths in the family and an estrangement, all on the blessed occasion, she spends every Christmas alone since. A knock on her door reveals a mysterious stranger, a stranger who kisses sweet, knows her soul and offers his heart with no reservations.

Not everything is as it seems, however, with more at stake than Nadine thinks…

Excerpt:

A quick look out the spyglass showed a tall stranger, with shoulder-length hair that seemed unable to decide between being blond or brown. He hadn’t set off any of the level ten alarms surrounding her unit so, with a shrug, she opened the door.

She managed a glimpse of darkish eyes before she was hauled against the owner’s hard body. A second of lip contact, then, her instincts kicked in. She shoved, directing magic to her palms to lend her the strength needed to propel the solidly-built man away. He landed on his arse, looking surprised, as if he somehow expected a different response after mauling a stranger.

She watched comprehension dawn and he picked himself up from her front step, rueful now. “I knew it.” He eyed her still glowing hands warily. “Would you put that away if I apologized?”

Still suspicious, she kept her hands up. “Well? Where’s that apology?”

His shoulders shifted in some indeterminate gesture. “Four decades haven’t changed you much, Red.” He dimpled briefly, his eyes flicking to her hair with great affection, which made the simple adjective sound sweet. She told herself to resist the impulse to smooth her hair down.

“No, I don’t suppose it would have. You did tell me time passes differently for us.” He sketched a bow. “I’m sorry, Nadine.”

Her heart skipped a beat at hearing him speak her name. Used to the quirks of time-travel, after all her years with the Agency and now the Order, meeting a stranger who knew her did not surprise her. Meeting a stranger who knew her witch name disquieted her; it implied a degree of intimacy she had never granted anyone.

“May I come in?”

A. Faris
http://afariswrites.wordpress.com/

Christmas at Hartford Hall

2011-12-18T10:05:00.002Z

As it's almost Christmas I thought I'd share with you an extract of my latest book with Aurora/Musa. I hope you enjoy it.

A Regency Cinderella story complete with a handsome ‘Prince Charming’, two nasty sisters and a wicked female relative.

When Elizabeth’s grandfather died there was no sign of a will and she, to her consternation, discovered she was now dependent on his heir. The new Lord and Lady Hartford and their twin daughters arrive and reduce her status to that of a servant. Elizabeth is determined to leave Hartford Hall in the New Year and work as a governess. However the arrival of Sir James Worthington to make an offer for Lady Eleanor only adds to her difficulties…

Elizabeth was lost in thought, recalling two Christmases ago when Grandfather had been well. From nowhere a horse reared up behind her. She had no chance to hurl herself to safety. Her last thought as she fell beneath the plunging feet was that she would be with her beloved relative at Christmas after all.

Her mouth was full of snow, her basket no longer in her possession, but she was not dead. She daren’t move. She was beneath a team of spirited horses. She could be trampled to death at any moment. Then two hands grasped her shoulders and she was hauled backwards through the snow in a most undignified manner and set firmly on her feet.

She spat the last of the white stuff from her mouth and glared up into the face of the most attractive man she’d ever seen in her life. He would have been even more handsome if he were not scowling back at her.

“What the devil were you thinking of? I could have killed you. Walking down the middle of a lane is the height of folly.”

This was the outside of enough. The wretched man had all but run her over and was now blaming her for his foolhardy actions. “That I am not dead is no thanks to you. Perhaps it has escaped your attention, sir, but the only place it is possible to walk at the moment is down the middle of the lane.”

He frowned down at her, his startlingly blue eyes unfriendly. “I do not intend to stand here bandying words with a servant girl, my cattle will freeze.” He raked her with an icy stare. “As you are obviously unhurt, I shall continue my journey.”

Good grief, what a ridiculous vehicle he was travelling in. She couldn’t help herself, her lips twitched and she hastily raised a hand to cover her smile. “I would think, sir, that driving in the depths of winter in that carriage might be considered even more foolish than my walking in the middle of the road.”

She thought he would suffer an apoplexy. His lips thinned and he seemed to grow several inches. Now he was even more formidable. His many-caped driving coat was snow-covered, his beaver equally whitened. If she thought of him as a rather cross snowman perhaps he would not seem so alarming.

Then his expression changed, his anger gone, and he smiled. My word! He was far more dangerous to her composure when he did this then when he glared at her.

“I beg your pardon, miss. The relief that you were not killed has made me behave appallingly. Although my carriage is not ideal, allow me to give you a ride to your destination. It’s the least I could do.”

Flustered by his mercurial change and not quite sure she wished to be squashed between him and his manservant so high from the ground, she shook her head vehemently. “No, it would be most improper. You continue your journey. I have not far to go; pray do not worry about me.”

Have a wonderful holiday and prosperous New year.
Fenella Miller

Warm up your winter: 'The Snow Bride'

2011-12-17T13:23:00.001Z

She is Beauty, but is he the Beast?

Elfrida, spirited, caring and beautiful, is also alone. She is the witch of the woods and no man dares to ask for her hand in marriage until a beast comes stalking brides and steals away her sister. Desperate, the lovely Elfrida offers herself as a sacrifice, as bridal bait, and she is seized by a man with fearful scars. Is he the beast?

In the depths of a frozen midwinter, in the heart of the woodland, Sir Magnus, battle-hardened knight of the Crusades, searches ceaselessly for three missing brides, pitting his wits and weapons against a nameless stalker of the snowy forest. Disfigured and hideously scarred, Magnus has finished with love, he thinks, until he rescues a fourth 'bride', the beautiful, red-haired Elfrida, whose innocent touch ignites in him a fierce passion that satisfies his deepest yearnings and darkest desires.

Coming Dec 27th from Bookstrand Publishing 2011
15% discount until January 3! Pre-order here.

Read Chapter One

Here is another excerpt to tempt you:

Magnus was worried. The fire he had made should have brought his people. It was an old signal, well-known between them. His men should have reached the village by now—that had been the arrangement. They were bringing traps and provisions in covered wagons, and hunting dogs and horses. He had been impatient to start his pursuit of the Forest Grendel and so rode ahead, returning with the messenger until that final stretch when the man turned off to his home. He had ridden on alone, finding the wayside shrine.

But from then, all had gone awry. Instead of the monster, he had found an ailing witch, and the snowstorm had lost him more tracks and time.

Magnus shook his head, turning indulgent eyes to the small, still figure on the rough pallet. At least the little witch had slept through the night and day, snug and safe, and he had been able to make her a litter from woven branches. He would give his fire signal a little longer and then return Elfrida to her village. There he might find someone who could translate between them.

Perhaps she did have power, for even as he looked at her, she sat up, the hood of her cloak falling away, and stared at him in return. She said something, then repeated it, and he drew in a great gulp of cold air in sheer astonishment, then laughed.

“I know what you said!” He wanted to kiss her, spots and all.

He burst into a clumsy canter, dragging his peg leg a little and almost tumbling onto her bed. She caught him by the shoulders and tried to steady him but collapsed under his weight.

They finished in an untidy heap on the pallet, with Elfrida hissing by his ear, “Why have you done such a foolish thing as to burn all our fuel?”

He rolled off her, knocked snow off his front and beard, and said in return, “How did you know I would know the old speech, the old English?”

“I dream true, and I dreamed this.” She was blushing, though not, he realized quickly, from shyness.

“Why burn so wildly?” she burst out, clearly furious. “You have wasted it! All that good wood gone to ash!”

“My men know my sign and will come now the storm has gone.” He had not expected thanks or soft words, but he was not about to be scolded by this red-haired nag.

“That is your plan, Sir Magnus? To burn half the forest to alert your troops?”

“A wiser plan than yours, madam, setting yourself as bait. Or had your village left you hanging there, perhaps to nag the beast to death?”

Her face turned as scarlet as the fire. “So says any witless fool! ’Tis too easy a charge men make against women, any woman who thinks and acts for herself. And no man orders me!”

Magnus swallowed the snort of laughter filling up his throat. He doubted she saw any amusement in their finally being able to speak to each other only to quarrel. Had she been a man or a lad, he would have knocked her into the snow, then offered a drink of mead, but such rough fellowship was beyond him here.

“And how would you have fought off any knave, or worse, that found you?” he asked patiently. “You did not succeed with me.”

“There are better ways to vanquish a male than brute force. I knew what I was about!”

“Truly? You were biding your time? And the pox makes you alluring?”

“Says master gargoyle! My spots will pass!”

“Or did you plan to scatter a few herbs, perhaps?”

He thought he heard her clash her teeth together. “I did not plan my sickness, and I do not share my secrets! Had you not snatched me away, had you not interfered, I would know where the monster lives. I would have found my sister! I would be with her!” Her voice hitched, and a look of pain and dread crossed her face. “We would be together. Whatever happens, I would be with her.”

“This was Christina?”

“Is Christina, not was, never was! I know she lives!”

Magnus merely nodded, his temper cooling rapidly as he marked how her color had changed and her body shook. A desperate trap to recover a much-loved sister excused everything, to his way of thinking.

She called you a gargoyle! This piqued his vanity and pride.

But she does not think you the monster, Magnus reminded himself in a dazzled, shocked wonder, embracing that knowledge like a lover.

Lindsay Townsend
http://www.lindsaytownsend.net

David Russell: 'Therapy Rapture' and 'My Dream of Madonna'

2011-12-16T11:22:00.000Z

Extract from Therapy Rapture

Marina disappeared through a mahogany side door, leaving me agog with expectation. She came out in a flowing, low-cut purple satin dress, split skirts – like I'd seen in some 'Come Dancing' broadcasts. Her stockings were near flesh-colour, on the tantalizing edge of bare legs. Those lovely forms moved alluringly through and behind the splits. Sure enough, true to my intuition, Justify My Love came on, deep and sensual. Her shoulders were available to touch; her lips came close. My mind modulated between that video and our tactile reality, as if they were vying against each other. We swayed each other backwards and forwards; through Maria’s undulating movements, beautifully raising her skirt, her shoulders were available to touch; our lips came close. Her body wings flirted alluringly with the horizontal. Her back zip was giddily tantalising. Our dancing was sinuous, muscular, delicious. She drew out of me ballet steps and movements that I never thought I could do, undreamed of suppleness on my trunk, spine and legs. I felt as if I had satisfied a professional. I must have managed a pirouette. Our bodies orbited each other, into planet, out of asteroid, out of planet, into asteroid, into nova, out of nova . . .

"Well done, honey; you got every bit of me moving. Now we'll go on to Part 2. Undo me at the back." I had had a welling up of fantasy desire to do just that, cumulative too; all those years of Hollywood and video belles I had longed to disrobe, the chaperoned sensual icons . . . and then to have the sluice gate opened by an order from reality . . .

Oh, what I'd dreamed of, brought to life! The dress shimmered down to reveal Marina in an exquisite cream corset, luminous, reflective, flickering in the orange light. Madonna in the flesh! At last I could see her legs in full. I had already kicked off my shoes. She stripped me down to my shorts and singlet. We danced on, writhing, edging into an embrace. I massaged her back, felt her erected breasts under the boned corset. We swayed ourselves breathless. My inner fires were rising, seething.

"Now for the deeper plunge; we'll do a swim together."

We left our clothes in a heap in the ballroom. Marina led me through a long, dark corridor to the pool. It was huge, glass-roofed, warm, exotic, flanked with palm trees. The water was turquoise; it was an encapsulated lagoon. She pointed to the changing room in the far corner. There's a costume for you in there, ok?"

What suspense as we changed! Marina had been really telepathic in her planning. They were 50s-style Jantzen trunks. I got a wonderful thrill as I pulled them on in a real flush of hitherto unfulfilled youth. Never before had I felt so sexy in trunks, with someone eyeing me up that I really wanted to; it was almost as if I was going to appear in a male strip show, to show myself to all the most beautiful women in the world, who would sigh in ecstasy at the sight of my body. And Marina felt like all those beautiful women rolled into one.

We both tiptoed out of our cubicles, and came to the pool's edge. Now was the other side of the coin: I had been pretty turned on by the corset, but now Marina was in a clingy purple swimsuit with white stripes top and bottom. My bathing icon was before me, the sight of her glorified by the tinting of subdued light, Ursula Andress and Esther Williams rolled into one. Had there ever, in my whole life, been a plunge like this?

I got into the water first, and drew Marina down by the shoulders to join me; such beautiful shoulders too, just muscular enough. We splashed about a bit at first, then raced together, on and on, until I lost count of lengths and laps. All this unaccustomed exertion was releasing ever more energy. We did lots of different strokes, but my favourite was to see Marina doing the backstroke, her lovely breasts and thighs thrusting up through the water. My reverie alternated between the pool and a bed. We felt so youthful, so healthy, so supple, so strong. The heady power of this exercise was turning us into two supermodels. We submerged, embraced under water. Our self-made maelstrom was tightening our clinch. This was a breathtaking build-up – the flow, the ripples from outside building up the flow, the ripples from within. The Swim Fan sequence surged through my brain. I loved the first stirring of erection in my trunks, and sensed her fires were rising with mine. We were within an ace of doing it there and then, but Marina held me firm.

"We've got to go one step further on our path to make things complete.”

She took my hand and led me on. We approached a shower cubicle. She grabbed me by the waist and pulled me in. “Next item in the unwinding sequence,” she whispered.

It was so delicious; the steamy water pouring down, that tight embrace in front of the mirror, us still in costumes, the slow peeling down, the clinch, the foaming soaping, the gell, the abandoned thrusting in quasi-tropical heat, the total cleaning, the thrust together of all body parts, the rubbing all over with voluminous towels. It was so transporting, we could have been anywhere in our world of travel dreams.

Buy from Amazon UK or Amazon US

Extract from My Dream of Madonna

I was tossing and turning, half-dreaming my way into wakefulness. The telephone rang. Before it had finished its third ring, I picked up the receiver.
"Hello honey, you got through."

I sensed the voice with an ethereal shudder. It was hers and no other's. It must have been that chain letter, or that very special message on the Contact Line. "We've got to meet. Midnight at the Imperial Palace. Look your best; be your best."

So it was all going to happen, Madonna would approve me, fulfill me. I was all atremble. I hurriedly shaved, showered and dressed. I looked intellectually smart-casual in dark brown cords? What the hell? Whatever fashion I chose, Madonna was sure to do some really imaginative permutations.

I went down to the vestibule, meaning to call a cab. There, waiting for me, were her bodyguards—tall, coffee-colored, muscular hunks, perfect role-models for my workouts.

"Hi! We've come to collect you. This is your honor and ours."They ushered me into a plush Chevrolet. The engine purred. The upholstery was resilient and pliant, in time, in tune with my quivering anticipation. I was going to be a sex-object for Madonna.

The cathedral's columns tapered into the infinite darkness, like seductive limbs in erotic dress. The bodyguards motioned me to go in, then turned and left. The interior was swathed in a dim red light. I could hear the dulcet, ethereal sounds of a choir. But no singers were to be seen. I looked ahead. I was obviously in the chamber of state, where the emperor made his proclamations. There, in two lines, were twelve beautiful girls, all the same height—about five foot eight. They were wearing white silk robes with pink sashes. They beckoned me to kneel at the altar, and then to stand.

The lights dimmed. Then, from the rear, Madonna entered. She looked exquisite in a purple velvet ball gown, glittering with a handful of jewels flashing all the colors of the rainbow, revealing her shoulders, so wonderfully toned by all that sensual exercise. Her hair was now black and straight, her complexion fresh, without make-up. She stood between the two rows of girls, and then she smiled at me. "You're looking great," shesaid, "I must see more."

She lifted her arms in the air and nodded at the girls. The one on the far left undid her sash, parted her robe, and pushed it back over her shoulders. It fell to the floor to reveal the girl's athletic body, tightly encased in a white girdle and a black bra-top. She came and undid my jacket, then bore it away.

Each girl did the same with one more item of my clothing. Madonna's eyes gradually lit up as my body was revealed to her. At last I stood before her, just wearing black briefs. Madonna was feasting at the sight of my torso and legs. Our faces edged together. Our lips touched and our tongues drew together as we held our breath through a five-minute kiss.

"Wonderful," she whispered. "Could you help me with my preparations now?"

Now I was to undress Madonna! I went up to the altar, put my hands on her slender waist, and looked her straight in the eye. The gown had a zipper at the back. I undid it and eased it down. As it fell to the floor, it captured a moment of eternity.

Buy from Amazon UK or Amazon US

Reviews:

Therapy Rapture

4.5/5 Stars

I have been reviewing David Russell’s work the past couple of days, and I must say that I have saved the best for last. Therapy Rapture is one of the most eclectic short stories I have come across. It combines a short story, art, and poetry. Crazy cool, huh?

Our male protagonist has an issue separating fantasy from reality. Throw in a therapist and a fitness trainer, and we have all the hot makings of a sensual read. After reading a few of Russell’s short stories, I see that he has an eye for romance and subtle details. His character lives in the moment, and each movement is filed with emotion and meaning. This builds quite the anticipation for lovemaking. And speaking of lovemaking, David has a soft hand for these types of scenes, preferring to keep the erotic details hidden. I find it refreshing and alluring.

I also really enjoyed how Russell changed up things a little with artwork and poetry. It was an unexpected break from the usual short stories, and one I liked very much. After reviewing Russell’s work over the past couple of days, I’ve come to know his work as truly unique. His writing is very abstract, sophisticated, and sensual, and I highly recommend Therapy Rapture!

My Dream of Madonna &
An Ecstatic Rendezvous

4/5 Stars

David Russell delivers two shorts which focus on dreams and fantasies. His first short is My Dream of Madonna. This title is super brief – only a few pages – and is as it describes – a dream of Madonna. Starting with a phone call from Madonna herself, our male is taken by Madonna’s bodyguards to an extravagant church and then led to a swimming pool where not only does he meet Madonna, but he ravishes her.

Russell did an excellent job recreating a dream state of mind. Dreams are often a series of images, experiences, and desires that collide and form random scenes that elude to our deepest wants. This was certainly the case with this short. Russell excelled in building the anticipation between our male and Madonna. And what I liked even more was when the pair finally made love, there were very few details about the sex. The context clues were prefect and very fitting of this story. It was very different, written in an unique fashion, and I personally liked it.

In An Ecstatic Rendezvous, our nameless male is described as a narcissist from the start with a perfect gym body to match. He is so into himself that he dresses up in 50′s style swimwear and poses in front of a mirror. He even strips his clothing off as he watches himself in the mirror. But eventually he tires of the solo performance and searches for a woman on his level, and meets Sandra.

Our protagonist is serious about role playing. Before meeting up with Sandra, he lets her in on his 50′s era fantasy and even coordinate outfits over the phone, right down to the ironed linen underwear. When they do meet, they role play like it is a real beach party scene from a 50′s movie, complete with a couple’s beauty contest.

Russell was not kidding when he said the protagonist was a narcissist. I found humor in the lengths he makes to play out his fantasy, both alone and with Sandra. Excellently written – this was very much an ecstatic rendezvous, and a short story worth reading!

David Russell

FAIR BORDER BRIDE

2011-12-11T15:26:00.001Z

This is the cover for my historical romance Fair Border Bride. It's been up on Kindle since mid-October, and though it is selling in the US, not much is moving via amazon UK. Now this could mean that everyone in the UK buys directly from Amazon.com - or it could mean that I've failed miserably to tell anyone in the UK that it exists! and I think this may well be true! When the story opens in the summer of 1543, Harry is setting off on his first mission for his father, the Deputy Warden of the English West March, and adopts the alias Harry Scott. travelling through Northumberland, he meets Alina and follows her home to Aydon only to fall foul of a marauding band of border reivers intent on stealing cattle from Aydon. Things go from bad to worse when Alina's father threatens to kill Harry. Alina is horrified, and Harry escapes only because Matho Spirston, captain of the Aydon guards, decides to help him. Alina fears she will never see Harry again, and attempts to prepare herself to marry a well to do neighbour as her father wishes. But she can't forget him...

There's a book trailer here

and a link to some 5-star reviews here

and here's a short excerpt:

Alina’s father flings Harry into the dungeon at Aydon Castle and threatens himwith the Leap next day. Alina creeps out of her bed to visit Harry at midnightwhen the castle is quiet.

“Tellme,” he said, before he forgot all practical things in the delight of herpresence. “Your father threatens me with something called the Leap. What isit?”

“Shedipped her head, and he heard her sharp intake of breath. “It’s the ravine,Harry.” She pointed towards the dark bulk of the hall. “On the other side is aravine. It is deep, with the Ay burn at the bottom. Father…he makes prisonersjump from the precipice outside the hall.”

“Ah.” He raised her knuckles to his mouth, and kissed them todispel the shadowy presence of Death looming in the darkness behind him. Heremembered looking into the ravine the night he rode up here. His tongue probedthe cleft between her fingers. She gasped. Harry’s blood sang through his body,and he kissed her knuckles again. “How deep, do you think?”

“Twenty times the height of a man, they say.” She shivered andfrowned as she watched him nuzzle her fingers. “There are rocks and trees…”

“And no one survives?”

Her face crumpled. “Oh, Harry, sometimes they do, but they arebroken, twisted creatures—”

A deep voice sounded from above, and Alina flung up her head.“Matho, please!”

Matho must have agreed, for she turned back to Harry. Her hand hadwarmed in his and when he kissed it once more, her other hand snaked throughthe bars and stroked his face, crept to the back of his neck.

“Ah, Alina,” he murmured. “Would that we had no iron bars betweenus.”

His flesh hardened. If this was his last nighton earth, he wanted some pleasure to beguile his thoughts. He reached bothhands through the grill and drew her close against the iron bars and in truthshe was not reluctant, even when his hand roamed beneath her cloak, caught aribbon and her nightgown gaped from neck to waist. His palm found the firmweight and curve of her breast and nestled around it.”

Gilli Allan - Why I am a writer

2011-12-09T02:04:00.001Z

I can't recall exactly how old I was when I started to write my first 'novel', but it was round and about the age of ten. Already an avid reader, I was influenced by my older sister - then in her mid teens - who was attempting to write a Georgette Heyer style romance. At the time, it seemed to me a brilliant idea to write the book I wanted to read. It’s what I still do.

I never finished anything, I always ran out of steam (and plot). That first attempt was only a 2 or 3 pages long. I gave up writing altogether when I went to art school and I worked as an illustrator in advertising, with no thought of becoming a writer. I only began again, this time with the serious aim of being published, when I was married and at home with my young son. Just Before Dawn, the first novel I ever finished, was an unconventional love story. It was published in 1986. In my second book, Desires and Dreams, I completely subverted the ‘romance’ stereo-types. It was published in 1987.

It was the end of an era when publishing was a gentlemanly profession, with premises in the old parts of London - dark, dusty offices, up many flights of stairs, and those clanky old lifts with concertina metal doors. I was published during the years of the blockbuster novel. Authors like Judith Krantz, Daniele Steel, Barbara Taylor Bradford were writing brick-sized novels which sold in shed-loads. Suddenly publishing was ‘hot’. It became big business. The publishing men and women of the past, who’d been in the profession for love, were either eased out or sidelined. The real power moved to the money-men. What became important was not the writer, but the product - and, by extension, the bottom line. My own, small, independent publisher, Love Stories, ceased trading after a few years of battering its head against brick walls. It could not achieve the marketing, promotion or distribution necessary to win success for itself, or for its authors. Other than the book shop in my own home town, where I’d badgered the owner, I never saw either of my books in a book store.

So started the next phase of my life. I’d gone from thinking, rather complacently, that I was ‘a writer’, to feeling like a wannabe again. And, as the years passed and the rejections from literary agents piled up - because ‘they didn’t know how to market me’ - I yo yo ‘d from elation to despair. The world of publishing didn’t stay static either. If anything, as the economics of publishing shifted and profits were harder to come by, publishers became even more focused on the bottom line, even more determined to find the next Joanna Trollope or the next Katie Fforde or the next Sophie Kinsella. I felt that I was ploughing a lonely furrow. I didn’t want to be the next anyone. I wanted to be the first Gilli Allan.

So, at the beginning of 2011, having received yet another rejection for TORN, a book I really believed in, I decided I had reached the end of the road. I either needed to shelve the book once and for all, and in the process break my heart, or self-publish. God bless Amazon - Kindle.

And the really good news is that since going it alone I have signed a contract with the new e-publisher, Lysandra Press. My book, Life Class, is coming out in the new year.

Everyone loves Christmas ... don’t they?

2011-12-09T02:02:00.000Z

I certainly do. It’s a serious event in our house. We are not religious, but I love the Christmas story, as well as all the traditions of sparkle, snow, carols, coloured lights and presents around the decorated trees, which have grown up around the celebration of Christmas. We enjoy it as the mid-winter pagan festival it once was, in these islands.

The perpetuation of tradition happens on a smaller scale, within families. I am well aware that the things I insist upon ̶ the foil wrapped nugget of coal, alongside the nuts, chocolate money and Satsuma, in the toe of the stocking ̶ is not necessarily what anyone else does, it is simply a repetition of what happened in my family when I was a child. So there is a lot of sentiment in the attempt to recreate the Christmases of your own childhood ̶ a need to sink back into that remembered warmth, excitement and security.

About the writing of TORN

It is always difficult trying to describe what and how you write. We English are famously inhibited and self-deprecating. And though I'm sure there are many exceptions to this rule, I am afraid it afflicts me profoundly. I find it hard to ‘big myself up’. But needs must.....

I write unconventional, unpredictable, unsentimental stories. So when I came to write TORN, which begins a few weeks before Christmas, there was no way it was going to be a warm and cosy evocation of this time of year.

TORN. It is a few weeks before Christmas....

2011-12-09T00:18:00.001Z

....Coloured lights were strung in swags from lamp-post to lamp-post. Lights delineated the stone gables and studded the fir trees on shop front pediments. She smiled, enjoying the sting of the night air on her cheeks as she paused there, on the step of the Prince Rupert, to shrug on her coat. It had only been a few months, but the fact was undeniable. Already she’d begun to relax, begun to see the future with optimism, begun to feel safe – safer than in a long time.

She must bring Rory into town one evening soon. There were many childhood years ahead of him – plenty of time to make trips back to London for its bizarre cocktail of the gaudy and the glamorous. For the present, the simple Christmas decorations in this old market town would seem magical enough to him. His happiness and security were all important. It might just be the two of them from now on, and their pleasures might be simple, but life would be normal and safe; on that she was determined.

Without warning the lights jagged upwards, meteor tails zigzagging through the sky. The ground tipped. A jarring thud reverberated up her spine. At first she was too stunned by the heavy fall to understand what had happened. Then came the flush of embarrassment and self-blame. Why had she chosen to wear these stilt-heeled boots? Who on earth was she expecting to impress in this backwater? Already, in the split second since the world had tilted up and smacked her on the bottom, she sensed the damp chill of the stone flags seeping through her clothes, reaching her skin.

‘Get up! Fucking histrionic cow!’

Comprehension shocked through her in a sickening rush. Only then did she register the drag on her scalp, the whiplash pain in her neck. She tried to get up; the urgent need to retrieve her dignity overriding fear. But again he’d grabbed her hair and was hauling her up from the ground – her high heels slid and scrabbled to gain purchase on the slick surface.

‘Stop it! Stop pulling my hair you bastard!’

‘Then fucking get up, fucking c... bitch!’

‘You pulled me over!’

‘Balls! You throw yourself on the ground and scream blue murder as soon as anyone looks at you!’

Anyone? Did he really believe he was one of many falsely accused?

‘You’ve always been a drama queen.’

Why was she so surprised? Because until this moment she’d managed to convince herself she would be safe here, that he would rather pretend he didn’t care than add to the indignity by running after her. As time passed her confidence had grown, the tight, hard knots in shoulders and neck gradually loosening. Now, disillusion took over from surprise. Defeated fatigue weighted her limbs, fuddled her brain.

‘Why have you come here?’ she asked bleakly. ‘What do you want, Sean?’

‘You know! Don’t be fucking stupid as well as fucking deceitful and cowardly! No one runs out on me! I want you to come home! I want us to be a family again!’

‘And this is the best way to persuade me? To make me realise what a fool I’ve been? Chase me halfway across the country, then assault and abuse me in the street?’

‘You don’t know what abuse is! I’ve seen real abuse. Women with broken bones, ruptured organs....’

‘Exactly! Didn’t want to hang around till it got that bad. Anyway, we’ve never been a real family!’

His face darkened. ‘You’re a fucking spiteful slag! So bloody superior and sanctimonious! Always making out I’m worse than I am, that I’m not worthy of you and Rory ... like I’m some kind of bloody animal!’

You said it, she thought. Sheila had the right idea. Give them enough time and all men revealed themselves as pigs - though that was being offensive to pigs. She wondered where he’d sprung from. Had he discovered her address? Had he been following her? The pub was full; he could easily have been lurking in a corner behind the older regulars hugging the bar, or the gangs of boisterous, bragging youths and raucous girls in their Friday night finery. Though it wouldn’t have been easy to remain hidden amongst the group of ‘new-agers’ who’d colonised a bench table near the window behind them.

‘You’re the fucking animal!’ Sean continued. ‘You’re the slut! And the second you’re out of my sight, you’re out gallivanting, neglecting your precious son!’

‘Neglecting him? This is the first time I’ve been out in nearly three months! And it’s not like I’ve been clubbing all night! This is a pub. It’s barely ten o’clock. All I’ve drunk is a glass of wine and some tonic. I came out to have a drink with a woman friend and I’ve been no more than a couple of hours. Rory is perfectly fine. He’s with my neighbour. But she’ll be expecting me back by now. You’ve already made me late. I have to collect him....’

‘I’ll drive you,’ Sean interrupted.

‘No.’ Apart from anything else he was obviously unfit. ‘How do you think I got here? My car is….’

‘Then I’ll follow you.’ He grabbed her arm. ‘I’d like to say hi to Rory.’

‘What are you...? Stop! Stop it! The car park’s the other way!’

‘We’ll go and get my car.’ His tone had moderated but retained a hint of exasperation as if she were the one being unreasonable. ‘Drive to yours. Then I can follow you.’

At once she was convinced this was a ploy; he didn’t know where she lived. Perhaps he’d come to the town on a hunch, knowing she had nostalgic memories of the area. Or perhaps a friend had let slip that she’d spoken of looking for a place near Warford. If so it was a dismal coincidence he should run into her on her first evening out. But if he really didn’t have her address she was desperate to keep it that way.

‘No, it’s too late. Where are you staying? I’ll meet you tomorrow,’ she lied, attempting a more conciliatory tone, ‘....bring Rory. We can have coffee and a chat.’

‘Oh no! I’m not waiting till the morning!’ His grip tightened. ‘I know you, you’ll chicken out...!’

‘I won’t! I won’t!’ She tried to pull away, but he held on. He couldn’t really intend to force her to go with him, could he? A cold sweat prickled her skin. She began to feel panicky, feverish. The heavy pulse of blood throbbed loud in her head. A fumbling struggle began, hampered by layers of winter clothing. Fighting and elbowing, she finally slipped out of his grasp; he was left holding her unbuttoned coat. Her bag skidded over the wet paving stones. She staggered backwards towards the pub and picked up the bag. Even though it was new and expensive she didn’t care about the coat. Nothing mattered beyond the imperative to lose him and get home to her son, but Sean dropped the coat and was after her, yanking at her long hair again, winding it round his hand.

‘We’ll do it my way!’ He started to pull her along.

‘Stop it!’ Stooped and tottering on her ridiculous heels, she still resisted him. ‘Get off me, Sean!’ she squawked, dipping and twisting her head to relieve the drag on her scalp. Traffic swished by on the damp road; cars, then a van, then a juggernaut, then more cars. None of them slowed. People on the opposite pavement were momentarily interested. A male voice bellowed something incomprehensible, followed by a laugh. No one was concerned about drunken argy-bargy outside a pub. The voices dwindled.

A sudden babble came from inside the pub. Whoever had opened the door was likely to be similarly indulgent to a minor domestic dispute, but by now she was in real pain and the fear was growing. If she achieved nothing else it was worth trying to embarrass Sean in front of an audience. She screeched louder.

‘Stop it! You’re hurting me!’

‘Shut the fuck up, slag!’ Moments passed as she writhed and ducked, scrabbling at his fingers clamped around the twisted hank of hair. A man’s voice chipped in.

‘What’s going on?’

‘Butt out! None of your business!’

‘It is my business. I don’t like to see a lady assaulted in the street.’

‘A lady? You’re mistaken there, mate!’

She began to struggle even more desperately, in the hope Sean might be distracted enough to loosen his grip.

‘Anyway, the slag’s not being assaulted ... she’s my wife!’ The declaration was made with the total assurance of a man who expected the world to agree it was husband’s right to do whatever he liked to his spouse. At this moment she broke free and ran a few paces towards the other man.

‘I don’t care who she is, pal. It’s an abuse of power and it’s unciv’lised behaviour!’ Though taller than Sean, her unexpected champion did not have his muscled bulk, and judging by his style of dress and knitted hat, he was a lot younger. She wouldn’t have given odds in his favour if this confrontation came to a fight.

‘Uncivilised!’ Sean spluttered. ‘You accuse me of being uncivilised! Look at you! You’re a fucking tramp!’

‘Call me what you like, but if you don’t leave the lady alone I’ll get the landlord,’ he tipped his head towards the pub, ‘to phone the police!’

Sean began to laugh. ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you, son. I am the police. And if you’re not careful I’ll arrest you for breach of the peace and threatening behaviour.’

At this the other man seemed to consider. ‘You’ll show me your warrant card then?’

‘I’m off duty,’ Sean improvised. And way outside your jurisdiction, she thought.

‘So, I’ll get him to call them anyway, then, shall I, Mister Policeman? You can explain why you were dragging your ... er wife? ... along the street by her hair.’

She could have kissed him. He even seemed to doubt Sean’s claim to be her husband. The rest of the ‘new-age’ group were gradually piling out onto the forecourt, and gathering around the first man in unspoken support. Though Sean continued to bluster he was now sounding less sure of his ground.

‘Are you coming with me or not, Jess?’ he eventually asked, as if by now she should somehow have been convinced she would be better off with him.

‘What part of go away don’t you understand? Get lost! It’s over!’

Sean took a few accelerating steps towards her, anger and frustration flared in his face. There was movement behind her, a murmur of resistance. He stopped an arm’s length away and spat out, ‘You’re such a fucking bitch!’

‘If that’s what you think why do you want me to come back?’

‘We’re a couple!’

‘Oh yes. Where one steals from the other?’

‘I borrowed it! I was going to pay it back!’

‘In your dreams! I’m not coming back with you, Sean. We’re not married! I don’t want to be married ... and certainly not to you!’

‘Bitch!’

‘And if I have any more of this harassment I’ll get a court order. Your employers would like that?’

‘You wouldn’t dare!’ His finger jabbed at her repeatedly. The last aggressive poke thudded bluntly into the top of her breastbone. ‘Who’d believe you?’

She pushed his hand away. ‘I didn’t believe Gaynor. But I’ve got her address and number. If we’re both singing from the same hymn sheet it’ll be harder to dismiss!’

‘The girls would gang up on me, eh?’ he sneered, grabbing at her wrist. He darted quick looks at the eccentric audience, caution mixed with bravado, as if he yet hoped to persuade them he was in the right. She tried to pull her hand out of his grasp.

‘If we have to. Let go of me Sean!’

The group moved closer. The rumble of dissenting voices grew louder. As if suddenly aware of his vulnerability Sean looked around at the oddball band of individuals. There could be no doubt now whose side they were on. The man in the woolly hat moved closer, reached forward. Sean reared back, shoulder raised as if to strike. But the first man’s gesture was placatory.

‘You’re not hearing the lady, pal. Why give yourself all this grief? Force never solved anything. It’s obvious she doesn’t want to go with you.’

Sean let go of her wrist, flailed wildly at the man, knocking his hand away as if disgusted by his touch.

‘What do you know about it?’ he roared. ‘It was me rescued her! Picked her up and stood by her when she was in trouble!’

‘And I’m bloody tired of having to be grateful, Sean!’ Jess interrupted. ‘I’m tired of being pressured to go back to work. Tired of being shouted at or slapped whenever you feel frustrated. And I’m tired of you bullying Rory!’

‘Bullying? He needs discipline. You seem determined to turn him into a wimp. Well, don’t come running to me, darling, next time your life goes belly up!’ He glanced round at the others. ‘I should have realised you’d have found yourself another man ... men, by now. Don’t think much of your choice. You must be desperate! I’ll give it six months before you come running back.…’

‘It’s not up for negotiation, Sean.’

‘Even if you don’t want me, you’ll never hack it here! You’ll never be able to stay away from London. Impossible! You? Keep away from the shops? I’d like to see it.’

‘I no longer want that life.’

‘Then stay with your posse of weirdo friends. See how long you last! And don’t worry about harassment! I’m not coming here again. I’m not begging! You’re welcome to this fucking half-arsed town! Go to fucking hell, Jessica!’Sean stooped to pick up her coat and flung it towards her contemptuously. It landed on the ground near the young man; he stooped to pick it up.

Sean’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’d just better be hot stuff in bed, son, if you’ve a prayer of keeping that bitch interested,’ he said, before slouching bullishly up the road, stopping just once to glare at the people clustered protectively around her.

Just One Bite

2011-12-06T17:39:00.004Z

I wrote a 'Quickie' for Ellora's Cave - a paranormal story set in the UK - and it came out a week ago.
It's supposed to be funny - so I hope it brings a smile to the face of those who read it. It's less than £2 to buy.

Just One Bite - Barbara Elsborg

Liv is having the day from hell. Hit on by her piggish landlord, a victim of an attempted mugging by a guy who bites, and then her hair gets caught in the coffee machine. Things go from bad to worse when she’s stalked on her way home, and the stalker turns out to be the morning’s mugger. Except he’s tall, dark and delicious, offering an apology, flowers and a body to die for. Oh, and he wants to cook a steak dinner just for Liv.

There’s just one snag. He’s a raving lunatic who thinks he’s a werewolf.

Buy here:

http://www.jasminejade.com/p-9764-just-one-bite.aspx

Also buy here:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Just-One-Bite-ebook/dp/B006E1A7A2/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1323193472&sr=8-1

A Sprig of Broom

2011-12-01T15:07:00.003Z

My latest novel A Sprig of Broom is published today in e-book form initially, at www.whiskeycreekpress.com. I say my latest book but really this is an old book with a new cover. It is in fact the first novel I ever had published. Published by Robert Hale Limited, in hardback, this medieval romance was the culmination of much research and many visits to the wonderful Middleham. John and I used to spend a lot of time there and in the Harlech area. The latter was my inspiration for Lord Llanaber's castle and lands. I loved it there and still do and I think it is this love that persuaded my heroine, Cecily Hadfield, that this was indeed a magical land.

A lot of water has gone under my bridge since this novel was published. I swopped genres going onto write contemporary and romantic suspense, as well as historical romance. The first day we heard that this novel had been accepted John and I drank champagne, and ever after he always bought me a bottle of champagne when I had a Hale novel accepted. Happy days, and, I am happy to say, many bottles littered our kitchen.

I wanted to publish this novel again because twenty two months ago I lost John. I guess I wanted to relive those happy days. Today I am not drinking champagne, I am just doing mundane things but somewhere deep inside my heart is singing. Lady Cecily has to learn to sing again too, and to a very different tune. She succeeded, I think I will too...

Lysandra Press, a new romance and women’s fiction ebook publisher

2011-11-30T16:39:00.000Z

I’m excited but nervous about the launch of our new website http://www.lysandrapress.com/ today but after a year in development working closely with our authors, I am feeling pretty confident that we have a smashing website and some excellent titles – hopefully something for everyone. - Ruth Little

Here is a taste of what’s on offer:

Fiona Dalrymple is shocked to learn on the death of her grandmother that Doreen Dalrymple was not her grandmother at all. Her real grandmother, her grandfather's first wife, Ellie Marsden is still alive and when Fiona meets up with her, Ellie has a further shock for Fiona. She also has a brother. What is more Tim has disappeared and Fiona is charged with the task of finding him.

Pippa Cavendish is blonde and beautiful and no one's idea of a conventional nanny, but Lilly Fontaine loves her. Marc Fontaine her father suspects Pippa is not all she appears to be and he is right. Pippa is harbouring a secret, one she is determined to keep hidden at all costs.

Behind manicured lawns and bourgeoning gardens, the apartment building is much like any other in the community. The contrast of its aging structure and decorative foyer reflect the charm of Springfield Place – its elegant lobby prominent; its deteriorating corners hidden from view. Home to an intriguing array of characters who pass in elevators and along pathways, its residents – secrets intact – exchange vague greetings, then continue on their journeys. Some find the casual acknowledgement enough. For others, chance encounters and their pleasantries offer salvation.

Stop for a moment at Springfield Place. Share a glimpse within its walls.

Widow of a professional yachtsman, Cassie Lewis is busy running the family boatyard in Devon. When catastrophe strikes, Cassie has to accept she can’t change the inevitable.

‘If you refuse and leave, you will have thrown away your son’s inheritance.’ With those words Nicola is blackmailed by Henri her ex-father-in-law, into moving to France with Oliver her young son.

Wildlife expert Susannah Stevens has landed the perfect job at a hotel on the coast of Kenya. But the last person she expects to be working for is Greg Fairchild, the man who deceived her years ago and who believes she’s just a gold-digger. With the future of the hotel at stake, they agree to work together. But can they put past feelings behind them?

Young widow Val Baker restores musical instruments, but fears her relationship with her Greek-Italian family on Corfu is broken beyond repair. Returning to the island to work on a rare piano belonging to her Greek friend Alexia, she finds her dreams haunted by memories of Hilary; a young English girl raped and murdered ten years before. Val determines to uncover the truth about the case, and set to rest her own doubts about the involvement of her father, Yiannis, and half-brother, Markos, both policemen who were involved in the original investigation. Joined by her friend Harry, Val begins to unravel the threads. When two strange tokens arrive, one for Alexia's daughter Chloe and one for Val, it becomes clear that Hilary's unknown killer is on Val's trail. Her search for the truth becomes a race for life.

I hope to keep you posted on twitter of our progress. In the meantime, if you are a new author, or an established writer who would like any of your printed books to reach a wider audience through epublishing, we would love to hear from you - submissions@lysandrapress.com .

Hello everybody.

2011-11-30T13:08:00.001Z

At last I am able to contribute to this blog. Happy days. I will post something more considered in due course but this is just to say 'Hi,' and (hopefully) to confirm my invitation to be here!

Gillix

Creating Believable Characters in Historical Fiction

2011-11-26T11:54:00.000Z

Thoughts on Creating Believable Historical Characters

So far, I have only written historical novels set in England, but regardless of when and where a novel is set the characters must be believable.

Before I start writing a historical novel I name my characters. I find The Oxford Dictionary of English Christian Names invaluable.

Even then, I can go wrong. For example, in my work in progress set in Edward II of England’s reign I named the hero’s father, Marmaduke. Someone who critiques my chapters pointed out that Marmaduke is the name of a popular cartoon character in the U.S.A. To be on the safe side I checked in the Oxford Dictionary of English Christian Names and found out that Marmaduc was mentioned in the Assize Rolls in 1219 so I renamed my character.

It irritates me when, for example, a character is called Wendy prior to 1904 when J.M.Barry first used it in Peter Pan. It also causes me to lose faith it he author.

After I name my characters I create a detailed profile for each major character. Later, as I introduce other characters, I create a simple one for each minor character. This helps me to breathe life into each protagonist.

Amongst other things in the profiles, I describe the character’s physical appearance, background, and, if necessary, regional accent. In dialogue, I indicate the accent and try not overdo it. (I’ve noticed that some authors who set their novels in Scotland use words such as ‘aye’, ‘ye’ etc., so often that it is irritating and makes the dialogue difficult to read.)

Other considerations are financial circumstances, home life, education, and relatives who assist or obstruct my character.

Characters’ behaviour and attitudes need to be in accordance with the historical period that a novelist has chosen. In my opinion, and others may disagree, a novel in which the characters act like 21st century people transported back in time. Before I begin a novel I work my way through a pile of reference books in order to understand contemporary attitudes and beliefs.

I also need to understand the ramifications of class. For example, in my mediaeval novel an earl wants to dress his mistress in opulent clothes but obeys the law governing what different classes may wear. Status is another important consideration. The earl’s mistress (a villein) plans and plots ways to gain her freedom.

Another important consideration is the position of women in society. Other than widows, did they have any control over their property? Did they have any say in the way their children were brought up? What were the differences between women from different classes? Something a novelist needs to bear in mind is that throughout the ages, women have been controlled by men due to factors such as family ties, financial considerations and the law. If a woman chose to defy her father, legal guardian or husband, what would her situation be? Without masculine support, how would she survive? Another question that needs to be answered is how men regarded women.

A historical novelist needs to know how those in the chosen era regarded the world around them. What did they think of foreigners, other religions, education, war, etc? For example, depending on when the novel is set, and to name a few issues, what were the attitudes towards the Roman occupation, Wars of the Roses, the dissolution of the monasteries, the Roman Catholic Church, the British Empire and the 1st and 2nd world wars.

There are many other things to consider, including the clothes which were worn. I was very amused by a young woman in a novel who ran for a mile in spite of tightly laced stays stiffened with whalebone and full skirts and petticoats.

There are many traps for the unwary novelist but with careful research most of them can be overcome.

http://www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
http://rosemarymorris.blogspot.com

The Great War and Theatre

2011-11-25T09:00:00.000Z

World War One caused a boom in theatre going, but not necessarily to see plays. Many serious plays had to be withdrawn as they lost money. Most companies broke up on the backs of theatre-manager’s greed. These men often lacked the paternal care exhibited by the old actor-managers. They were far more ruthless and would quickly call a halt to a tour if audiences began to dip, and rising rents were a nightmare.

The war naturally brought a new surge in patriotism, both in drama and cinema. There were plays written about the suffering, but the emphasis was more on the humorous to attract the masses. There were many songs about the war, even women dressed as men (Vesta Tilley) as well as drama that was hostile to Germany.

Soldiers on leave flocked to the theatres with their sweethearts, eager to be amused and entertained. Chu Chin Chow was a huge success. Starting out as a pantomime it ran for over 2,000 performances at His Majesty’s. A Little Bit of Fluff, a popular farce, ran for three years at the Criterion. Critics were vociferous against this kind of ‘vulgarity’ as they termed it. Others would complain there was too much Shakespeare and time for a change.

One of the famous names at this time was Lilian Baylis at the Old Vic, who persisted in presenting Shakespeare. She also started a fine repertory company and established a permanent company for ballet. Miss Horniman, who ran The Old Gaiety Theatre in Manchester, transformed it into a modern repertory theatre and continued to do plays of a high quality, but it was not easy with so many of the ‘stars’ being taken away to go on tour. She had a reputation as a caring employer, anxious to achieve a good reputation for her actors. She even considered a trade union would be of benefit to enforce managers to provide clean and safe theatres, and pay for rehearsals. In 1913 one theatre in Manchester carried a notice which read “this theatre is perfectly ventilated, cleaned daily by the vacuum process and disinfected with Jeyes Fluid.” But on the whole, repertory companies suffered badly, largely because they persisted in presenting the same old Victorian melodramas, perpetuating the myth that anything was good enough for the provinces.

Films were the new popular treat, both at home and with troops in France, Charlie Chaplin’s in particular. It was estimated that by 1917 half the population went to the Cinema at least once a week as it was cheaper than a night out at the pub. Newsreels and propaganda films were also common. Performers would often entertain cinema audiences between films. Queues too would be entertained by performing dogs or a man playing a banjo or accordion. Then a collection would be taken up for the soldiers and sailors.

Benefit performances were held to raise money to entertain wounded soldiers; just as there were Tank Weeks, or fund raising for an ambulance. Matinees too would be held to buy x-ray or other first aid equipment.

The greatest rival to cinema was the music hall with concert parties and visits from famous artists to the camps and rest areas.

Harry Lauder was a great favourite of the troops as he tirelessly toured France, getting as close to the front line as possible after his only son was killed there in 1916.

Having been involved in amateur dramatics all my life I love the theatre, and have collected many books on the history of it, famous actors and so on, so I love to write about it and have touched on this theme in other books. But it was Harry Lauder’s story, and that of Miss Horniman, and also reading an old book called Travelling Players by Eleanor Elder, published in 1939, which gave me the inspiration to write Kitty Little.

I based the LTP’s on Eleanor Elder’s story, whose great wish was to bring the Arts to the masses, and on that of the old Blue Box, otherwise known as the Century Theatre. This was a collection of mobile blue vans that trundled around northern towns until the number of trailers grew so big and cumbersome that it parked up by the lake at Keswick, and stayed there. Now it has gone, replaced by the beautiful Theatre by the Lake, pleasing locals and tourists alike.

http://www.visitcumbria.com/kes/theatre-by-the-lake.htm

I hope I have done justice to the enthusiasm and pleasure these wonderful people have brought to their own audiences in my fictional tale. I’d like to think that Kitty is there in spirit, acting on that wonderful stage.

You can buy it on your Kindle from Amazon:

Love Reading British-set Romance? Looking for some Thanksgiving and Black Friday Offers?

2011-11-24T08:00:00.050Z

The covers featured here are from some of the authors on the British Romance Fiction Blog:

Happy Thanksgiving from members of the British Romance Fiction Group!

If you enjoy reading romantic fiction and you are looking for some Thanksgiving and Black Friday reading, please take a look in the comments section of this blog post.

Romance authors - please feel free to post in the comments section of this blog post. Please add the following: title, author and brief blurb of any romantic fiction so long as it is set in Britain, plus a single buy link, such as your web page. If any of your titles are under offer, please say so.

Being detained at Her Majesty's Pleasure does that to a person.

2011-11-22T15:23:00.000Z

Today is release day for my third novel with SirenBookStrand, Silver Lining. Being a Brit, I tend to base my stories in England, but this time I've added hunky American investigative journalist in the role as hero!

Lauren Miller, jailed for embezzlement, survives her sentence by plotting revenge against the man who put her there. Once released, she’s content to bide her time—until a contact is murdered and she becomes the prime suspect.

Nate Black, an American journalist, offers to help Lauren clear her name by trapping the mastermind behind her crimes in a daring sting operation. Thrown together, Lauren and Nate are drawn toward one another and make passionate love. But still, a vital question remains unanswered, driving a wedge between them.

What happened to the money she stole…

Here’s how Lauren reacts to her first sight of Nate.

As she approached the shack, she saw a strange man sitting on her doorstep, reading a book like he had every right in the world to be there. She slowed her pace, her heart hammering in her ears, and did a quick mental revision of the rules. Which one had she infringed this time? Being incarcerated at Her Majesty’s pleasure did that to a person.

Then the anger kicked in. She was free to do as she bloody well pleased, and having strangers foisted upon her did not please her one little bit.

“Who the hell are you,” she demanded belligerently, “and what are you doing on my property?”

The man stood up. He was tall, probably over six foot and well put together with thick brown hair falling across his face, a half-day’s growth of stubble on his chin and intelligent grey eyes. The sort of man a woman would look at twice. Well, any woman except Lauren, perhaps.

“Hi there,” he said, speaking in a soft American drawl. “You must be Lauren.”

Lauren froze. How had an American fetched up in her isolated spot in the forest, and more to the point, how did he know who she was?

“Not that it’s any of your business, but my name’s Louise,” she said shortly, playing for time whilst she tried to decide what to do.

“Hi, I’m Nate Black.” He took a step toward her and held out his hand, but she ignored it.

“Don’t come any closer.” She could hear the panic in her own voice. He obviously could, too, because he backed off, palms spread outward in a non-hostile gesture. “Right now, just get out of here before I set my dog on you.” Kermit obligingly growled but didn’t move from Lauren’s side.

“Hey, I don’t wanna bother you. I just hoped that we could have a chat. I tried to come and see you inside, but you wouldn’t send me a V.O.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But Lauren could see that she wasn’t fooling him. This guy knew who she was, and she instinctively trusted him. But then she’d instinctively trusted a man before, and look where that had landed her. When it came to men, her instincts weren’t worth diddly-squat. She needed to shut herself away in the shack until this particular one got fed up with being blanked and legged it. Unfortunately, it didn’t look as though it was going to happen any time soon since he was still blocking her path to the door. “Just leave me alone, okay,” she said, trying to sidestep him.

“Look, I’m an investigative journalist, writing a book about miscarriages of justice, and I’d like to talk to you about what happened to you.”

It was pointless continuing to deny her identity, but that didn’t mean she had to talk to him. “There was no miscarriage of justice in my case. I was guilty. I’ve served my time,” she said, thinking that sounded like a line from a bad movie and, against all the odds, feeling a wild giggle building inside her. “I just want to be left alone.”

“I think there was more to it than that.” He smiled at her, and for the first time, Lauren actually considered talking to him. There was just something about him. Something in his expression that made her think he might understand what she’d been through. But no! She had nothing to say to him and made a fresh attempt to reach her door. Once again he blocked her path. “Part of my book will concentrate on women who commit crimes that are out of character, and the forces in their lives that compelled them to do it.”

Lauren stared at him. “Got your insurance up to date, have you?”

He blinked. “Sorry, I’m not with you.”

“Unsubstantiated written allegations are known as libel in the legal world, in case you didn’t know it, and people tend to get sued for that sort of thing.”

“They told me you were smart.”

“Don’t patronise me.”

“Hey, that’s not what I’m doing.” He smiled in an infuriatingly lazy manner that she found strangely disquieting. “And I don’t intend to publish anything that’s libellous. The book’s been commissioned by one of the big American publishing houses, and their legal team will make sure I don’t get carried away and cross that particular line. But, about your situation, you can’t substantiate your allegations about Williams on your own, but perhaps together we could—”

“How did you know I made any allegations about him?” she asked, her suspicions on high alert. “It was never made public.”

“I’m an investigative journalist,” he said, flashing a set of perfect white teeth, his air of total confidence almost, but not quite, compelling, “and I have sources you can only dream about.”

“This might upset your delicate male ego, but I really don’t give a damn.”

“You can’t fight powerful institutions on your own, Lauren,” he said. “But with the might of the press behind you, anything’s possible.”

“Just go away,” she said wearily, aware that she’d already said more than she’d intended to.

“Come on, Lauren, what have you got to lose by just chatting to me? I promise I won’t use anything you say without your prior knowledge and consent.”

Lauren rolled her eyes. “And when a man gives me his word, that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“He really hurt you, didn’t he?”

The compassion in Nate’s eyes almost floored her. She could cope with just about anything life threw at her, expect sympathy.

“Just leave me alone.”

“If it’s any consolation, I know what you’re going through. My mom was thrown in jail back in the States for something she didn’t do. That’s why I gave up my column on the Sunday Inquirer to go and help her out.”

Lauren nodded without realizing she was doing so. She thought he looked vaguely familiar, and now she understood why. He’d written a popular column in the Inquirer for some years, doing exposés on the rich and famous, his picture accompanying his byline. “Did you get her off?” she asked, regretting showing any interest as soon as the words left her mouth.

“Yeah, eventually. The police thought she was an easy target so didn’t bother to look any further.” He paused to cock one eyebrow. “Sound familiar, does it?”

“Just go away and don’t come back. I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

Go to my website at http://www.wendysoliman.com where you can read the entire first chapter of Silver Lining.

Silver Lining by Wendy Soliman Available now from SirenBookStrand discounted until November 29^th to $4.49

Wendy

Madeleine Grown Up by Mrs Robert Henrey

2011-11-19T17:44:00.000Z

I have finished re-reading Madeleine Grown Up. the sequel to The Little Madeleine in which the authoress, Madeleine aka Mrs Robert Henrey, writes of her life as a child in Montmartre and elsewhere in France. Madeleine Grown Up covers the period from 1928 to 1929 when she worked as a manicurist in the Savoy Hotel. Her observations of life in Stacey Street, where she shared a room with her mother, who continued to work as a dressmaker, are fascinating and so are those of the Savoy, her clients and members of staff.

For example, she writes movingly about Davy the page, who would stand with his back to the door while Madeleine and the other manicurists sewed or darned their stockings while singing No,No, Nanette, Lady Be Good or Yes We have No Bananas.

“Davy never stopped. When the bar was open customers would send him off for cocktails; others wanted cigarettes or theatre tickets. The cashier sent him to the A.B.C with a tumbler for her afternoon tea. Hew used to race back across the busy Strand holding the steaming glass in a serviette, dodging in and out of the traffic, diving under the nose of our tall commissionaire, then balancing his precious cargo on the tips of his fingers, push through the swing doors. We all liked him. Fifth or sixth of a very large family, he had a passion for a baby sister to whom for Christmas he had given her a perambulator, costing twenty-two shillings for her doll. He would have liked to buy a bed for the doll and he was saving his sixpences and shillings, but the Strand was full of temptations when he and Georgie” another page “ would glue their faces against the windows of bicycle shops, the shops that sold photographic apparatus and the postage stamps and all the other things dear to boys so that the money Davey had set aside for his little sister’s doll’s bed was broken into sometimes, and a conflict raged between brother and growing man.

“Both boys were tiny. Their delicate limbs and faces whitened by the slums were their chief asset in life, their charm, their stock-in-trade They looked like plants brought up in hot-houses….”

Mrs Robert Henrey’s books are alive with memorable people who populated her world.

She also makes her most mundane experiences interesting.

“As there was no cloak-room attached to the shop, my colleagues and I had the right to use the very luxurious one reserved for the famous grill-room. The woman who guarded this fortress did not arrive till eleven, so that all the morning, or at least for the best part of it, this palace of marble or white porcelain and tall mirrors with its Niagara of hot water was almost my own….The tall mirrors caught me, handing me from one to the other. My little black dress was poor, but my magnificent shock of blonde hair shone like a ball of fire under the myriad electric lights. ….Now for the wash basins with the gallons and gallons of hot water….was it not reasonable to wash my stockings? Soon, being of a practical nature, I washed my lingerie.”

Madeleine’s blonde hair, energy, enthusiasm and French accent attracted many admirers at the Savoy. Amongst them was a Hollywood film magnate who sent photos of her to the studio and arranged for her to go to America. However, she met Robert, her future husband at the Savoy. On the following evening he took her out to dinner and kissed her in the taxi. Madeleine chose love instead of Hollywood and, after a long illness when she fought against death in the Pyrenees, she returned to England hoping her mother was wrong when she said that Robert would have forgotten her.

While travelling by car in France, Madeleine and her companions passed through “…small white villages scorched by the sun. …one did not see anybody except an occasional little old woman all in black sitting on a cane chair, her feet in black stockings and black shoes on a footstool, a cat asleep behind geraniums on the window-sill, and hens pecking around her. How happy she must be! I seldom saw such a wizened old woman without thinking this, and hoping one day to be contented and happy… Yes, she (the old woman) must be happy! May I end my days with the orange cat, the geraniums and the pecking hens!”

Cured, Madeleine returned to England where Robert met her at the railway station. Before long they married in St Georges, Hanover Square.

Mrs Robert Henrey’s biographies and autobiographies fascinate me. I plan to read as many as possible and share some of them on my blog.

Rosemary Morris
Historical Novelist

www.rosemarymorris.co.uk

New releases from MuseItUp Publishing
Tangled Love set in England in Queen Anne's reign 1702-1714 27.01.2012
Sunday's Child set in the Regency era 06.2012

An Ordinary Girl

2011-11-13T16:25:00.005Z

My book An Ordinary Girl was inspired to some extent by the horrible duo Fred and Rosemary West. I thought about how awful it would be to have parents like them. And so my damaged heroine, Ash, was born and I then had to create a damaged hero - Noah, a war photographer who endured something terrible in Afghanistan. It doesn't sound like this is a recipe for an amusing story and while An Ordinary Girl is not a comedy, it does have a lot of humour in it.
Although the book starts with what appears to be a BDSM scene - it isn't! It is however, an erotic romance so if you don't like hot sex, you might want to avoid it!

http://www.jasminejade.com/p-9245-an-ordinary-girl.aspx

THE BLURB

Ash is an ordinary girl, leading an ordinary life, but behind her smile she hides a secret so damning she’s sure no one could ever love her.

Noah is a war photographer who’s come back from Afghanistan with a secret so dark he can’t escape its smothering grip.
Both need redemption. Ash looks for it by making people happy. Noah seeks it under the whip of a Dom. They’re damaged souls, drowning in guilt, unable to escape the legacies of their pasts. Then their worlds collide in an explosion of fireworks so strong it singes not only them, but those around them. It’s said love heals all wounds, but sometimes before love enters the heart, the intense fire of passion has to burn a path, lighting the way.
An Extract

Noah was a bad boy.

As the leather strap tightened around his balls, pain surged into his left leg. Noah jerked and a loud groan escaped his lips. Fuck it.

“Sorry,” Noah panted.

The masked face moved closer to his. “I don’t think you’re sorry at all. My instructions were quite clear. I said don’t move and you moved. I said no sound and you not only groaned you compounded your error by speaking.”

A muscle in Noah’s leg had gone into spasm. He hadn’t been able to help moving, but he knew in this room there was no excuse. He hung naked from a hook, secured by his wrists, feet just touching the floor, backside pressed against the wall. The leather cuffs were tight but lined with silk to leave no mark. Considering what went on in here, the irony didn’t escape him. Nor did the sad truth that he was paying for this crap.

Apart from Noah and his tormentor, the room was empty. The windows were covered. Nothing hung on the walls. The floor was sanded boards. But the air swirled with Noah’s pain and humiliation along with the Dom’s lust and excitement.

The masked man spun him to face the wall and Noah automatically braced himself, his shoulders tensing.

“Don’t move,” the guy snapped.

Christ. All he’d done was— The crack sounded overloud as the whip snapped in the air. Noah held his breath and waited. The Dom feathered the whip down his back, over his butt and legs in gentle, delicate lashes, though Noah flinched at each one because he knew what was coming.

He pressed his cheek to the rough plaster and fixed his gaze on a stain where a bug had been squashed on the adjacent wall. The parallel with his situation was something else that didn’t escape him. Noah sucked in a breath. Crazy that he could be thinking with any clarity while at the mercy of a sadist, yet wasn’t that what he was paying for? The lashes grew stronger, faster and turned cruel. Fiery rain fell on his skin, heat ripping through him until his entire body blazed. Noah bit into his cheeks to stop himself from calling out and tasted blood.

The Dom grunted as he struck him. Noah didn’t want any lasting scars. Those he had were enough. What he needed was the pain, to be burned by the whip, for angry welts to be raised on his skin but no more.

Yet it wasn’t enough. Nothing was ever enough.

Clear thinking, my ass.

The whip landed more gently on his shoulder and the tail slithered the length of his spine to trickle down the crease of his butt. The guy came up close, pressed his body into Noah’s tender back and jammed the hard ridge of an erection against him.

“I can’t go any further without shedding blood,” the Dom said in a cool voice. “We should try something new.”

He moved back and Noah felt the pressure of the whip handle nudge his anus.

“No,” Noah barked.

Spun round to face his tormentor, he wondered if he’d be made to pay for that denial. Noah was supposed to be in control, wasn’t he? Wasn’t that was this was all about? The submissive had all the power. He only needed to say one word to make it end.

So why had he blurted “no” and not the safe word?

Because I don’t want this to stop. Noah filled his lungs and yet felt as if he’d dragged in no air. He was afraid he wanted to let things go too far.

The Dom stared at him. The mask covered three quarters of his face. All Noah could see were dark brown eyes, tight lips and a square chin.

“Why do you want to be whipped?” the Dom asked.

“Why do you like to whip?” Noah sucked in his cheeks. If he was going to be punished for not answering, he might as well make his defiance worthwhile.

“Power,” the Dom said. He trailed the whip handle from Noah’s shoulder to his groin and pressed it into the delicate skin of the crease. “Pleasure.” He teased Noah’s erection, held tight in a leather cage, tip exposed, rubbing it with the warm handle. “The combination of sex and danger is a huge rush.”

Noah had noticed. He looked down at the Dom’s massive boner. The naked body was that of a man no older than Noah but with a superior physique, one honed at a gym. He wondered what the guy did for a living, whether he had a wife and kids, whether he was only like this inside this room. Could Noah divide his life in the same way? Was that the way forward he was looking for?

“In my hands, this whip can be as soft as a lover’s tongue, explosive as lightning or vicious as a tiger’s claw. I use it to bring what my subs desire. But you…” His voice trailed into silence.

“But me what?” Noah asked.

A hand circled his cock and squeezed. Noah restrained his shudder of fear.

“The whole point of these sessions is that they’re the meeting of opposites. I like to hurt and you should like to be hurt, but that’s not what’s happening. You feel no pleasure when I inflict pain. Lucky for you, I’m capable of stopping.”

A brush over Noah’s glistening cock head and the guy brought his thumb to Noah’s mouth and rubbed it over his tongue before Noah could press his lips together.

“You’re not a pain slut,” the Dom said. “There’s nothing submissive about you. No matter how hard you try to play the game, I know you don’t like to be dominated. Neither is this a sexual thing for you.”

Try telling my cock that. Noah’s dick was erect despite his mental pleading. He wasn’t gay, so why the fuck did the thing have to fill with blood?

“The only thing that allows me to encourage you to keep coming here is that I like to be cruel, and whatever else is happening in this room, you’re suffering and that pleases me. What I’m not sure about is whether I’m the cause.” His mouth quirked in a grin. “I fear not. So in order to rectify that, I’m inclined to find a way of persuading you to tell me what the fuck is wrong with you.”

Noah didn’t like the sound of that. “This is about punishment. That’s all.” The lump in his throat grew larger.

“Punishment for what?”

“Something that has nothing to do with you.”

The Dom’s eyes darkened. He stared at Noah for a long time before he moved away. He came back holding a length of black material and a sharp knife, the blade glittering under the spotlights. Noah’s balls tingled. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“You’re here in my realm where I am king. It has everything to do with me.” He tied a blindfold around Noah’s eyes.

“No.” Noah struggled, thrashing from side to side, but the world disappeared. He wanted to scream his safe word, it hovered on his lips, but the knowledge that he didn’t deserve to say it kept him quiet.

“Hold still,” the Dom snapped.

Noah stopped moving, but his breathing was ragged. It ceased altogether when he felt something sharp press into his chest below his breastbone. Oh shit.

“What are you escaping from?” The Dom’s voice was smooth, deep and hypnotic. “The stresses of life? Conflicted about your sexuality? Overwhelmed by onerous responsibility? Guilt? What did you do?”

Noah could feel himself shaking, limbs twitching, jaw juddering.

“Answer,” the Dom growled.

He trailed the blade up Noah’s chest to his collarbone. Is he cutting me? For a split second Noah wished the guy would kill him. Then common sense kicked in. If he died like this, his father would kill the Dom and join him in hell. Not a pleasant thought.

“How did you get those scars? They look new.”

Noah’s brain lost connection with his mouth.

“This knife is sharp. Don’t make me force you to speak.”

“An explosion,” Noah blurted.

The Dom sighed. “You gave that up much too easily—which proves my point.”

Rage roared through Noah. He was not a coward. Not one more word.

The knife slid down Noah’s body toward his cock. His belly tensed and he clenched his fists in the cuffs.

The Dom’s laugh echoed in the room. “Some find knife play highly erotic.” The blade reached Noah’s groin. “How do you feel?”

Scared shitless. Afraid I’ll wet myself. Afraid I’ll tell you the truth. Noah tried to bring moisture back to his mouth and failed.

“Intense physical and psychological reactions are normal when someone is afraid. A raging erection or a wilting cock. Tears or laughter. Pleading or silence. I’ve seen them all. But don’t worry. I’m an expert in knife play.”

The blade caressed his balls and Noah felt them run for cover. His bloody cock remained hard. Idiot.

“Are you a guy who wants to live on the edge?” the Dom asked. “You like tasting danger? Or do you just like being controlled by someone stronger than you?” The man’s sweet breath washed against Noah’s cheek. “Does that make you feel safe and protected? The thought that you can cede control to another? Answer.”

“No.”

The Dom laughed. “I didn’t think so. You do have some sort of control issue though. I just can’t quite figure it out. Nor how far you want me to go.” The blade rose to linger on Noah’s ribs and pressed between them.

He’s cutting me. Noah began to shake. I could tell him. I could tell him.

“You only have to say the word if you want me to stop. Pain or pleasure? Your choice.”

And like that, the moment was lost because this was about neither pain nor pleasure. Only about choice.

“Nikon,” Noah said, and the blade fell away.

The blindfold dropped from his eyes and he looked at the blunt knife in the Dom’s hand and then down to the sharp one on the floor.

“I don’t take stupid risks especially with people I don’t understand.” The Dom freed Noah’s hands.

His entire body hurt, but the pain in his arms made him gasp. Noah fumbled with the contraption around his cock and balls.

“Need help?” the Dom asked.

Christ no. “I got it.”

Noah sighed when the last leather strap fell away. He looked straight into the eyes of the man he paid to torment him. “I’m not coming back.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

“I mean it,” Noah snapped.

“You said that too.”

The Dom caught hold of Noah’s hair and yanked his head back. Shit, that hurt.

“You will tell me what the hell it is you’re hiding. I know you want to. What did you do? Fuck your mother?”

“I’m not a fucking pervert. My mother’s dead.”

“Did you kill her?”

“No. I wish I had.”

The Dom smiled and let him go. Noah headed for his clothes and dressed as fast as he could.

“Give me a call,” the Dom said.

“I won’t be doing that.” Noah opened the door.

“I’m cheaper than a psychiatrist and much more fun.” The guy laughed.

Noah slammed the door behind him in a fit of childish pique and clattered down the stairs to emerge onto a bustling Knightsbridge street.

* * * * *

Ash was a good girl. Everyone said so. She’d just given up her seat on the bus to an elderly lady and been rewarded with a big smile. On her way home, after a day working as an advisor for the Citizens Advice Bureau, the CAB, Ash was brimming with thanks.

“I don’t know what we’d do without you, Ash,” Phil Smith, head of southeast London’s CAB, had said.

Maisie Blackburn clutched Ash’s arm before she left work. “You’ve saved my life. It’s thanks to you we still have our home.”

Then Karl Williams had collared her outside the door. “I don’t know how you persuaded them all to agree, but I’m certain I can manage the debt now, Ms. Elleston. You’re a star.”

The old lady got off the bus, and before Ash could reclaim her seat, a teenager grabbed it, the thumping music coming from his earphones audible to everyone in the vicinity. Ash thought better of advising him he’d damage his hearing. She clung to the pole and tried not to inhale the body odor of the guy standing next to her.

One day a week, Ash worked as an advisor for the CAB, a registered charity reliant on the services of volunteers, providing support for local communities. She’d been trained to help people resolve legal, financial and every other sort of problem by providing independent, confidential advice that was totally free. It was fascinating work and it made Ash feel good when she managed to sort out issues people had been unable to deal with themselves.

Extra-good when they told her how grateful they were.

Until pangs of guilt hit hard, because how could it be right to feel do-goody satisfaction by helping unhappy people? By the end of a day spent listening to a catalogue of disasters ranging from workmen who’d left a bathroom without running water, to a woman who just needed to talk to someone after she’d had to put down a dog she’d had for seventeen years, Ash’s warm feeling had usually submerged under exhaustion though she never let it show. Ash never let anything show.

By the time she opened the door of the house in Greenwich she shared with three others, Ash had her happy face firmly in place. Ronan’s motorcycle leathers lay sprawled up the stairs like a headless drunk, and Ash hung them on the hook. She went into the kitchen to find Ronan wearing a suit and pacing. It was the first time she’d seen the six-two guy in anything smart. Ash hadn’t known he even had a suit.

“I’m not late, am I?” she asked.

“No. I’m just anxious to get this over with.”

Ash sighed. “I’ll go and get changed.”

Ronan followed her up the stairs. “What are you going to wear? The blue dress with the daisies?”

“If you like.”

“Your heels?”

“Whatever you want, Ronan.” Ash tossed her coat on the bed.

“I’ll look through your wardrobe while you shower.”

This was not an evening she looked forward to. She shouldn’t have agreed to go, but Ronan had pleaded, and Ash had given in. She was a pushover and Ronan a skilled persuader.

She emerged from the bathroom to find Mr. Control-freak had gone though he’d laid out her clothes on the bed. Ash towel-dried her short, black hair, sprayed it with a stay-in conditioner and slipped into the dress. Shoes and jacket on, she went downstairs.

Mike, her other male housemate, was in the kitchen with Ronan.

“Oh, the luscious girlfriend.” Mike winked at her.

“You look great,” Ronan said. “Ready to go?”

Ash nodded.

Mike put his mouth to her ear. “Don’t use tongues. You don’t know where his has been.”

“I heard that,” Ronan said.

“You were meant to.” Mike grinned.

Ronan grabbed Ash’s hand and propelled her out of the house in the direction of the station.

“Sure you can remember everything I told you?” he asked.

“Yes, but—”

“My dad despises liberals, vegetarians, cats and me.”

“Don’t you—”

“Oh, and don’t bring up global warming unless you want a lecture.”

Ash yanked at his hand. “Ronan, you’ve not seen your parents for ten years. I don’t think your father wants to talk about global warming.”

He shot her an anguished glance. This was a Ronan she’d never seen before. He was usually so cool and collected.

“You’re scaring me,” she said. “What’s wrong?”

“They’re my one weakness.” Ronan’s grip tightened. “What were your parents like?”

“Ordinary.”

“Lucky you.”

Ash smiled. “Yep, lucky me.”

The Challenge of Writing Historical Fiction

2011-11-12T18:39:00.000Z

All the good advice given in books on how to write fiction is applicable to writing historical fiction.

Writers must enjoy writing even when they encounter obstacles. This is particularly true of writing historical fiction. Historical novelists require a profound interest in all things historical.

The historical novels that I read more than once sweep me into the activities and ‘mind sets’ in a way which I enjoy.

When writing historical novels I enjoy recreating times past and presenting plots and themes unique to the country and era that I present to my readers.

Thomas Carlyle 1795-1881 wrote: “No great man lives in vain. The history of the world is but the biography of great men.” (Today, he might have written: Great men and women.) To add veracity to my fictional characters I either mention or allow historical characters to play a part. In my forthcoming release Tangled Love Queen Anne, the Duke of Marlborough and his wife, Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough have their place. All too often, there is not as much information about less important people as a novelist would like. However, imagination is any novelist’s best friend, and a historical novelist can people novels with colourful but imaginary characters.

History, or Herstory, interests me and provides more ideas than I have time to develop; but what is history? One of the definitions in Collins English Dictionary is: “A record or account, often chronological in approach of past events, developments etc.” Thomas Carlyle wrote: “What is all knowledge too but recorded experience and a product of history; of which, therefore, reasoning and belief, no less than action and passion, are essential materials?” Yes, indeed, these are the heady ingredients which historical novelists can incorporate in novels.

For various reasons many people’s knowledge of history is scant. For example, Charles II, the merry monarch, is fairly well known but his niece Queen Anne is not. Yet most people are interested in the past even if history did not interest them at school and they chose to study – for example – computer studies, catering or modern languages. Programmes such as Dontown Abbey, the first two parts of which have been shown on television in the U.K., has attracted a vast audience. No doubt they will generate further interest in the era prior to and during the 1st World War. Undoubtedly, this interest will increase the sales of fiction and non fiction relevant to the period.

Last week, in my blog about Writing Historical Fiction, I referred to my dislike of novels in which history is ‘despoiled.’ Fiction must entertain, but it is also the author’s responsibility to reveal past times and interpret history as accurately as possible. There should be much more than dressing characters in costume and allowing them to act as though they are twenty-first century people. For example, when writing about countries in which Christianity predominated, religious conflict can provide a powerful theme but faith and attendance at church is often ignored.

Rosemary Morris
Historical Novelist

New releases from MuseItUp Publishing
Tangled Love 27.01.2012
Sunday's Child 06.2012

How I Write Historical Fiction

2011-11-06T07:51:00.000Z

Although there are books on the subject of How To Write Historical Fiction, which are useful, I am sure that novelists develop their own techniques.

I read history books and sooner or later something triggers my imagination. For example, I read that most of the English nobility disliked James II, his politics and his religion. After James fled to France, first his older daughter, Mary, and her husband and then her younger daughter Anne succeeded to the throne. Some peers refused to swear oaths of allegiance to James’s successors during his lifetime. Their refusal provided the historical trigger for my novel Tangled Love, first published as Tangled Hearts, which will be released on the 27th January, 2012.

After I decide on the period for a novel, I compile a chronological timeline with a narrow column on the left with the heading Date and two wide columns on the right with the headings National and International events.

Two of my dislikes when reading historical fiction about real or imaginary characters are historical inaccuracy, and characters who do not act in accordance with their time. Recently, I began a reader’s report on a historical romance. The first two chapters were so full of flaws that I returned it to the author with the comment that, although the plot is interesting, she needs to concentrate on research before rewriting it. I really don’t enjoy novels by authors who despoil history.

While I am working on a novel, I begin my research for the next one. I read about the economics, politics, social history, religion, clothes and everyday objects as well as reading fiction and poetry pertinent to the era. By the time I have finished a novel I have completed the groundwork for the next one in which I will use only a fraction of the information I have garnered. The advantage of such thorough preparation is showing the reader life as it was through my characters in an interesting way.

The more I research the more I realise how different modern day attitudes are to those of the past. However, even if attitudes and surroundings are different, we share the same emotions, love, ambitions, hope, hatred, envy, grief, hopelessness and misery.

As well as a difference in attitudes, there is also a difference in language which is a trap for the unwary author who should avoid sprinkling a novel with ‘la’, ‘methinks’ and ‘gazooks’ etc. In my novel, Sunday’s child, set in the Regency era, my well-born characters speak formally without contractions. In Tangled Love I use a few words such as oddsbodikins that give the flavour of speech in Queen Anne’s reign, and I avoid anachronisms.

I enjoy researching historical fiction through reading and visiting places of historical interest, including gardens, and also enjoy bringing the past and its people to life in my novels.

How I Plan A Novel

2011-11-06T07:47:00.000Z

RAlthough there are many excellent books on ‘How to Write a Novel’ I decided to share how I plan mine.

Once I have an idea, I don’t plot my novels in detail, chapter by chapter, but I do have a plot in mind.

It is said that every plot can be found in classical fairy tales, folklore and mythology. The hero or heroine goes on a journey, a pilgrimage or a quest and encounters obstacle after obstacle. So I consider which of seven basic plots suits my idea for my new novel.

Romeo and Juliet. Opposition to true love.

The Eternal Triangle. Making a choice.

The Spider and the Fly. A siren luring a male or vice versa.

The Fatal Flaw. A weakness in the hero which causes his or her downfall.

Faust. (Faust sold his soul to the devil in exchange for knowledge.) A debt that must be paid. Something that catches up from the past.

Candide. An inexperienced, naïve hero or heroine, who makes the reader re-evaluate society.

Cinderella. Goodness triumphs.

Next, I consider the theme. Is it duty, greed, jealousy, honour, love, revenge or something else?

With the plot and theme in mind I consider my characters. What motivates them and what are the stakes? What do they have to lose or gain?

Before I begin a novel I must name my main characters – I can spend hours chopping and changing before I decide. I also need to get to know them really well. So I complete an analysis which details their physical appearance, their clothes, accessories (jewellery, fragrance & luggage), health, personality, religion and education.

Having sorted out the above, I fill in the details about their background, address, family home, how long they lived there, do they rent or own their home, the décor, the garden, and the importance of their home.

Finally I create their family, their nationality, class, and income and their family tree which lists births, deaths, names and ages. Only the tip of the proverbial iceberg emerges in the novel but knowing who my characters’ antecedents were adds a sense of reality and usually has a bearing on their lives.

It’s fun getting to know my characters, where they went to school, how they see themselves, their relationships, friends, hobbies, employment, the qualities my hero or heroine seeks in a wife or husband and anything else I think of that will breathe life into them and engage my reader’s interest.

Finally, I switch on the computer and begin to write in the first or third person – usually third person. I introduce my novel to my reader by answering the questions who, what, when where and how in the first few paragraphs. Then, with a little bit of luck and a strict routine I write the first draft.

Rosemary Morris
Historical Novelist

New Releases.
Tangled Love set in England in Queen Anne’s reign. 27.01.2012
Sunday’s Child set in the Regency era. 06.2012

www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
http://twitter.com/#/writerinagarret

Fat Girls Never Have Fun?

2011-11-04T14:35:00.000Z

Says who? Yeah, society I guess. All those stick-thin models on the catwalks. How can that be normal? And junk fool, the damage that's done to our expanding waistlines, making us feel - well, out of shape.

It's time to fight back, that's what I say. I'm tired of reading about perfectly shaped heroines who can eat what they like and never put on an ounce. In Downsizing, released today by Musa Publishing, Maxine is overweight and painfully shy. Underneath all that extraneous flesh there's an intelligent, witty and interesting person waiting to get out, but no one bothers to look beyond her unattractive exterior. No one except local heartthrob Noah Fenwick, that is. The two form the most unlikely of friendships but when Noah lets Maxine down as well, she knows that what life has already taught her is true -

Fat Girls Aren't Supposed To Have Fun.

Years later Maxine and Noah meet again. But this time it's Maxine who calls the shots. Slimmer now and with a high flying career, she discovers that losing weight isn't the be all and end all she'd always thought it would be and she's merely exchanged one set of problems for another.

Even so, in her position, wouldn't you be ever so slightly tempted to exact revenge?

Downsizing by W. Soliman - Available from Musa Publishing and Amazon.com.

Check out the entire first chapter on my website: http://www.wsoliman.com and let me know what you think.

Wendy

Looking for a publisher who accepts unagented work?

2011-10-13T09:35:00.008+01:00

Don't despair. Here are some publishers who will look at unagented work, plus some other writing links which I hope may be useful.

Avalon Books
USA library publishers. Very sweet and traditional.

Avon Impulse
Digital line from USA publisher Avon.

Siren-Bookstrand
Publisher of many kinds of romance. Bookstrand publishers mainstream romance, Siren publisher erotic romance. Siren-Bookstrand also publish menage romance.

Captiva Press
USA ebook publisher of romance.

Carina Press
Ebook press of Harlequin.

Champagne Books
Ebook publisher of mainstream romance, including historicals.

Choc Lit
A British publisher who will consider unagented work. Contemp and historical romance.

Decadent Publishing
Publish romance, YA, mainstream and nonfiction

Desert Breeze
USA ebook publisher of romance.

Ellora's Cave
Publisher of romance, erotic romance and romantica.

Entangled Publishing
Publisher of romance - say they bridge the gap between trad publishing and indie publishing.

Freya's Bower.
Ebook publisher of romance and erotic romance - closed for subs now until Sept 15th 2011.

Karen Fox
News of markets, publishers and agents.

Kensington Books
5th largest publisher in the USA. Will look at unagented work. Be ready for a long wait.

Leap of Faith Publishing
Leap of Faith Publishing are very new. They are looking mainly for romance but some mainstream, too, including thrillers and suspense, mainstream and self-help. They take short stories as well - 1000 to 2000 words.

Loose Id
Publisher of erotic romance.

Macmillan new writing
Macmillan new writing will take unagented work. tends to be mainstream or thrillers/crime. Closed for submissions at present, hope to re-open late in 2011 - keep checking the link.

Mills and Boon
The UK category and more romance publisher. Will consider unagented work. Be prepared for a 24 week wait.

Muse It Up Publishing
Canadian ebook and POD publisher.

Musa Publishing.
Ebook publisher. Will take sweet romance, historical romance including Regency, contemp romance. Musa also take Speculative Fiction, GLBT, Paranormal, Erotica and YA.

My Weekly Pocket Novel Guidelines
My Weekly Pocket Novel. UK publisher of romance seeking novels of 50,000 words.

Publishing Trove
This is a useful yahoo group where you can promote your work on Sundays and also pitch your work to publishers on other days. The files section here is full of info about different publishers and what they are looking for.

Robert Hale Publishers
A British publisher who will consider unagented work. Likes crime, thrillers, sagas, romantic suspense, westerns.

Secret Cravings
Ebook publisher.

Samhain Publishing
USA ebook publisher. Romance and erotic romance of many genres, also horror.

Sapphire Blue Publishing
Ebook publisher of many genres.

Smashwords
Place where writers can self-publish their fiction and non fiction work. They will publish it for free in the main formats and take a modest cut of the sale price. Smashwords will also supply you with a free ISBN, if you name Smashwords as the publisher. They also distribute to Kobo, Mobi, B&N Nook, Apple and other places. Not yet distributing to Amazon, though that may be forthcoming.

Snowbooks
UK publisher. Mainstream. Will consider unagented work.

Sourcebooks
Sourcebooks will consider romance submissions without an agent.

The Wild Rose Press
USA ebook publisher of many kinds of romance.

Tor Publications
Fantasy and science fiction publishers who will take unagented submissions.

Total-E-Bound
UK publisher of erotic romance.

Uncial Press
Ebook publisher taking a wide range of genres.

Whiskey Creek Press
Established ebook publisher in a number of genres.

http://womagwriter.blogspot.com/
Women's Fiction Magazine Guidelines. Very useful blog giving guidelines for various women's fiction magazines. The guidelines are available in the links down the right hand side of the blog.

Harlequin Historicals Undone
Highly sensual historical romance novellas, 10-15000 words in length. Will look at unagented work. Be ready for a possible 5 month wait.

Lindsay

Themes in Historical Romantic Fiction

2011-10-11T08:30:00.000+01:00

Here are some of the most popular: Vengeance - Pursuit - Misfortune - Revolt -Enterprise - Abduction - Enigma - Greed - Enmity - Rivalry - Adultery -Madness - Imprudence - Sacrifice - Dishonour - Jealousy - Loss - Remorse, and many others. Perhaps one of the most popular is female oppression.

The desire for power, male domination, violence and control, and captive women, have been recurring themes from Jane Eyre to the present day. Drabble, Byatt, and Jean Rhys in her retelling of Jane Eyre in Wide Sargossa Sea have all used this theme. As have countless gothic and romantic suspense novels. Is this because women fear reliving the fates of their mothers?

Women’s oppression across history has been written constantly, evenabout during the 60s, in an age of strong feminism.

‘Happy women, like happy countries, they say, have no histories,’ says Harriet in Victoria Holt’s Menfreya in the Morning.

Eleanor Hibbert, in her different incarnations, as Jean Plaidy, Holt, and Philippa Carr used this theme constantly. Her Plaidy novels were written in the 3rd person, which gave them a rounder, more objective viewpoint. Her others were in 1st and therefore more personal and emotional.

Gregory too writes about the lot of women. About primogeniture and how women are ignored. Even her biographical fiction is about exploited women, forced to marry for political reasons, or used by their political ambitious fathers. Her early novels also deal with the theme of exploitation in other ways, such as the agricultural peasant after the enclosures. Writing these novels in the 1980s, during the time of the miners' strikes, this would strike a chord with readers, as it tuned in with the radical political consciousness of the time.

As with Gregory, so with Susan Howatch, who wrote about wealth and inheritance, stating that women were considered a possession as was a house or land. But she plunders history for her stories: Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine for Penmarrick, and Edward I, II and III for Cashelmara. She is saying that nothing changes. She used history itself as her inspiration, disguised and relocated while echoing the universal truth of her theme of exploitation of women in dysfunctional families. Both Howatch and Gregory teach us that history does not exist in a vacuum, that nothing really changes about human nature, despite progress in other fields.

Perhaps it is easier for us to view these problems through the prism of nostalgia. Class/sexual inequalities/social differences/violent abuse/illegitimacy and other strong themes, are often best viewed at a distance. They work because they don’t have to be defended, criticised or judged. People like to think - ah yes, that’s how it was back then. They are aware the issue still has a resonance today, yet it is easier to consider it with the benefit of hindsight. Its awfulness is often stressed quite strongly, yet as it is safely in the past, this allows in a slight air of unreality or fantasy in the way the subject is depicted.

In the 1970s the theme of exploited women was turned on its head and the liberation of women became a popular theme in racy historicals. Known as bodice rippers these started with Kathleen Woodiwise: The Flame and the Flower. Rosemary Rogers: Sweet Savage Love. They depicted accurate sex in inaccurate history. History was pure fantasy, a mere backdrop. Women were still incarcerated, degraded, violated, and yet they maintained their sense of adventure and spirit of defiance and independence. The strength of the abused woman resonated with all, giving women the right to enjoy sex, and to exploit men just as they had exploited women throughout history. Ultimately they tamed the hero. They conquered evil with love, a theme which was picked up by Mills & Boon at the time, and has featured strongly in romantic fiction ever since.

Love in a Monastery

2011-10-10T01:11:00.000+01:00

The Monastery Murders offer readers romance, history and mystery in a contemporary clerical mystery genre. Since this is a blog for Romantic Fiction, I’ll focus on the romance part— the complicated relationship between my heroine and hero.
Felicity Howard is a young American woman who found she didn’t enjoy teaching classics in London and on something of a whim took herself off to study theology in a college run by monks in Yorkshire. (If this sounds just too far-fetched, let me assure you that it is exactly what my daughter did, thereby providing me with an excellent opportunity to research setting at first hand.)

In book 1 A Very Private Grave Felicity is rash, headstrong and determined to set the world to rights. She is also bright, energetic and loyal, so don’t despair for her— but she does have to learn things the hard way. Her lessons start when she finds her beloved Father Dominic brutally bludgeoned to death and her church history lecturer Father Antony standing over him, his hands covered in blood.
Felicity and Antony spend the rest of the book chasing and being chased by murderers across northern England. And Felicity isn’t always sure which side of the chase Antony is on.
Let me hasten to explain that, although Antony is teaching in the monastery college, he is not a monk himself. Antony is a priest— an Anglican priest who is allowed to marry. (I had no desire to rewrite The Thorn Birds, brilliant though that was.) Antony, however, is considering taking monastic vows. Until Felicity turns his world upside down.

But wait. In book 2 A Darkly Hidden Truth Felicity has decided to become a nun. She can't possibly help Antony find the valuable missing icon. She's off to visit convents. And then her overwhelming mother turns up unexpectedly. And a good friend turns up murdered. Through chases across the soggier bits of the Norfolk Broads and the domains of the Knights Hospitaller in London the question dogs Felicity: Should she choose the veil or Antony?
Just to show that this tangled tale is, indeed, appropriate for a Romantic Fiction blog, let me break all the rules and give away the ending with a brief excerpt:
The eggs and sausage were long gone by the time Antony entered the crowded refectory. He turned his back on the lone piece of bacon left on the serving tray. Black coffee. Strong. That was what he needed.

He spotted Felicity sitting across from her mother at a table by the window. She sketched him an airy wave and scooted over to make room for him on the end of the bench. He took a deep breath and crossed the teeming room of jubilant people, his own heart so heavy it was an effort to get one foot in front of another.

Once seated, he couldn’t have been more thankful for Cynthia’s rattling monologue which relieved him of any need to converse. ". . . of course, I feel so guilty about that lovely Sir Robert. If I hadn’t told him about that cross emblem . . . And poor . . .. I feel so sorry for him. Poor, doddering fool. I suppose he’s left as head of the family now. But to think what his own son was involved in. I just can’t get over . . . being such a snake. . ." (spoilers deleted) She paused for a bite of well-mustared sausage.

Antony took the opportunity to turn to Felicity. He couldn’t put it off any longer. "Well, have you decided?"

She blinked, then stared blankly. "Huh? Decided what?"

"Rempstone, Ham Common, St. Margaret’s? Your calling."

Felicity smiled, then looked down at her plate, almost shyly. "Oh, that. Yes. Definitely called, I think."

He waited for the blow. Whatever it was, he had to be glad for her.

She looked up into his eyes, grinning broadly. "I definitely want to take the veil. Fingertip net, I think. Over my face, too. With an orange blossom halo."

He blinked. Did he dare trust what he was hearing? "You mean— "

"I think I quite fancy being a vicar’s wife. That could be considered a calling, don’t you agree?"

He didn’t realize until he heard the applause that he had kissed her in the middle of the crowded refectory.
　
Praise for the first of The Monastery Murders from one of my favorite writers;
" A Very Private Grave is a Knickerbocker Glory of a thriller. At its centre is a sweeping, page-turning quest through the atmospherically-depicted North of England, served up with dollops of Church history and lashings of romance. In this novel, Donna Fletcher Crow has created her own niche within the genre of clerical mysteries."
--Kate Charles, author of Deep Waters

Donna Fletcher Crow is the author of 37 books, mostly novels dealing with British history. The award-winning GLASTONBURY, an Arthurian grail search epic covering 15 centuries of English history, is her best-known work. The Monastery Murders series is her current work.
A MOST INCONVENIENT DEATH, GRAVE MATTERS and TO DUST YOU SHALL RETURN comprise The Lord Danvers Mysteries featuring Victorian true crimes.
The Elizabeth & Richard Mysteries, is a romantic suspense series using literary figures as background: Dorothy L Sayers in THE SHADOW OF REALITY and Shakespeare in A MIDSUMMER EVE’S NIGHTMARE.
Donna and her husband live in Boise, Idaho. They have 4 adult children and 10 grandchildren. Donna is an enthusiastic gardener.
To see the book video for A VERY PRIVATE GRAVE and pictures from Donna’s garden and research trips go to: www.DonnaFletcherCrow.com.
Her blog is at: http://www.donnafletchercrow.com/articles.php
and you can follow her on Facebook at: http://ning.it/eLjgYp
A Darkly Hidden Truth, has just been released in the UK, http://ning.it/oQ5uae
It will be available in ebook format soon, and will be released in North America in January.

Guest blog - Alan Calder and 'The Stuart Agenda' - an interview.

2011-10-06T09:38:00.001+01:00

Today we have novelist and poet Alan Calder at the British Romance Fiction blog, chatting about his debut title, 'The Stuart Agenda'.

Alan is delighted because the review site Red Roses For Authors have given his debut novel a super review and 4.5 Red roses.
http://redrosesforauthors.blogspot.com/2011/09/stuart-agenda.html

Welcome, Alan!

Your novel is based on a very original and also topical idea. Would you like to tell us more about the inspiration of that idea and how you developed it?

As my thoughts were turning to novel writing, I was reading the seminal 'Holy Blood and the Holy Grail', which had been in print for some time and was clearly also being read by Dan Brown, since the 'Da Vinci Code' appeared a few years later. A sceptical mind is attracted to conspiracy theories, particularly on the epic scale laid out in 'The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail'. I found it deliciously blasphemous that the blood lines of some of our most famous families might be descended from Christ.

In particular, the Catholic Royal House of Stuart seemed doubly blessed in being connected through both Mary Magdalene and Joseph of Arimathea. This might explain the Stuart’s insistence on divine right to absolute rule under God, without the intervention of Parliament. This stance, along with their inconvenient Catholicism, cost some of them their heads and eventually, after the protestant daughters of James II failed to produce living heirs, extinguished the Stuart flame. This made way for the protestant Hanoverians, who could claim distant Stuart ancestry through a daughter of Charles I, over the heads of a long list of Catholics at the head of which was Bonnie Prince Charlie’s father.

The failure of the subsequent Jacobite rebellions, ending in the defeat of Bonnie Prince Charlie, grandson of James II, at Culloden in 1746, finally consigned the dynasty to a footnote in history. It was a great comfort to the Hanoverians that neither Bonnie Prince Charlie, nor his brother, an eminent Catholic Cardinal, had any legitimate heirs. The lack of a future generation of Stuart champions and the brutal suppression and ethnic cleansing of Jacobites, especially in the Highlands of Scotland, led the Stuart cause to fizzle out.

The final trigger for The Stuart Agenda was a book written by the self-styled ‘Prince Michael of Albany’. In The Forgotten Monarchy of Scotland, he tried to turn history on its head by claiming that Bonnie Prince Charlie married again late in his life and had a legitimate son, from whom he is directly descended. ‘Prince Michael’ claims, not surprisingly, that the Hanoverian spin doctors airbrushed this inconvenient and threatening marriage and birth, out of the history books.

It’s a good conspiracy story and it did make me wonder. Could a new legitimate but hitherto hidden Stuart scion be implanted into the developing Scottish political and constitutional scene? At this moment the Nationalists are forming their first majority government, although the vote looks more like a personal mandate for the brilliant and charismatic Alex Salmond, than an expression of thirst for independence, but you have to start somewhere.

The current Nationalist constitutional holding position is that Scotland would retain the Hanoverian monarchy. This is surely a disingenuous platform that has more to do with the softly softly, step by step approach to independence, than red blooded royalism. At independence, the Scots would want to vote directly on their preferred constitutional model and that would probably be a republic. But what if a charismatic young Stuart appeared to reclaim his inheritance?

The Stuart Agenda is set well into the future in the 2030’s and assumes that the path to Scottish independence will be long and tortuous and that the current euphoric position is merely a false dawn. It is also now clear that the royal couple on the British throne in the timeframe of the novel will probably be the recently married William and Kate, now styled the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge.

What draws you to writing about Scotland?

Scotland and its history has certainly been the stimulus for both The Stuart Agenda and my second book, The Glorious Twelfth which is in final manuscript form. Both are contemporary thrillers in which the characters are handed their roles from history. The draw for me has been the direct interest in Scottish history, which has thrown up intriguing ‘what ifs’ and conspiracy theories. At the same time my characters do travel, especially to France where I lived for a few years in the 1980’s.

In fact my third book is based there, with no connection to Scotland, although it is based on an interpretation of a period of French history this time, plus a juicy conspiracy theory.

Do you plot your stories in detail or do you launch yourself straight in? Or is it a mixture?

This sounds like the ‘How do you write question.’ I start with an idea eg in the case of The Stuart Agenda, the key idea is that Bonnie Prince Charlie did indeed have legitimate descendents. That reality gave a basic cast of characters headed by the Stuart scion and his key supporters. A particular difficulty with The Stuart Agenda was knowing where to start in the lifecycle of the hero. In the earliest version of the story I began before he was born. Several versions later the published story begins with the Stuart scion as a teenager at Gordonstoun. I also had to create a motivation for the Stuart family to take on such a seemingly impossible task, recovering the throne of Scotland, nearly three hundred years after Culloden. On that base I plotted several chapters ahead and enjoyed the experience of being led by the characters themselves and creating the elaborate loops that bind them all together.

Do you write every day?

I am not a disciplined every day writer. I tend to write in manic bursts for up to two weeks at a time. Then I take a break and begin to mull the next steps before building up to write again. I’m also finding that being published means you have to spend a lot of time promoting the book. I don’t find that as satisfying as writing.

Are you excited about being part of the ebook revolution? What advantages do you think there are to being e-published?

e-Publishing is exciting and for many new writers, weary of the traditional publisher’s slush piles, it is the art of the possible. It represents a practical route to getting published either by the new breed of smaller mainly US publishers who are innovating or by many of the self-publishing independent routes being established. The current growth rate of e-published books is spectacular. They are here to stay and over time will become the dominant access vehicle for the general reader.

When you're not writing, how do you relax?

I do read a lot on current affairs, business, politics and science, particularly genetics, a habit from my senior executive days. For fiction, I enjoy history and the novels of writers like Sebastian Faulks, although I found ‘Human Traces’ rather hard going. At this moment I’m reading ‘On thin Ice’ by Richard Ellis. He charts the changing world and fortunes of the polar bear. I’m also reading ‘The Scots, A Genetic Journey’ by Alistair Moffat and Jim Wilson. The latter prompted me to have my Y-Chromosome status checked. I’m Celtic in origin, not a Viking like many of my Caithness compatriots.

I’ve also recently read ‘One day’ by David Nicholls. I liked the idea of the book, the structure that led us through the frustrated lives of the characters. I didn’t like the end; I thought that the heroine’s demise lacked imagination, as though the author was completely exhausted by the time he got to that bit. Nevertheless I’m looking forward to the weepy film.

In the lulls between bursts of novel writing I increasingly enjoy writing poetry. There is certainly more instant gratification in crafting a few pleasing verses about the human condition or a rant about wind farms or even a piece to explain and explore what some aspect of science means. I certainly see all that as legitimate territory for poets.

Lest I give an impression of being study bound, I should also say that I like cooking, eating well and drinking wine. Salmon fishing is one of my little luxuries; I’ll spend the first week of October on the Thurso River in Caithness, with old friends from America. We’ve already started the countdown prayers for the right amount of water, wind, cloud cover etc without which we shall have perfect excuses for catching very little.

Please share a blurb and excerpt with us.

Blurb

In 2035, young Robert Stuart sets out on a journey to recapture the Scottish throne in an independent Scotland. A cast of conspirators led by his great uncle Leo prepare the political and constitutional ground for him. Robert meets and falls in love with the beautiful Hanoverian Princess Victoria, providing a basis for a dynastic compromise. Robert has to overcome strong resistance from the Hanoverian establishment and from within his own family if he is to succeed in his ambition.

Excerpt

Robert’s declaration on the Culloden Battlefield.

The Prince’s troops, exhausted after the long retreat from Derby, faced a disciplined professional force, superior in numbers and weaponry. The unsuccessful Highland charges were cut down by grapeshot. It was all over in less than an hour before the Prince escaped and the Highlands were put to the sword by the butcher Cumberland. Robert was transfixed by the monumental injustice of what had happened beneath his feet all those years ago. A righteous anger welled up within him and erupted in tears running down his cheeks from his overflowing heart, his head demanding vengeance and accepting the challenge. ‘Don’t torture yourself,’ said Leo. ‘As you are my witness and before God, I pledge myself to recover the throne of Scotland for the Stuarts,’ said Robert, in a strong, emotion charged voice. The two of them stood silently, frozen by Robert’s historic declaration, a team now committed to reverse the history that confronted them on Culloden Moor.

Robert’s Speech at the Glenfinnan Highland Games

‘Chieftain, brother Scots and friends; I’ve come here today to tap the spirit of the Prince himself and replant the Stuart roots that have succoured me in my long personal journey to stand before you here today in the bright sunshine. I’ve come from France just like the Prince, without an army. My sword is my Stuart blood and my shield the strong desire of the Scottish people to manage their own affairs in the constitutional manner of their choice. If the people of Scotland ordain it, I will with great humility accept the call to become Sovereign, in their name. Scotland is a great country, we are a great people, and let’s seize the future together to make it even better.’

The Queen and Robert’s Great Aunt Francoise at Buckingham Palace

‘They’re so much in love, Victoria and Robert; they would make a wonderful royal couple as Queen and King of Scotland, don’t you think?’ asked the Queen, ignoring Françoise’s reply. ‘So, you want an arranged marriage?’ Françoise, felt faint as the implications sunk in. She was torn between branding Robert a traitor to the cause and screaming for joy at such a romantic outcome.

Leo recoils at the thought of Robert marrying a Hanoverian

‘Calculated pragmatism and love; strange bedfellows, aren’t they?’ he began, with his arms splayed out on the table and his head low, looking down. ‘You all know where I stand. I’m not going to trade it for a mess of potage called a Hanoverian marriage, even if it did improve our chances. Were we not confident that Robert could succeed anyway on his own merits?’ asked Leo, sitting up straight and looking round them, daring anyone to challenge his entrenched position. ‘This is all very difficult for Leo,’ said Françoise, putting her hand on his arm. ‘Well, can we all at least agree to let the PR people have a go at the issue? I know that you disapprove of our calculation Leo, but we have to operate in the real world,’ said Sir Duncan, playing for time. ‘Who’s real world? I’ve had enough of this, I’m going back to Paris,’ he announced, standing up and storming out of the room.

Alan Calder – Biographical

Alan was born in Wick in the far North of Scotland and gained a chemistry PhD at Aberdeen University before a career in Research and Development with ICI and Zeneca. He took up the pen in early retirement and enjoys writing contemporary thrillers with their roots in history, as well as poetry. He lives with his wife in Yorkshire, England near his grown up family. Summers are spent in Scotland, writing, fishing and doing heritage projects.

You can read excerpts from The Stuart Agenda and download from Willow Moon Publishing as a PDF to computer, i-Pad, Nook etc. You can also free read the first few chapters on amazon.com or amazon.co.uk and download to a Kindle.

Now in Print

2011-09-28T09:30:00.003+01:00

Because He Needs Me/ Lynn Granville/ Leap of Faith Publishing

This book is available in ebook from Leap of Faith, Kindle in amazon, Nook in Barnes and Noble, Are and other outlets. It will soon show up at amazon and other sites in print. This is a medical romance and a favourite with me.

The publisher is new and vibrant and I hope you will support them.

http://www.leapoffaithpublishing.com/

Lynn Granville also writes as Anne Ireland, Anne Herries and Linda Sole

Lynn Granville was the first name I was ever published under and Leap of Faith is going to republish some of my early books for me.

Love from Linda/Anne

Scots As She Is Spoken! - Edinburgh Fog

2011-09-21T16:48:00.007+01:00

When I was writing my short story Edinburgh Fog, one of the things I really wanted to capture most was the particular rhythm of the way people speak in Edinburgh. The characters in the story are young, modern, city-dwelling Scots. They’re more ‘T In The Park’ music festival than ‘tea with the laird,’ and let’s be honest, would be more likely to play rugby for England than spend their precious free time on a Highland holiday!

That doesn’t make them any less Scottish, though. These are people I know and love - fiercely proud of their Scottish history and heritage, and they look forwards, not back.

One thing that’s common to us Scots the world over is our vernacular language – the special words and phrases from childhood that we still use in our everyday speech right now. It doesn’t matter how grown-up and sophisticated you think you’ve become – some things never leave you. I’d like to share some of them with you now, and maybe you’ll start using them too!

Coorie up / coorie in - My favourite Scottish expression. To coorie up is to cuddle or to snuggle up tight, the way my kids do with me when we settle down in front of a warm fire on a cold night, preferably with a thick blanket wrapped around us. It’s about keeping the cold away, and being not just warm, but safe too.

Similarly, coorie in is what you do when you dive under the bedclothes on a chilly winter’s night and curl yourself up into a little ball till you’re as warm and cosy as toast. You’re safe and sound in your own little nest where nothing can touch you, not even the bogeyman. It’s a lovely expression.

Aye, right - You’d think the obvious translation of aye, right would be ‘yes, that’s correct,’ wouldn’t you? Wrong! Aye, right is just the opposite. Delivered with a sideways look and a voice dripping with sarcasm, it means variously ‘That’ll be the day,’ ‘pull the other one,’ or ‘I should co-co.’ A well-aimed aye, right, pal will pierce any misplaced enthusiasm, pathetic chat-up line or political rhetoric deeper than the sharpest dagger.

If you really mean, ‘yes, that’s right,’ you’ll need to employ ‘aye, right enough’ or ‘you’re right there.’

Numpty - This, in my opinion, is the best word ever invented to describe a twit, a moron, or anyone who’s view you simply don’t hold with. (see ‘political rhetoric,’ above.) Funnily enough, it’s often used immediately after aye right – Aye right - awa’ ye go and dinnae blether, ya numpy!

Stoater / stoatin’ - Nothing to do with stoats…! But rather, glorious expressions of appreciation, admiration and /or enjoyment. See that bairn o’ yours, she’s a wee stoater! is an entirely acceptable way of describing one’s appreciation of the beauty of an acquaintance’s female offspring. Similarly, that wis a stoatin’ night oot last night could be translated as ‘what fun we had on our visits to various purveyors of wines and spirits last evening!’

If time is short, you can reduce it to one word and you won’t lose one iota of meaning – Stoatin’!

Glaikit - Confused, gormless, a bit dim. Can either apply to a habitually brainless individual, or to a person merely temporarily in such a state, eg, ‘are you in need of need some further enlightenment on a particular subject, my friend?’ can be rendered as Whit are you staundin’ there sae glaikit-lookin’ fir? Whit a numpty!

NB for the sake of variety, the word eejit! is entirely interchangeable with numpty.

Scunnered - Nothing describes that feeling of being thoroughly and completely fed up and cheesed off as the word scunnered, and is often followed by the speaker’s fervent desire to ‘skip school’ or ‘skive off.’ Thus, this job’s got me scunnered, I’m awa’ for a skive. Dinnae tell the boss!

Nippin’ or nip - To pinch between finger and thumb. Mammy, she’s nippin’ me! It’s also used to describe a headache, particularly one due to the effects of over-indulgence – whit was ah drinkin’ last night? Ma heid’s nippin’…!

Nae borra, pal! - You’re welcome, my pleasure, no worries. Speaks for itself.

Aw, naw! - You really have to draw the words out to get the full effect. It’s ‘oh no!’ of course, but somehow it has so much more impact. Heard all over Edinburgh when the winter weather becomes even more inclement is Aw, naw – snaw!

Peely-wally - pale, pasty, off-colour. You feelin’ a’right? Yer lookin’ affy peely-wally. Some people might say that us Scots are perpetually peely-wally, with our fairer than fair complexions, or as Billy Connolly would have it, we’re not just pale, we’re pale blue.

I hope you’ve enjoyed a brief look at my native tongue – no need to thank me, it was my pleasure, or I should say, nae borra, pal. Despite my twenty-plus years living in England, I still use loads of these fabulous Scots words and expressions every day. They’re pure dead brilliant!

Hopefully you'll feel the same away about the following excerpt which I hope captures the rhythm and humour of those Scottish characters I know and love so well.

Edinburgh Fog is released today by Muse It Up Publishing.

Blurb:

When Greg Morton returned to Edinburgh, it was to follow his dream of opening the smartest bar-bistro in town. Now Tellers’ is a huge success—but the truth is, deep inside, it means little without the love of his life.
Four years ago, he left Julia Brady behind in London to realize his business ambitions in his Scottish home town. By the time he’d recognized his mistake and admitted to himself he wanted her back, the grapevine told him Julia had moved on—and Greg had to face the fact that he’d been a fool.
When Julia appears out of the blue in Tellers’, he knows the only thing he should do is walk right up to her and say hello. But it looks like someone else has their sights set on her, and he’s a quick worker.
Is Julia about to disappear from Greg's life a second time - this time, for good?

Excerpt:

' “Another pot of coffee, boss.”

Ben shattered Greg’s getaway plans as he slapped his notepad on the marble bar-top. “And Mr. Smarty over there says could that be with hot milk, because he wants a macchiato caldo, not freddo. I told him the milk comes hot out of the machine anyway, and is Freddo no’ that wee bloke with the big feet out Lord of the Rings? Don’t get smart-arsed with me, pal, is what I really wanted to say.” Ben curled a lip and turned to face the growing crowd in the bar as he waited for Greg to top up another coffee jug. “Mind you, for a smart arse, he must have something.”

Greg glanced over at the object of Ben’s ire. “How’s that?”

Ben gesticulated with his chin towards Julia’s table. “Look at him! Manky wee ginger git, and he’s got those gorgeous babes with him. What’s he got that I haven’t?”

“Well, let’s think.” Chrissie wandered over from the other end of the bar to join in the conversation. “Wit? Intelligence? Charm and personality?” she offered, giving Greg a sly wink. Any opportunity to wind up Ben about his ways with women usually wasn’t to be missed, but tonight Greg’s heart wasn’t in it. He pulled out a wooden tray inscribed with the Tellers’ logo and set the coffee pot down. “Probably just friends from work.” He half-filled a stainless steel jug with milk, jammed it under the foamer nozzle and let it rip.

Chrissie wrinkled her nose and nodded. “He doesn’t look like the world’s greatest lover to me, Ben. Your crown’s safe, big man.”

Ben grinned as he reached for the tray. “Aye. You’re right there. Watch me go.”

Greg frowned. “Go where?”

“To show lover-boy how it’s done, what do you think?” He flicked a look over his shoulder. “Those babes’ll be nibbling their complimentary biscotti from my hand before I’m done. Man, oh, man...gimme an older woman any day. There’s no substitute for experience. What age do you reckon?”

“Twenty-nine,” Greg said, with much more precision than he’d intended to let show. “Or thereabouts,” he added lamely, relieved Ben hadn’t noticed the fact that Greg could have given him Julia’s date, time and place of birth too, had he asked.

Ben tipped his head, weighing up the facts. “A bit older than my usual conquests, but then, what’s life if not a challenge, eh, boss?” He balanced the tray high on one hand and sauntered in the direction of Julia’s table, six-pack abs and butt muscles on display, looking like a walking anatomy chart.'

Edinburgh Fog is available from the UK Kindle Store, the US Kindle Store, and in all other formats from Muse It Up Publishing.

Read more about Jane at Home Is Where The Heart Is.

Romance Festival & RNA Regency Day

2011-09-18T08:16:00.002+01:00

In case anyone out there doesn't know about these wonderful events I thought I'd post the details. The Regency Day will be the same week as our own celebration of all things Heyer and is a day not to be missed. This is the first event the RNA have staged aimed more at readers than writers.
RNA REGENCY READERS’ DAY
Saturday 8 October 2011 ~ 9.00 Am - 6.00 PM
Venue
Royal Overseas League, Park Place, off St James’s Street, London SW1A 1LR

Details
A REGENCY CELEBRATION
The RNA will be holding a Regency Celebration on Saturday 8 October 2011 between 9.00am-6.00pm at the Royal Overseas League, Park Place, off St James’s Street, London SW1A 1LR (near Green Park tube station).

This event will be a celebration of Jane Austen, Georgette Heyer and the books they have influenced. It coincides with the launch of a new biography of Georgette Heyer, written by Dr Jennifer Kloester, and 2011 also happens to be the bi-centenary of the publication of Jane Austen’s “Sense & Sensibility” – both perfect excuses for a Regency themed day!

THE FESTIVAL OF ROMANCE is the first of its kind in the UK although events for readers are well established in the USA. There are panels, chocolate tasting a fashion parade by authors ( in which I shall not be participating) and many other things. Do come along and support this event. The timetable for both days is on the Festival website.

Festival of Romance takes place on Friday 21st and Saturday 22nd October 2011 at Hunton Park, near Watford, Herts, UK.

The programme is based around romantic fiction giving readers the chance to meet favourite and new authors. There will also be fun activities including a chocolate tasting and the Festival of Romance Ball and Awards on Saturday 22nd October. The aim is to celebrate romantic fiction in all its forms.

Carole Matthews celebrity author interview
Book fair, panels, debates and reading group
Meet authors and fans from around the world
Competitions and quizzes
Writing workshop with Sue Moorcroft
Learn from the experts how to write romance
Chocolate tasting with Choc Lit
Meet the Mills and Boon editors
Win a publishing contract with Xcite Books
Fashion show, Book Awards and Ball
New Talent Award for unpublished writers
Judges: Donna Condon, senior editor at Piatkus
and Jane Judd, literary agent

I hope to see some of you at one or both of these events. Do come up and introduce yourselves.
Fenella Miller

The Forgotten Army

2011-08-20T18:04:00.000+01:00

When in 1942 an emergency appeal was made to recruit members for the Women’s Timber Corps, a branch of the Women’s Land Army that is now barely remembered, critics didn’t believe it possible for young girls, many of them typists, hairdressers and shop assistants, to tolerate the cold and mud of winter, the long hours and heavy work involved in the vital task of timber production. Timber was needed for pitprops and telegraph poles but with young foresters having been called up, there was insufficient manpower available. Training centres were set up to which volunteers came at a rate of 250 a month, and after a general introduction to crosscutting, sawing and felling, clearing and measuring, as well as haulage with tractors and horses, the girls specialised in the branch for which they were found to be most suited. They could not be expected to learn all the tricks of the trade in a month but were taught the basic skills, a respect for their tools, and an understanding of the importance of sound timber to the extent of being taken down a mine to view it in situ.

The two women I interviewed: Elsie Taylor and Betty Kirkland, joined as young girls, Betty only 17, because she was too young to get in the WRNS. This is Betty, standing right at the front. Elsie simply fell for the uniform. This comprised corduroy breeches with a green sweater to work in, and alpaca for best. ‘The overcoat was lovely and warm,’ Elsie remembers, ‘in a reddish brown with a fleece lining.’ Both women felt proud to wear the crossed brass axes stitched on to it, and the Timber Corps hat which was later changed to a green beret. They wore halfway boots which laced up over wool socks, turning these down when it was fine, up when it was wet.

Of those first days in training, Elsie remembers huts of corrugated iron, accommodating up to thirty girls in each. She was provided with a blanket and a pair of sheets and matron insisted on hospital corners which she didn’t know how to do, so was made to do them over and over until she got it right. Every morning they would be woken by a loud bell followed by a bellowing voice telling them to, ‘Stand by your beds’. It made Elsie feel as if she truly had joined the army.

At the end of the month of training, qualified candidates were formally enrolled in the Timber Corps and sent to work up and down the country, some to timber merchants, the rest employed by the Home Timber Production Department, often far from home so that they had to be billeted with farmers or forestry workers.The farmer provided the tools, which must be kept sharp. Blisters were common, as were aching muscles but there was little time for sympathy or pampering.

Elsie shows me her hands, happily explaining that they have been scarred ever since.‘Mother had a fit when she saw them. But over time the skin went hard and you never felt it after that,’ she told me.Neither Elsie nor Betty had any complaints but rather recalled with good humour back aches, chopped fingers, sun stroke, and spiders in their clothing.

They undoubtedly loved the work, and claimed to be stronger and feel fitter for being outdoors, ailing little in the way of coughs and colds. But undoubtedly it was a hard life, and many Timber Jills were not so fortunate, suffering much worse problems, even attacks from unsympathetic farmers or foresters.

The Timber Corps recruits were taught how to take trees down, how to use a bushman saw, and a longer cross-cut type which needed someone at each end. Betty explained how the tree must be cut close to the ground, leaving no stool that you could trip over, or a tractor bump into. She used a 5lb Ellwood Felling axe which she still uses to this day, for all she is passed eighty. On all of my visits there was always a good stack of wood standing outside her cottage, that she’d chopped herself.‘At seventeen, and quite small, it was a hard job to peel off all the bark, and take out the knots with a draw knife,’ she said. ‘The final task was to burn all the remaining small twigs and leaves, known as brash, to avoid bugs which could infect the remaining trees.’Elsie recalls her first felling with some amusement. ‘I was so excited I called out timber, and one of the men working nearby shouted, ‘Look out, there’s a match-stick coming down.’ She furiously informed him that when she was as big as him she’d take a big one down.

Betty worked for most of the war in Grizedale Forest close to the German POW Camp, which was strictly for officers. She remembers the PoWs used to march up and down the road for exercise. They’d make comments to the girls and the guard would shout at them: ‘Eyes front.’ There was a machine gun trained on them the whole time, much to the outrage of the prisoners. ‘We are German Officers, and if we say we will not escape, we will keep our word.’

In my book Gracie’s Sin, an escape is attempted, based on a true incident. The three girls struggled to do their bit in the war. Lou sees it as a way to stay near her lovely new husband. Instead it brings heartache and tears, fear and betrayal. Yet it is she who holds the friends together when the going gets tough. For Rose it means escape from her bullying brother. But her desperate search for love and acceptance leads the fun loving girl to change and be willing to inflict the same cold hearted treatment upon others; even her closest friends. And Gracie commits the greatest sin of all, by falling in love with a German officer.

Gracie’s sin, now available in the Kindle Store