New Release from Jen Black : QUEEN'S COURIER

Against a background of political intrigue and Tudor violence, love was not easy to find or sustain. The Queen Dowager of Scotland repudiates it and for Matho and Meg the struggle is made more difficult by an outbreak of war between England and Scotland. Disaster looms for them all.....

EXCERPT

Sir Thomas Wharton, spare and lean still in his early fifties, sat behind a heavy oak table with a three-armed candle holder at his elbow. The pool of light illuminated the litter of papers and parchment that stood witness to King Henry Tudor’s constant demands, but left the rest of the room in shadow.

“Glad to see you looking well, Spirston.” The candle flames sent Wharton’s shadow streaking up the limewashed walls as he reached for a jug of ale at the table’s edge. “Harry said you had a wound rapidly going rotten when he found you at Aydon.”

“Mon Dieu!” The voice, thick with outrage, came from the shadowy corner where the tiny lattice window overlooked the town.

Matho squinted into the gloom. The voice had a familiar and unwelcome ring to it. Candlelight caught blue velvet and pale hair as the third person in the chamber strode forward. Every muscle in Matho’s body tightened, for he recognised the man who had been the cause of his recent misfortune in Scotland. Jarred by the unexpectedness of the meeting, he said flatly, “Lord Lennox.”

Available on Kindle:

http://tinyurl.com/gqfz3en or US http://tinyurl.com/jo93rr6

New Release from Jen Black

Blurb:

The quiet life of Frances, Lady Rathmere, is disrupted forever the day Jack, 4th Marquess of Streatham, arrives from London and almost rides her down. At the same time a stranger arrives in the locality, makes a play for her young cousin and scandalous letters accusing Frances of an illicit liaison appear in the national press. Is Jack their author? Frances is convinced he is, and has no idea the trouble those letters are going to bring in their wake. 

http://tinyurl.com/jost988 or http://tinyurl.com/gvtfk77

EXCERPT:

“Gyp! No! You will be soaked!” Rolling to her knees, Frances stared across the grass. Too late. Gyp’s front paws were already in the water. “Gyp! No!”

The faint sound of hooves distracted her. At the end of the meadow she saw a flicker of white against dark foliage. Her eyes narrowed. No gentleman of her acquaintance would ride without jacket, gloves and hat on Gybford land. Shirt sleeves were for the gypsy or the common field labourer.

Whoever he was, he turned his horse and hurtled across the ford in a shower of spray. Frances sank back on her heels, frowning. Ought she to be wary? Strangers were rare in the district, though vagrants and gypsies occasionally travelled the old route by the river. Frances opened her mouth to call her dog, and realised that would bring Gyp into the path of the horse.

The vibration from the great iron-shod hooves thudded up through the grass into her spine. Really, there was no need for such speed. One would think the snorting grey was in a race. The rider aimed for the gap between the river and the beech tree and gave no sign of having seen her.

Faster than she would have believed possible, the huge grey horse filled her vision.

Forgetting her dignity, Frances scrambled to her feet and lunged for safety behind the beech tree. She caught a glimpse of the wide-eyed rider gaping at her.

Gyp sprang up from the river bank like a red flame in the sunshine and loosed a loud bark beneath the horse’s nose. The horse veered sharply away from both dog and the river.

The rider flew out of the saddle, struck the bank with his shoulder and disappeared over the edge. Water droplets rose in a huge shower, sparkled for an instant and fell back into the stream.

Frances hesitated, one palm clasped to her mouth, suppressing a breathless urge to laugh. It served him right, really; but she ought not to laugh. One should not mock another’s misfortune.

The stallion snorted, wheeled and tore across the field, hooves flinging clods of grass high in its wake. Gyp followed, barking, but returned when Frances called her name. The horse was in no danger and would soon slow and stop of its own accord.

The rider, however, might need careful handling. She’d suffered similar falls as a child when she had not paid attention to her pony, and knew how foolish he would feel, which might mean an outburst of some kind.

Her father had possessed a colourful turn of phrase when faced with disagreeable circumstances and Frances had no wish to be the object of a stranger’s fury. She would wait until he was over the worst of his temper.

Only the chortle of the river running through the valley bottom broke the silence. Even the birds were quiet.

Gyp trotted to the bank, looked down and uttered a short, puzzled bark. Frances stepped forward, craning her neck to see what was going on.

“Oh, good grief!”

The stranger floated face down, drifting with the force of water coming down from the hills.

Abduction of the Scots Queen ~ gripping historical fiction

In Stirling, Marie de Guise, the widowed Dowager Queen, fears for the safety of her  child, Mary, Queen of Scots. Rumours have reached her that the English intend to kidnap Mary and take her to Henry's court to marry his son.

A fast-paced dramatic story set in Stirling, Scotland in the year 1543.

EXCERPT

Accompanied by her maid and four Douglas men-at-arms, Meg pondered her father’s instructions as she rode the dreary, waterlogged miles through Edinburgh and on to Stirling. By the third day, when rain gave way to clear blue sky and sunshine, she wondered if she could contrive something to her own advantage.

Father wanted her to pursue friendship with the Dowager Queen of Scotland, who was noted as a generous woman. If a gift were to be offered, a manor house with a little land would be most acceptable.

Riding into Stirling, Meg eyed Broad Street with a calculating eye, but decided it was not a place she would choose to live. A cheerful crowd, jostling for a view of the gallows, surged about the open space between the Mercat Cross and the grim old Tolbooth. A hanging must be imminent. Her escort closed protectively around her and forced a way through to the top of the hill.

Both her destination and the castle came into view at the same time. Meg caught her breath at the sight of the Great Hall, pale as day-old cream in the October light, shining like a beacon against the darker stone of the older castle buildings.

‘You there! Shift yer hide!’ The sharp order from her Serjeant snagged her attention. He had halted his horse and glared at two men sitting on the perimeter wall surrounding Douglas House. The taller of the two slid off the wall and disappeared in the direction of Broad Street before she had time to glimpse his face. When she looked at the other man, her heart gave a single, painful bound.

Thomas!

She blinked, and found she’d raised a gloved hand to her throat. Her heart thudded light and fast in her chest. Like Thomas, this man’s skin had been coloured by wind and sun, and his hair held the same dark-red fire of beech leaves. Yet Thomas Howard had been dead these six years. When the fellow slid from the wall, she realised the resemblance was no more than a trick of the light.

historical novel set in the sixteenth century. PG 13

US Kindle link: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00OZME2DK

UK Kindle link: http://amzn.to/1wQTs7F

Jen Black’s Blog - http://tinyurl.com/kxpedhy

Jen Black's New Release!

Blurb:

Henry Tudor wants the infant Scots Queen in England, married to his six-year-old son, Edward. Since she won't come willingly, he sends out the order that she be brought south by force. Young Englishmen Matho Spirston and his good friend Harry Wharton accept the challenge and head north of the border, hoping to gain the promised reward. Matho falls foul of the king's niece, bold beauty Meg Douglas, who has her own problems with ambitious Lord Lennox. Her trickery forces Matho to use his wits and all his courage to survive in this brutal world of political intrigue. Watching them all and constantly balancing one man against another is Marie de Guise, the widowed Dowager Queen who fears for the safety of her only surviving child, Mary, Queen of Scots.

A fast-paced dramatic story set in Stirling, Scotland in the year 1543.

Excerpt:

Meg Douglas braced her palms on the cold stone windowsill high in the north-west tower and stared out to sea. A mile away, Bass Rock heaved its white, guano-smeared sides out of the indigo water and the usual coronet of seabirds circled its cliffs. Her gaze moved to hills of Fife on the far side of the Forth estuary, where waves hitting the shore threw up a faint haze and hid the beaches from sight.

With a hiss of exasperation, Meg banged the shutter closed and turned back into the small chamber. Father’s summons to this ancient Douglas stronghold had been unwelcome and badly timed. He must know Henry of England had married for the sixth time in July, and a budding court jostled round his new queen. By the time Meg rode south again, the plum positions would have gone and she would face the simpering smiles of the favoured ladies-in-waiting. She would have only King Henry’s erratic generosity to rely upon for the coming year.

Father would not care. Thanks to King Henry’s gold, Father was happily ensconced twenty-five miles from Edinburgh, and as busy as a bee in clover encouraging the populace of Scotland to accept the marriage of their infant Queen to England’s young Prince Edward. He could do it and welcome. She would be polite, even charming, do his bidding and get back to London as soon as possible. Scotland held nothing for her.

‘Margaret? Are ye ready? Daughter?’ Father’s bellow echoed up the spiral stairs from three floors below.

On the long, uncomfortable ride north she had received the unwelcome news that her father had re-married. At fifty-three, for God’s sake, he had wed a girl of eighteen. No doubt the new Countess of Angus would be waiting beyond the curve of the stair.

A historical novel set in the sixteenth century. PG 13

US Kindle link: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00OZME2DK

UK Kindle link: http://amzn.to/1wQTs7F

Jen Black’s Blog - http://tinyurl.com/kxpedhy

Romance on the border

Put your feet up and enjoy Alina and Harry's trials. It's a historical romance, as you might have figured out from the cover, and it's set in the Borders between England and Scotland in the year 1543, when Henry VIII is getting old and tetchy. 

Harry Wharton sets off on a mission, stops in Corbridge and gets distracted by Alina Carnaby, daughter of a local landowner. On the spur of the moment he adopts an alias, and Alina is shocked when she learns he calls himself Harry Scott, for her father has a running feud with the Scott family across the Border. It's an exciting story that ducks and weaves around the running feuds of the borders. Alina must face an arranged marriage to John Errington when the only man she wants is Harry. Standing in the church on her wedding day, she hears the words every bride and groom dread...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nyui1kfCd_8

http://tiny.cc/g7ddy

Excerpt: 

After two years of boredom confined in the stuffy, tension ridden rooms of King Henry’s court, where the heady mix of perfumes and fright made a man’s head ache, what could be better than being out in the cool night air, with an adventure about to begin? No hanging about at court waiting for greedy men to decide if they should petition the king before dinner, after it or wait until morning.
Harry looked up at the hall. Imposing, but not overlarge, and crenelated. Marauding Scots and greedy English reivers had pushed the owner into building a parapet; something to hide behind while he aimed arrows at his attackers.
He hoped to own something grander than this one day. With a good education behind him, a strong physique and his father’s support, he should manage it before he was much older, and he was prepared to risk his neck to get it.
Urging Bessie up the slope, he wondered if there would be guards peering through the crenels. He didn’t want an arrow in his back. Suddenly wary, he studied the parapet. The length of the wall ran away from him into the darkness of the forest on the other side of the ravine.
Not a guard in sight. He rode on, and halted Bessie before the massive gateway. A beast bellowed in the byre behind him, and another answered.
He looked around. All was in shadow but for moonlight hitting the rounded curve of a high drum tower midway along the wall. He could learn nothing more about Aydon or its young mistress tonight.
‘Come, Bessie. Time to move on.’
Probably just as well. Charming as Alina was, she was not the rich heiress of his dreams. Foolish whimsy had brought him here. He rounded the corner of a farm hind’s cottage. Shadowy grey in the moonlight, the lane stretched away into the distance, heading to the ridge where the Romans built their wall so long ago.
A muted cry reached him, and another.
Harry pulled his horse to a stand. Frowning, he looked around.
He caught the faint sound of hooves thudding against the earth, then the moan and bellow of disturbed beasts.
Harry scanned the fields, and found the moving black dots trotting diagonally towards the wall. The words of the packman resonated in his mind. ‘Lessen o’ course the Armstrongs be ridin’.’
It might not be the Armstrongs, but somebody was riding tonight. Was a raid taking place? Fascinated, he watched six or seven men round up the beasts and chivvy them into one dark, moving mass.
He ought to rouse the owner of Aydon Hall. He turned Bessie and urged her back to the gateway. Strangely reluctant to obey, she pranced on the spot. “Come on, Bessie!”
The mare made up her mind and lunged towards the castle. Harry looked over his shoulder. The moving black circle was much further across the hillside now. Pushing Bessie into a canter, he covered the half mile back to the hall, rounded the corner of the hind’s cottage and ran smack into a bunch of horsemen and cattle blocking the lane.
Bessie flung up her head and stopped of her own accord. Harry scanned the group warily. In the shadows, faces were no more than grey blobs but Harry was certain of three men, though less sure of the cattle that milled around him. The wide door of the byre stood open behind them and the sweet sour odours of penned cattle drenched the night air.
“Get ’im, Will!”

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Fair-Border-Bride-Jen-Black-ebook/dp/B005VPXA42

Historical romance ~ Victorian England ~ DARK WHISKY ROAD

Blurb: For an ex-duchess, obeying orders proves difficult. But Melanie has little choice. Scarred and cheated out of her widow's entitlement, she accepts a post as housekeeper in remote Gavington House where widowed Lord Jarrow rears his young daughter. He has secrets, and Mel's curiosity will not let her rest until she has discovered what it is that occupies both him and his friend Mangerton. Soon she is embroiled in lying to the Excise men…and dealing with gunshot wounds in the night.

"Ms. Black consistently writes outside the mold, the formula, or the whatever-it-is of historical romance. Her style, to include the sometimes wry, sometimes quotidian, and almost always refreshing take on her characters and the period she portrays, is a breath of fresh air. Additionally, the two main characters are ones you might want to spend time with outside the confines of a Kindle, and the minor characters are equally well-drawn, beyond the trite and true.

There's a lot of junk out there, folks, so spend your time and money wisely. This is a book I can recommend without reservation, and I don't usually like historical romances." From Margaret Chrisawn's review

Excerpt: Chapter One

Melanie Grey pulled down the veil attached to her hat and glanced cautiously through the window as the horses slowed and turned into the inn yard. The door of the grey stone building stood open and a grey cat, tail curled neatly around its front paws, sat on the windowsill. Oak trees flourished behind the inn, their leafy branches bowing low over the heavy slate roof. Smoke from the squat chimney coiled and drifted into the still air.

It was a far cry from the grand hostelries of southern England she had frequented in the past. So much quieter here; no sign of frantic stable-boys and grooms hurrying to change the horses before the next coach arrived. Faded paint curled from the ancient sign of a blackbird above the inn doorway.

She heard voices. Angry voices. Frowning, she leaned closer to the coach window. In the dusty space between an abandoned wheelbarrow and the stable door, a tall youth argued with a child. Something the child said made him raise his hand and he slapped the boy, who staggered under the blow.

Melanie gasped, one hand rising to her mouth. The child, no more than eight or nine, did not cower away; instead, crimson with rage, he recovered his balance and kicked out with a hob-nailed boot that connected with the youth’s shin bone. Dancing out of reach, he yelled something that made the older lad snarl and lunge toward him.

Cold with horror, knowing she ought to intervene, Melanie grabbed the leather strap, released the window and their rough voices poured into the coach.

‘Come ’ere, you little guttersnipe!’

‘Not bloody likely!’ The child skipped nimbly out of reach.

‘Stop! Stop at once!’ Because she was afraid, her voice carried no conviction. The young man ignored her, but the boy saw her and offered a swift, gap-toothed grin as he backed rapidly away from danger. He collided with the gentleman leading his horse around the front of Melanie’s coach.

‘Ouf! Steady, lad!’ The man gripped the child’s shoulder to keep him upright. ‘What’s amiss here?’ His expression hardened as the bully, fists clenched, advanced on them both and he pushed the boy behind him.

Melanie, weak with relief, shuffled back into her seat. The boy was saved. She need do nothing. Once she would have been out there in the dust of the inn yard, standing toe-to-toe with the bully and caring not a jot for his regard. Her accident had scarred more than her face, she thought ruefully.

‘What’s going on here?’

‘That’s my uncle Bert,’ the boy’s voice cried.

‘He’s your uncle, you say?’ The gentleman’s cultured, mellow voice sounded faintly amused. Or was it disbelief she could hear in his warm tone? ‘Then he should protect you rather than beat you.’

Edging forward, Melanie risked another glance at the scene outside. The grooms, who should have been changing the horses, loitered in a group by the stable door, grinning.

The child glared at his relative and stuck out his tongue.

The youth, his face ugly with temper, took a step towards the boy. ‘That lyin’ young varmint needs a lesson in doing as he’s told! Come ’ere, Toby Redman, before ah lose me temper and clatter yer ’ead against t’wall.’

Melanie shuddered.

Dark Whisky Road is available on Amazon Kindle: Here

http://jenblackauthor.blogspot.com

amzn.to/ZLEeT1

Shadows by Jen Black ~ a romance with a twist

Shadows

A chilling tale, written with humour and drenched in the sights and perfumes of the rural Dordogne, a must-read for those who like a romance with a ghostly twist. Curl up by the fire and revisit your holiday in France ....

Excerpt One: Melissa arrives at the mill and loves it. She has a swift look around while Rory prepares a meal for her. (A bolly is what the locals call a verandah)

The white table already held a bowl of salad, a wicker basket of bread and the opened bottle of wine. He was fast and efficient. No sooner had she taken her seat than he put a plate of steak before her and offered the salad bowl.

She tilted her head back and smiled at him. How good to have a man prepared to cook for her. “This looks delicious. Does Jonny plan to do a lot of work here?”

He picked up his cutlery and cut into his steak. “The grand plan is for two bedrooms and a bathroom on the lower level so Jonny can invite friends. The bathroom’s finished, but the rest is a muddle.”

That meant no bedrooms on the lower floor, and only one on this level. An ugly suspicion bloomed in her mind. Melissa heaped salad onto her plate and replaced the steel salad servers carefully in the bowl. “Then am I right in thinking there is only one bedroom here?”

The chilly edge to her voice brought his head up.

His peacock blue eyes narrowed. “’fraid so. That isn’t going to be a problem, is it?”

Dismay at his deception roared through her, and small flash of fear and timidity followed it. Yes, one bedroom most certainly would be a problem. She wasn't ready. Not yet. Talk about being taken for granted—the conceited ass expected her to tumble into bed with him without a second thought. She inhaled sharply. “It is presumptuous of you to assume I’ll share a bed with you right away.”

He stopped eating and stared at her, surprise etched into the lines of his face.

Had she misjudged him? Maybe she had jumped to the wrong conclusion. He'd be insulted if that was the case. So she offered a sweet smile and spoke gently. “Unless I’m wrong and you intend to sleep on the sofa?”

“Presumptuous?” His gaze darted across her face. Presumably he was trying to read her expression. He didn’t know how to answer her. Melissa lifted her brows slightly, smiled without opening her mouth and waited.

He put down his cutlery and picked up his wine glass. “What do you mean?”

She frowned. How could he pretend he did not know what she meant? “We are not lovers.” She bit off each word. “We may become so, but right now I expect a room of my own.” Heat rose through her skin, and her hand trembled on the rim of the table. She whipped it out of sight. Let him make of it what he would.

Rory swallowed too soon, choked and coughed.

He flung himself out of his chair, coughing, one fist to his mouth as he strode across the bolly. As the fit lessened, he thrust one hand against the oak upright supporting the roof and stood there, head down, breathing hard.

Annoyance did not stop her admiring the way his shoulders heaved with his breathing, or the graceful way he stood even when he was in some distress. His attention was not on her. It was the first time she'd seen him rattled, and his reaction interested her. When his breathing calmed, he slowly strolled back to the table and took his seat.

His eyes still watered a little, and he blinked rapidly to clear them. “Christ, I feel as if all sorts of pits are yawning at my feet. Would you believe me if I said I honestly hadn’t thought about it?”

Melissa sipped her wine. She didn't believe him for a moment. “How could you ignore it? There is only one bed.”

He winced, as if her words pained him.

Refusing to weaken, Melissa stabbed at her steak. How arrogant was he? Did he think every woman in the world begged to be bedded?

Birdsong sounded all around them in the warm green silence.

“Melissa.”

Her heart flipped over at the sound. His deep brown voice stirred her senses just as it had the first time they’d met. She must get a grip, or she’d be lost. Her pulse ran fast and her chest tightened. This was important. She looked up, prepared to fight.

Watchful intelligence overrode his initial surprise. Now he sat back and sipped his wine and she remembered he was a successful solicitor, with an important and well-known law firm.

“Please don’t feel under any pressure. We’ve only just met, and…I don’t want to spoil things by rushing them. If you want to sleep alone, that’s fine.” He hesitated, as if he might add some comment, and then thought better of it. “There’s a large squashy sofa in the living room. I’ll sleep there.”

The tension in her shoulders disappeared. She ought to be pleased he’d capitulated, but something rankled. She’d expected him to try and change her mind, persuade her. He might have tried. Part of her, inexplicably miffed that he hadn’t, made her say, “We’ll toss a coin for it. That would be fair.”

He raised his wine glass and offered an agreeable smile. “I’ll drink to that.”

Instantly she regretted the surge of independence that made her make the offer, and hated the easy arrogance that allowed him to accept her challenge. He'd probably win, and she'd be the one on the sofa. She'd been outmaneuvered.

He had such charm and knew how to use it. Once, in a rare mother-daughter-sharing-secrets evening, she’d asked her mother what had led her to the one-night stand with Lt. Col. John Hazlerigg. Her mother had smiled, rolling the wine glass against her cheeks as she considered the question.

“Power,” she’d said at last. “Not money, but a physical presence and an air of command. Charisma, allied with such certainty your knees—well, mine in this case—wobble and everyone knows he’s the alpha male in the pack.”

Melissa had spent the next week analyzing the concept, but reached no definite conclusion. Now that she’d met Rory, she understood something of her mother's explanation. There had been that odd tingling in the back of her knees when Jonny introduced them, and the way her heart skipped about in her chest when he spoke in that gorgeous voice.

If she’d ever met her father, she might have had some standard to judge by, but Hazlerigg was married and out of bounds. Mother had refused to inform her lover that he had fathered a child because he would have felt impelled to marry her. That would have ruined his career and broken the heart of his then fiancée.

Melissa’s fingers twisted together around her wine glass. She rarely thought about her illegitimacy now, and had never betrayed her mother's secret. But the old, churning feelings returned whenever she was reminded of it. Tonight she had an additional worry. If Rory ever found out, what would he say? His parents would certainly hate her. Relationships could not survive without honesty, yet she was constrained by a promise never to speak of her father.

“This dressing is delicious.” Her voice sounded brittle in her ears.

Not speaking of her father had been hurtful all through her childhood. When the other kids boasted of theirs, Melissa had nothing to offer and suffered agonies trying to hide the fact. Promising herself that the same sort of relationship would not do for her, she had vowed never to sleep with a man until she knew him really well. Maybe even until she was married to him. Adrian had been a terrible mistake.

“Easy enough to make here. Garlic is fresh and olive oil plentiful. What were you daydreaming about?”

“Oh, nothing special.” She glanced up, smiled brightly at Rory while she tried to think of something to cover her lies. “Listening to the birds. They sound so close and there are so many. It’s not like this back home, is it?”

Rory cleared the plates, and the break gave her time to regain her composure. Another glass of wine helped calm her, and when Rory produced strawberries for dessert, she exclaimed in genuine pleasure. When they were eaten, Melissa stretched out her legs toward the evening sunshine and let him clear the table. Two glasses of wine, a good meal and she was more at ease with herself.

Excerpt Two. Melissa volunteers to sleep on the sofa instead of Rory.

Melissa looked at her watch. It was well past midnight. The sofa was comfortable, but the unaccustomed heat kept her awake. Spending summer in a romantic old water mill in the Dordogne did have disadvantages. When she ran tentative fingers over her flanks, her skin was slick with moisture.

The warm breeze from the open window moved through the room, but brought little relief. Crickets chirped so vigorously they might have been sitting on the hearthstone five feet away. A cold drink would be good. She scrambled off the sofa and tiptoed across the floorboards, hoping she wouldn’t step on any insect life. With her hands under the kitchen tap, she welcomed the gush of cold water, gulped some from her cupped palm and ran her damp hands over her face.

Fumbling her way through the shadows to the door, she released the latch and stepped outside.

That was better. Cool air breathed across her skin. Ignoring the quick rustle of lizards scurrying toward crevices in the old walls, she strolled to the chairs, pale and cold in the moonlight.

She sank into one of them, and flinched at the coldness of the plastic against her skin. Stars blinked above the massed ranks of dark trees. A breeze that never reached the valley floor swept across the topmost leaves of the tall trees in the meadow and produced the soft susurration in the air that was already familiar to her.

Rory slept in the big bed on the other side of the wall. He did not like their current sleeping arrangements. The tightening of his mouth, the flexing of his jaw muscles had shown that, and said very clearly that he’d let her have her way but he was not the kind of man who gave up easily. Had his pride suffered when she refused to share his bed? He had certainly been surprised. Would he try and persuade her, or sulk until she gave in?

It had been a good decision not to let Rory sleep on the sofa for then she would have felt beholden to him. Much better that she owed him neither gratitude nor thanks at this point.

She stroked her thighs. Already the slickness dried from her skin. A wisp of long grass whisked along the flagstones, breathed across her foot and vanished. Rory had shown her a shed snakeskin as a warning not to be frightened if she saw the owner one day. The fragile, almost translucent skin had been trapped between the stones of the bolly and the old drain not four feet from where she sat.

A cold breeze wandered by. Melissa hugged herself against the sudden chill. Perhaps this was a crazy idea after all. Flickers of movement caught her eye. For no reason, her heart thudded in her chest. With her teeth pressing on her lower lip, she stared at the western end of the bolly where one of the four oak pillars supporting the tiled roof stood out sharp and clear in the moon's glow.

Beyond them, the shrubs and rose bushes were gray against the dusty, moonlit ribbon of the drive. Nothing moved. She heard nothing but the soft sound of the breeze, yet her heart bounced faster, as if she were in danger. Muscles tense, she sat poised, ready to run.

The shadows made it difficult to see anything. The blackness moved and twitched close in against the house wall, less than ten feet away. A pale shifting blur morphed into hands and a face. Melissa’s fingers clung to the chair arms while she strained to see through the darkness. Hair lifted on the back of her neck and goose bumps sprang on her arms. She stared at two pale blurs, one above the other, moving very close together. Sure it must be some young couple seeking privacy, she opened her mouth to call out. But some instinct held her rigid and silent. What if they weren't real?

Her heart beat so loudly that whoever lurked by the wall must surely hear it. She forced herself to inhale slowly and quietly. Her heartbeat slowed a little. The air around her was cold. It’s always cold when—she slammed down on the thought about ghosts before it formed in her mind. She looked at the space between herself and the door, and the door and the dark, shifting shape.

She could reach the door. She had to.

The chair scraped across the flagstones and drowned the slap of her bare feet as she hurtled into the mill, slammed the door and rattled the bolt home.

Flexed from the hips, palms braced against the half glass door, she waited, mouth open, panting. Through the mottled glass and the wrought iron Perigourdine goose that guarded it, moonlight lit the grass beyond the bolly. Nothing moved. Her breathing slowed. She remembered she’d seen a baseball bat by the door and groped for it without taking her gaze from the door. The smooth wooden shaft came comfortingly to her hand.

Something creaked behind her. Melissa whirled on a sharp indrawn breath. The bat cocked and ready, she watched the door to the hall open. A large, shadowy form ambled into the living room. “Wha’s the matter? Did you shout?”

“There’s somebody out there.”

“Out where?”

“On the bolly.” She flung out an arm and rattled her knuckles on the goose guard. “Ow.”

Rory ducked his head, ran both hands over his face. Straightening his shoulders, he walked toward the door. “I’d better have a look.”

Melissa stepped aside. He stooped, fumbled for the bolt in the gloom and pulled the door open. Melissa held out the baseball bat. “Take this.”

Rory blinked at the three feet of pale, solid wood and made no move to take it. “I could kill someone with that.”

“Take it.” She thrust it into his hand. It seemed imperative he have some protection. There was something nasty out there.

Reluctantly, Rory hefted it and stepped across the threshold. “Put the lights on.”

Melissa pushed the door curtain aside and ran her palm down the bank of switches. Light bloomed inside the mill, and floodlights snapped on at each end of the bolly. Startled birds squawked, complained and clattered about in the trees.

“There’s nothing here, Melissa. Come and look.” He sounded wide awake.

Suddenly aware that she was wearing only a tee shirt, Melissa whipped the door curtain across her hips and peeped around the doorjamb.

Moonlight emphasized the broad shoulders tapering down to a lean waist and flat stomach. Wrinkled, striped boxers hung low on one hip. His hair stuck up about his head, and the baseball bat dangled from the fingers of one hand. The width of his chest and the prominent muscles of his arms and thighs were reassuring.

“They might—” Her breath caught in her throat as all her initial attraction to Rory rushed back and choked her. She coughed and tried again. “They might have gone round the back of the mill.”

Jen Black’s blog: http://ow.ly/5gg86

There’s a trailer for this on YouTube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GGml0vxiJU8

SHADOWS is available from Amazon: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Shadows-ebook/dp/B006JBXJRA

Strong men, smart heroines, make for a good story.

Fiction and Reality - Reluctance by Jen Black

The orangery at Gibside

Mary Eleanor Bowes was the daughter and heiress of George Bowes, a wealthy businessman who died when Mary was 11 years old. He left her a vast fortune estimated at between £600,000 and £1,040,000, which he had built up through control of a cartel of coal-mine owners. Mary became the wealthiest heiress in Britain, perhaps in all of Europe. She encouraged the attentions of many young men of noble birth and married the 9^th Earl of Strathmore on her 18th birthday, 24 February 1767. According to her father’s will, the Earl changed his name from John Lyon to John Bowes. The couple lived extravagantly and the Earl spent much of his time restoring his family seat Glamis Castle.

On 7 March 1776, Lord Strathmore died from tuberculosis at sea on his way to Portugal.

At that time, the countess was pregnant by a lover, George Gray a Scottish "nabob" who had made and squandered both his and his first wife’s fortune.

Despite the pregnancy, the dowager countess was loath to marry Grey, since her loss of rank would be considerable and Grey's fortune had been lost. She maintained remarkably candid diaries for much of her life, and wrote of her many abortions brought about by drinking "a black inky kind of medicine.” She continued the affair with Grey and underwent further abortions and was on the point of marrying him when charming and wily Anglo-Irish adventurer, Andrew Robinson Stoney, manipulated his way into her household and her bed.

Calling himself "Captain" Stoney he insisted on fighting a duel in the dowager countess's honour with the editor of The Morning Post, a newspaper which had published scurrilous articles about her private life. In fact, Stoney had himself written the articles both criticising and defending the countess. He now faked a duel with the editor, the Revd. Henry Bate, in order to appeal to Mary's romantic nature. Pretending to be mortally wounded, Stoney begged the dowager countess to grant his dying wish: to marry her. Taken in by the ruse, she agreed.

The tale goes on, and it is easy to find out more about the tribulations of the countess and the prolonged court case that ensued. I have known most of these facts for many years, for the Bowes home and estates were at Gibside, not ten miles from where I live. Intrigued by the story and carried away by the sad romanticism of the now roofless Gibside Hall, I decided to write my own version, using only the bare bones of the story. Mary Eleanor became Frances Bowes, and the dreadful Stoney morphed into Mr Holbrook, so handsome in his regimentals. Frances’s mother, match-making hat firmly in place, claims that he’s admirable husband material but fails to convince Frances, who is far more concerned about Jack Slade’s dramatic re-appearance in the neighbourhood.

Gibside morphed in a fictional Gybford, but the lands and houses are true to the area if not to absolute fact, and I’ve incorporated a fictional tangle of emotions and a heart-rending denouement. I called the book Reluctance, and MuseItUp published it for me and made it available in several formats including Kindle.

Loaded by Jen Black, http://jenblackauthor.blogspot.com

The Romance of Steam

Wylam is a small village ten miles west of Newcastle upon Tyne, unremarked in the general scheme of things. The earliest recorded reference tells that the settlement belonged to Tynemouth Priory. It is believed that Guy de Balliol,  Lord of Bywell, gave Wylam to the Priory in 1085, and the lands were held until the dissolution of the monasteries in the 16^th century. Once an industrial workplace with collieries and an ironworks, it is now a commuter village for Newcastle and Hexham.

A famous man was born in the cottage on the north bank of the Tyne. George Stephenson arrived in the world on 9^th June 1781.  The tiny cottage housed three other families along with the Stephensons and conditions were cramped. he is famous as the man who began the railway boom, but he was not the only rail pioneer in the area. Timothy Hackworth, also born in the village, worked with Stephenson. William Hedley, born in the nearby village of Newburn, designed the engine named Puffing Billy in 1813, two years before Stephenson produced his first locomotive Blucher.

At 17 George became the engineman at Water Row pit in Newburn.  Illiterate because his parents could not pay for schooling, he paid to study reading, writing and arithmetic at night, and in 1801 became brakesman who controlled the winding gear at Black Callerton Colliery. In 1802 he married Frances Henderson and moved to Willington Quay, east of Newcastle, where they lived in one room of a cottage. He made shoes and mended clocks to supplement his income. Their son Robert was born in 1803 and in 1804 they moved to West Moor, near Killingworth where he worked at the Killingworth Pit. Life was not easy, but his life was not unusual for the time.

In 1806 Frances died of tuberculosis. George left his son with a local woman and went to work in Scotland at Montrose, but returned to West Moor after a few months when his father was blinded in a mining accident. In 1811 the pumping engine at Killingworth stopped working and George offered to get it working again. His success brought him the post of enginewright for all the colliery engines at Killingworth. He went on to become an expert in steam-driven machinery.

Work with steam engines progressed throughout the 18^th century. The earliest form of railway used horses to pull carts along rails. Richard Trevithick had a working steam locomotive on rails in Wales in 1804 and it worked with mixed success. He visited Newcastle and spoke of his work to colliery owners and engineers, who began experimenting with steam locomotives. In 1825 George Stephenson built the Locomotion for the Stockton and Darlington railway company. In 1829 he built the Rocket which won the Rainhill Trials which established Stephenson and his company as the pre-eminent builder of steam locomotives in the world. His rail gauge of 4 feet 8 and a half inches is the world’s standard gauge today. His cottage at Wylam is open for inspection, and what was once the railway line runs right past what was once his front door. The romance of steam lives on!

New book from Jen Black

Melanie, Dowager Duchess of Yaxley, escapes from an abusive son-in-law to become a housekeeper in a remote Northumbrian village. The Master of the house, Jarrow, is a widower with a delightful daughter, but few funds. Jarrow has his scars, but he also has a secret life that unnerves Melanie when she discovers what it is that occupies his nights. This historical romance with its great sense of time and setting, leads the reader through the clash of the scarred personalities, troubles with excise men to a resolution which surprises them both.

Available only from Kindle: here

“Fascinating and beautifully created characters, plenty of secrets, and a compelling love story between a hero and a heroine that tugs at your heart strings, makes this a must read.”

Excerpt 1

‘Circumstances change, sir. A new master appeared, with staff of his own.’ In a way, that was true. Her step-son, the new duke, had summoned his lawyer friends and cheated her out of the dower house and everything else to which she had been entitled.

A grim smile touched the corners of Lord Jarrow’s mouth. ‘Well, at least your mistress was prepared to give you good references. These are excellent.’

‘Thank you, sir. I hoped they would serve.’

His eyes narrowed, and Melanie’s stomach clenched in response. Her tone had been a little too pert. Lord, it was so difficult to strike the right balance. Dipping her head, she surveyed her clasped hands and waited to see what direction he would take. Be subservient, she told herself. Think subservience, and you will practice it. If you do well, you will be his housekeeper, and have the security of a roof over your head.

‘Gavington is perhaps not what you expected,’ he said slowly, sitting forward with his forearms on his desk. ‘The house is virtually closed. I keep few staff, only those necessary for the comfort of myself and my daughter. I do not welcome visitors. Now you have seen how isolated we are, do you still wish to be considered for the post?’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘Why?’

Jolted, she met his quizzical glance. ‘Why, sir?’

‘It is a simple question, Miss Grey. Why do you, a young and attractive woman, wish to disappear into the countryside when you have had command of a house such as Rockford?’ He looked down at her reference ‘Why, there must have been forty staff there when I visited Middlesex three years ago. Here, we have less than six.’

Dear God, he’d been to Rockford House! Three years ago? She blinked, frantically searching her memory. Had he been a guest at dinner? No, she would have remembered him. But if he’d paid a call on the duke in the estate office at the far end of the west wing, she might never have seen him. That must be what had happened. Thank goodness he showed no sign of remembering her.

Excerpt 2

Melanie woke with a jerk, gasping and sweating. Flinging the covers aside, she padded to the window and pressed her forehead against the cold glass. Oh, God, would she never be free of these dreams? Still they plagued her, months after the man had died. Gripping the metal handle, she flung open the window, braced both forearms on the sill and leaned out into the warm summer morning. Closing her eyes, she hauled in deep breaths of sweet scented air, and listened to the birdsong.

Gradually the terrors of the dream faded. Her heartbeat slowed, and the moisture cooled on her skin. She opened her eyes and looked about her, delighting in the chirrup of a hungry blackbird. From her window she looked down on the same rose garden she had observed the day she arrived. Fields and woods lay beyond its enclosing walls, and the green-brown curve of the moors. If she looked to the left, she could see the hens clucking happily in the kitchen yard, and there was Edith, sprinkling grain and scraps—

She swung round and glared at the clock on the mantel. Twenty minutes to eight o’clock. She rushed to the fireplace, seized the clock and held it to her ear, hoping to find it had stopped yesterday evening, but the seconds ticked on in relentless fashion. She was late, intolerably late—the Master would be up and about and there would be no clean shirt awaiting him.

Melanie rushed through an abbreviated toilet and fled downstairs. How would he respond if she failed to have a clean shirt ready for him?

The kitchen clock proclaimed five minutes to eight o’clock. Running into the laundry and drying rooms, she ran back upstairs with three neatly folded shirts balanced across her palms. Breathing hard, she slowed her pace as she approached his dressing room door. Turning the handle cautiously, she tiptoed inside. Both the curtain and the door to the bedroom were still closed but she was aware he would very likely be awake in the adjoining room.

The masculine smell of tobacco and cologne hit her nose, and triggered memories from her dreams. The desperate urge to sneeze sent her back out into the corridor, where she jammed her wrist beneath her nose until the urge disappeared. Inhaling cautiously, she returned to the small room. All was quiet. Opening the door of the armoire, she swiftly laid two of the shirts on the empty shelf.

‘Late, I see, Miss Grey.’ Amused, lazy tolerance coloured his voice.

Startled, she spun around and banged her elbow on the porcelain ewer that stood on the small dresser. ‘Oh!’

Springing forward, Lord Jarrow caught the ewer before it hit the floor. He straightened, replaced it on the stand and looked at her more carefully.

‘Miss Grey?’

 Available only from Kindle: here