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

First Review

Review of Reluctance by Jen Black

River Derwent

"She’s lovely, with a peaches and honey glow and a wickedly devastating smile, an intellect a cut above her peers, and perhaps the wealthiest heiress in the country.  He’s darkly handsome, all chiseled angles and fine bones, a faint aura of citrus and sandalwood, a tendency towards few words, and plenty of money of his own.

 These two really should meet, and they do when Lady Frances Rathmere literally fishes Jack Slade, Marquess of Streatham, out of the river on her estate.  Their relationship, begun under such untoward—and certainly unromantic—circumstances, progresses in a fashion that would horrify the denizens of society in early Regency London and Bath. But this is the North of England, where life is lived in tune with nature and definitely more colorfully, and where people, even the gentry and those with titles, are more full-blooded and multifaceted than their insipid and overly polite cousins to the south.

 Frances is a widow in her late twenties whose husband, a childhood friend, left her with a decided aversion to “marital duties.”  She is determined not to marry again, despite her family’s equal determination that she should and would, at the earliest opportunity.  Jack is a widower who was so devastated by the death of his wife in childbirth that out of guilt he swore not only never to marry again but also to remain celibate for the rest of his life.  Thus we have two protagonists who are reluctant, so say the least, to alter their present states, regardless of whatever attraction might develop between them or whatever circumstances might arise to change their opinions about what they should—or should not—do.

 This is a historical romance in the best sense of the genre.  Jen Black has captured the setting of the North Country with such precision and spare, elegant descriptions that the reader could be nowhere else but Northumberland.  She has done the same with her characters who, from the two protagonists to minor figures who pass briefly through the novel, are rendered with precision and such beautiful detail that they become real, rather than one-dimensional actors from a stock play.  One of the most difficult aspects of a book any book, is dialogue, and if the characters speak to each other as if they’re reciting lines from a very bad play, this ruins the story, no matter how inventive the plot.  The dialogue throughout the story is crisp, funny, moving, emotional, and above all, believable for each character who speaks.  Not an easy thing to accomplish, but Ms. Black is a master at it.

 This is not a formulaic Regency tale with a trite reliance on stilted drawing room manners and silly encounters in all the usual places with all the usual people.  Instead, it’s a story with enough twists and unpredictable turns to make you dizzy, while Frances and Jack will alternately endear themselves to you and drive you crazy.  In any event, you won’t be able to forget these two or their story.

 A useful hint:  don’t begin to read this book until you know you’ll suffer no ill effects from reading throughout the night.  I learned this the hard way."

 Margaret Scott Chrisawn, Ph.D

Reluctance will be published in April 2012 by MuseItUp Publishing

FAIR BORDER BRIDE

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 him with the Leap next day. Alina creeps out of her bed to visit Harry at midnight when the castle is quiet.

“Tell me,” he said, before he forgot all practical things in the delight of her presence. “Your father threatens me with something called the Leap. What is it?”

“She dipped 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 a ravine. It is deep, with the Ay burn at the bottom. Father…he makes prisoners jump from the precipice outside the hall.”

“Ah.” He raised her knuckles to his mouth, and kissed them to dispel the shadowy presence of Death looming in the darkness behind him. He remembered looking into the ravine the night he rode up here. His tongue probed the 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 and frowned 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 are broken, 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 had warmed in his and when he kissed it once more, her other hand snaked through the bars and stroked his face, crept to the back of his neck.

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

His flesh hardened. If this was his last night on earth, he wanted some pleasure to beguile his thoughts. He reached both hands through the grill and drew her close against the iron bars and in truth she was not reluctant, even when his hand roamed beneath her cloak, caught a ribbon and her nightgown gaped from neck to waist. His palm found the firm weight and curve of her breast and nestled around it.”