The Dream Catcher and Blue Bonnets and Highlands Folkore

I really enjoyed reading tales and legends from Scotland whilst researching for my historical romantic trilogy DANCING FOR THE DEVIL, which is mostly set in the far north of the Highlands.

 Photo courtesy of Pixabay

In Book 1 of the Trilogy - THE DREAM CATCHER - my heroine's first experience of Scotland is a terrible storm as her ship sails through the Minch - the body of water stretching between the north-west Highlands, the northern Inner Hebrides and the Outer Hebrides.

Photo courtesy of Pixabay

Folklore tells of a tribe of supernatural sea creatures who inhabited these waters - the Blue Men of the Minch. Partly human and partly mermen, they had blue skin and used to swim alongside ships and try to lure sailors into the water. They also had the ability to conjure storms and wreck ships, but interestingly they spared sailors who had a talent for poetry...

 They were said to live in caves at the bottom of the sea but their sentinel were always on the look out and alerted the others when a ship was sailing through the Minch. The chief of the Blue Men then gathered his men, ready for the attack. Before attacking the ship he would rise high in the water and shout to the skipper two lines of poetry. If the skipper was unable to respond immediately by adding two lines to complete the verse, the Blue Men would take the ship and drag it down to the bottom of the sea. If the skipper could complete the verse, his ship would be allowed to carry on safely.

Here is a boatman's song about the Blue Men:

When the tide is at the turning and the wind is fast asleep,
And not a wave is curling on the wide, blue deep,
Oh, the waters will be churning in the stream that never smiles,
Where the Blue Men are splashing round the charmèd isles.

As the summer wind goes droning o'er the sun-bright seas,
And the Minch is all a-dazzle to the Hebrides,
They will skim along like salmon--you can see their shoulders gleam,
And the flashing of their fingers in the Blue Men's Stream.

But when the blast is raving and the wild tide races,
The Blue Men are breast-high with foam-grey faces;
They'll plunge along with fury while they sweep the spray behind,
Oh, they'll bellow o'er the billows and wail upon the wind.

And if my boat be storm-toss'd and beating for the bay,
They'll be howling and be growling as they drench it with the spray--
For they'd like to heel it over to their laughter when it lists,
Or crack the keel between them, or stave it with their fists.

Oh, weary on the Blue Men, their anger and their wiles!
The whole day long, the whole night long, they're splashing round the isles;
They'll follow every fisher--ah! they'll haunt the fisher's dream--
When billows toss, Oh, who would cross the Blue Men's Stream!

(taken from http://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/celt/tsm/tsm08.htm)

 So where does the legend of the Blue Men of the Minch come from?

The obvious explanation is of course that the Blue Men are in fact not magical creatures at all, but porpoises which are often seen in the seas around Scotland.

 Photo courtesy of Pixabay

Historians also suggest two other possibilities. Firstly, the tales of Blue Men may refer to the ancient Picts who used to paint their body and may have used kayak-like boats to cross the waters of the Minch, therefore giving the impression that they were only half human.

Photo courtesy of Pixabay

Another explanation links the Blue Men to the time of the Vikings who around the 9th century took Moors captured in North Africa to Ireland to be slaves. The Vikings spent winter months near the Shiant Isles in the Minch, and some historians believe the blue men are in fact "marooned foreign slaves" (Mackenzie (2013), loc. 1391). More specifically, these Moors may be Tuaregs, who were always called the 'Blue Men of the Desert' owing to their indigo clothing and headscarves.

Then again, they might just be magical merfolk...


THE DREAM CATCHER and BLUE BONNETS are available from
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Dream-Catcher-Dancing-Devil-Book-ebook-y/dp/B017D73N0Q/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Blue-Bonnets-Dancing-Devil-Book-ebook/dp/B019E15RTE/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8
And watch out for SWORD DANCE, Book 3 in the Trilogy, to be released on March 31st!

THE DREAM CATCHER, Scottish Historical Romance by Marie Laval

My Scottish historical romance THE DREAM CATCHER was released by Áccent Press last December. It is set in the beautiful and wild landscapes of the Northern Highlands, near Wrath, and is part of a trilogy called DANCING FOR THE DEVIL.

Book 2 - BLUE BONNETS - will be released on January 28th and I thought I would share an excerpt from THE DREAM CATCHER about the very first meeting between the heroine Rose Saintclair and Bruce McGunn, laird of Wrath.

Excerpt

A giant stepped in front of her. Dressed in black riding boots, black breeches and riding coat, he was so tall and his shoulders so broad the already dark horizon darkened further.

     ‘Silence.’

     His voice was deep and calm, the voice of a man used to be obeyed. The crowd hushed at once.

     He bent down in front of her.

     ‘Well, well, who do we have here?’

     Even though she could hardly see his face, she felt his eyes bore into hers, and it was enough to make her mind go blank.

     ‘Rose…Rose Saintclair.’

     ‘Where are the others, your servants, your maids?’

     ‘I… I don’t have any.’

     ‘Really? That’s a surprise. All right then, come up.’ He held both his hands out.

     She hesitated a moment before placing her hands in his. He pulled her up and she flew straight into his arms, landing with a bump against his broad, hard chest. He was so tall she had to tilt her face all the way back to look at him. Her heart skipped a beat, then started bumping fast and loud.

     His eyes were grey and framed by dark eyelashes, his nose straight and strong, his cheekbones high and sharp. Thick black stubble covered his cheeks and chin, and his hair flew around his face, the colour of a raven’s wing. There was something dangerous about him, something reminiscent of a brutal warrior from days long gone by.

     She wriggled to free herself but he didn't let go and his mouth curved into a mocking smile.

     ‘Well, Fàilte, my sweetheart. ‘I’ll say this for McRae. If there’s one thing the rascal can do, it’s pick his fancy women.’

     His hand slid from her waist and he patted her bottom.

     Her reaction was instinctive. She swung her arm and lifted her hand to slap him. She didn’t have the chance. Without batting an eyelid he caught her wrist.

     ‘Steady on, sweetheart. You have a nasty little temper.’

     ‘And you have no right to insult me in this way, you vile brute,’ she hissed. ‘I am not Lord McRae’s fancy woman, as you so elegantly put it, I’m his wife!’

     She had expected at least a shocked response or a groveling apology but he merely smiled.

     ‘It’s all right, gràidheag, you don’t have to pretend.’

     ‘Pretend what?’

     ‘Pretend you’re married to the man. I don’t care if you’re McRae’s mistress or his laundry maid, if you scrub his back or his dirty shirts.’

     ‘I am telling the truth, you stubborn macaque,’ she shouted in frustration. ‘I married Lord McRae in Algiers four weeks ago.’

     ‘Please don't scream quite so loud. I heard you the first time. I just don’t believe you.’

     ‘What?’

     ‘First you introduce yourself as Rose Saintclair, now you’re spinning me a tale about being married McRae. Make up your mind, sweetie.’

     He glanced at her hand. ‘I don’t see any wedding band on your finger.’

     ‘That’s because Cameron wanted to keep the wedding a secret. Never mind, I don’t have to explain anything to you. Now let go of me.’

     She wriggled to break free, but he was still holding her wrist, leaving her no choice but to kick him hard in the shin with the tip of her boot – the very pointy tip of the fashionable new boots she had made in Algiers.

     ‘Ouch. Steady on, sweetheart.’

     ‘Let go of me, you deranged baboon! And stop calling me sweetheart.’

     She kicked him again, harder. He muttered something in a strange, guttural language she didn’t understand and let go of her so suddenly she staggered backward and fell on her bottom on the hard, wet cobbles.

     Her breath caught in her throat, her heart beat hard, erratic. Tears blurred her vision as people sneered and clapped around her. She knew McRaes and McGunns were enemies, but she had nothing to do with their feud, so why did everybody here seem to hate her so much? And why was the big hairy brute intent on humiliating her and not believing a word she said?

     He stepped closer and offered his hand.

     ‘Come on, now, sweetheart. Let’s start again. I think we got off on the wrong foot.’

     He sounded contrite but she wasn’t ready to forgive to forgive him. Ignoring his hand, she scrambled to her feet, and straightened her back. Attack was the best defence, her brother often said, and Lucas knew what he was talking about. He was the best scout in the whole of the Barbary States – or Algeria as the French now called her country.

     ‘Take me to your master immediately,’ she started in a voice as cold and steady she could manage, ‘so I can ask him to have you whipped for your insolence.’

     There was a collective gasp from the people around them. Not looking in the least impressed, the man crossed his arms on his broad chest and arched his eyebrows.

     ‘Really?’

     She took another deep breath.

     ‘That’s what I do to disrespectful servants on my estate, and I can assure you they stop smirking after five lashes.’ That was an outrageous lie, of course, but no one here was to know.

     'If what you said earlier is true, then I see McRae chose his bride well.’ The man’s eyes were now hard as steel. ‘You and he are indeed a match made in heaven, or in hell. I’m sure you’ll be very happy together.’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, sweetheart, but I don’t approve of whipping people, or beasts, for that matter.’

     ‘And I don’t care a fig if you approve or not. It is for your master to decide your punishment, and from what I’ve heard of Lord McGunn, he is neither a patient nor compassionate man.’

     He arched his eyebrows. ‘I didn’t know I had such a bad reputation.’

     Rose’s heart stopped. He wasn’t… he couldn’t be…

     ‘I realise I failed to introduce myself. I am Bruce McGunn.’ He bowed his head in a military salute.

     ‘You are?’ The words came out as a squeak.

     His lips stretched into a tight smile that didn’t warm his eyes.

     ‘At your service, my lady. Now the introductions are over, shall we make our way to the Lodge?’

 Blurb

Can her love heal his haunted heart? - Cape Wrath, Scotland, November 1847.
Bruce McGunn is a man as brutal and unforgiving as his land. Discharged from the army, he is haunted by the spectres of his fallen comrades and convinced he is going mad. And he is running out of time to save his estate from the machinations of Cameron McRae, heir to the McGunn's ancestral enemies. When the clipper carrying McRae’s new bride is caught in a violent storm and docks at Wrath harbour, Bruce decides to revert to the old ways and hold the clipper and the woman to ransom. However, far from the spoilt heiress he expected, Rose is genuine, funny and vulnerable – a ray of sunshine in the long, harsh winter that has become his life.
Rose is determined to escape Wrath and its proud master – the man she calls McGlum. Will she be reunited with Cameron McRae, the dazzlingly handsome aristocrat she married after a whirlwind romance in Algiers, or will she risk her heart and her honour to help Bruce discover the truth about his past and solve the brutal murders committed on his land?

The Dancing for the Devil Trilogy includes THE DREAM CATCHER, BLUE BONNETS - both available now from Amazon - and SWORD DANCE (available in March 2016).

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Dream-Catcher-Dancing-Devil-Book-ebook-y/dp/B017D73N0Q/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Blue-Bonnets-Dancing-Devil-Book-ebook/dp/B019E15RTE/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8

 

Author Bio

Originally from Lyon in France, Marie has lived in the beautiful Rossendale Valley, Lancashire, England, for the past few years and likes nothing more than dreaming up romance stories and handsome, brooding heroes. She writes historical and contemporary romance. Her contemporary romance A SPELL IN PROVENCE, as well as her historical romances, ANGEL HEART, together with the award-winning THE LION'S EMBRACE, and the DANCING FOR THE DEVIL Trilogy (which includes THE DREAM CATCHER, BLUE BONNETS and SWORD DANCE) are all published by Áccent Press.

 If you would like to see some of the photos of Scotland that have inspired Marie Laval whilst writing THE DREAM CATCHER, BLUE BONNETS and SWORD DANCE, please go to Pinterest (https://uk.pinterest.com/laval0232/)

Cover Reveal for THE DREAM CATCHER by Marie Laval

I am delighted to share the cover for my third historical romance, THE DREAM CATCHER, which will be released by Áccent Press on 26th November, and which is Part 1 of a trilogy.

The story is set in the winter of 1847 near Cape Wrath, in the far North of Scotland, and opens with a terrible storm at sea. I am delighted to see that the cover artist captured both the dark atmosphere of the setting and the lovely, sunny personality of the heroine.

THE DREAM CATCHER is available for pre-order on http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B017D73N0Q?keywords=the%20dream%20catcher%20marie%20laval&qid=1447004794&ref_=sr_1_1&s=digital-text&sr=1-1

Blurb THE DREAM CATCHER

Can her love heal his haunted heart?

Cape Wrath, Scotland, November 1847.

Bruce McGunn is a man as brutal and unforgiving as his land in the far North of Scotland. Discharged from the army where he was known as the claymore devil, haunted by the spectres of his fallen comrades and convinced he is going mad, he is running out of time to save his estate from the machinations of Cameron McRae, heir to the McGunn's ancestral enemies. When the clipper carrying McRae’s new bride is caught in a violent storm and docks at Wrath harbour, Bruce decides to revert to the old ways and hold the clipper and the woman to ransom. However, far from the spoilt heiress he expected, Rose is genuine, funny and vulnerable - a ray of sunshine in the long, harsh winter that has become his life.

But Rose is determined to escape Wrath and its proud master - the man she calls McGlum.

THE DREAM CATCHER is the first of the DANCING FOR THE DEVIL trilogy and is followed by BLUE BONNETS and SWORD DANCE.

 

ANGEL HEART by Marie Laval

ANGEL HEART by Marie Laval
Regency with a paranormal twist

Excerpt

Who did the woman think he was to summon him to her room like that? A lackey, probably. His lips twisted in an angry snarl as he climbed the stairs two by two. Madame Norton might live in a ramshackle manor house on the bleak, windswept Devonshire moorland, but she was still a Beauregard on her mother's side and a member of the English gentry by marriage. He should have followed Martin's advice and stayed at the club a while longer.

He walked down the draughty corridor and drummed impatient fingers on her door.

‘Who's there?’  A timid voice answered from behind the door.

‘Saintclair. Did you want to talk to me?’ His tone was short.

The door opened just enough for Madame Norton to peer through.

He exhaled sharply to control his rising temper. ‘Are you going to let me in or shall we talk in the corridor?’

She opened the door wider and he strode in.

‘Is there a problem?’ He looked down at her. Barefoot and swamped in an old dressing gown, the woman hardly reached his shoulder. He wondered what she wore underneath, if anything. His pulse quickened and a sudden rush of heat coursed through his veins. He stuck his hands in his coat pockets.

She stepped back and folded her arms on her chest.

 ‘You said you would be back early, yet you left me waiting here all day.’

Her icy tone did nothing to cool his blood. In fact it had just the opposite effect. He took a deep breath and walked to the fireplace to put some distance between them. His lips stretched in a thin smile.

‘Sorry. I got…distracted.’ He shrugged. ‘I did arrange a carriage and a driver for us. We're leaving for Lyon on Saturday.’

She looked at him again in the way a queen might look at a mangy dog.

‘Why wait until Saturday? Your instructions are to take me straight to Beauregard. Monsieur Malleval won't be pleased.’

 If she meant to intimidate him, she had failed. She was starting to amuse him greatly—in more ways than one. 

‘I have things to do. Anyway, what's the rush? I thought you might like to come to town with me tomorrow and see a play in the evening.’

Her eyes flashed in anger.

‘I do not go to the theatre, Capitaine. I am in mourning.’

He arched his eyebrows. ‘After six years?’

‘My husband was a wonderful man. I will mourn him all my life.’ Her eyes filled with tears, she bit her lip.

He didn't answer. There was one thing to be said for her. She was convincing—a first-class actress. He had almost been taken in by her wistful sighs and tearful eyes, by her drab mourning dresses and the almost virginal blushing on her cheeks every time he looked her way. He had almost believed her grief-stricken widow act…until he saw young Norton leave her room in the middle of the night with a wide grin on his face. He knew better than to be fooled by a woman, especially a pretty one. 

Blurb

Devonshire, 1815.

Marie-Ange, the young widow of an English officer, accepts an inheritance in France only to find that everything in Beauregard is not as it seems. Why is the sinister Malleval so obsessed with her family? And could her darling Christopher still be alive? Marie-Ange finds herself trapped in a dangerous web of lies, intrigue and mystical possession, and the only person to whom she can turn for help is Captain Hugo Saintclair. Yet the enigmatic Hugo represents a danger of a different kind …

‘Angel Heart’ is a lavish mix of romance, adventure and a hint of the supernatural, largely set in France against the turbulent background of Napoleon’s return from Elba.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Angel-Heart-Marie-Laval-ebook/dp/B012WQ87HC/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8

 

 

Isabelle Eberhardt: Dreamer, Nomad, writer

By Marie Laval

My friends and the people who have read my stories know that I was always fascinated by North Africa. My mother was born and brought up in Algiers. She was from a French, Spanish and Italian background and had a very colourful family (to say the least!). She left Algeria during the war of Independence in 1962, never to return, but her wonderful stories about the places and people of her childhood always made the place special for my sisters and I.

My grandparents' house in Suffren, near Algiers which was shared with two other families

As a teenager I read novels and short stories which were set there. I particularly loved 'Bivouacs sous la Lune' by Frison-Roche for his beautiful tales of the Sahara and its lost kingdoms.

Maxime Noiré Les marchands arabes à Biskra

And then I discovered Isabelle Eberhardt and fell under the spell of her short stories, which brought the tastes, smells and landscapes of North Africa to life. Her often tragic characters were unforgettable. Her writing was neat, precise, simple but incredibly powerful and transported me to a bazaar in a small town of the M'zab, or along the steep, narrow alleyways of the Algiers Kasbah, or again across the magnificent wilderness of the Saharan plains.

I was also intrigued by her as a person because her life is definitely a case of reality being more fascinating than fiction. Like Alexandra David-Neel who travelled to Tibet and converted to Buddhism, Odette du Puigaudeau in Mauritania, or again Ella Maillart in Asia, Isabelle was one of the very first Twentieth century women who travelled alone - and relished the adventure and the solitude.

'For those who know the value of and exquisite taste of solitary freedom (for one is only free when alone), the act of leaving is the bravest and most beautiful of all.'

― Isabelle Eberhardt, The Nomad: The Diaries of Isabelle Eberhardt

Isabelle Eberhardt: 'A nomad I will remain for life, in love with distant and uncharted places.'

Isabelle was born in Geneva in 1877, the illegitimate daughter of Natalia, the widow of a former aide de camp to the Russian tsar Alexander II, and a Ukrainian scholar - an anarchist, according to some. Although her family was shunned by Geneva's polite society, Isabelle was well educated and spoke French, Russian, Italian, German as well as Greek, Latin and Arabic.

From a young age she dreamt of adventure in far away lands, North Africa especially, where two of her brothers joined the Foreign Legion. She was twenty when she travelled to Bône in Algeria, where she lived with her mother and converted to Islam. After her mother's death, she started travelling extensively across Algeria, alone, dressed as a man and under the name Si Mahmoud Saadi. 

'Je suis seul, et je rêve' (I am alone, and I dream). 

It's interesting to see that she writes about herself as a man (by using the masculine form of 'seul'). Dressing up and living as a man allowed her freedoms which would have been denied to her as a woman - the freedom to travel or have access to zouaias (islamic religious schools), taverns and brothels.

In 1901 she married Slimane Ehnni, a spahi - a soldier from the French colonial army's light cavalry regiments, but her life was cut tragically short by a flash flood in Ain Sefra in October 1904. She was only 27 when she died.

'Oued dans une oasis' by Maxime Noiré, to whom Isabelle dedicated her story 'Pleurs d'Amandiers'  1903 ('Weeping Almond Trees')

I can't resist posting this beautiful painting by Maxime Noiré, 'the painter of horizons on fire and weeping almond trees'. Actually it sounds better in French: 'Le peintre des horizons en feu et des amandiers en pleurs'.

And what about this extract of one of her short stories set in Bou Saada - the Saharan oasis nicknamed 'the city of happiness' which was well-known to Hugo and Lucas Saintclair, the heroes of my historical romances ANGEL HEART and THE LION'S EMBRACE.

'Bou-Saada, la reine fauve vêtue de ses jardins obscurs et gardée par ses collines violettes, dort, voluptueuse, au bord escarpé de l'oued où l'eau bruisse sur les cailloux blancs et roses.' Isabelle Eberhardt, Pleurs d'amandiers, 1903

I won't even attempt to translate this into English!

What about you? Who was the writer who influenced you the most and made you dream?

Marie Laval
http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Lions-Embrace-Marie-Laval-ebook/dp/B00BACDSK6

ANGEL HEART by Marie Laval

Chapter One

The cutter was sailing too close to the cliffs, heading straight for the Devil's Tooth. Marie-Ange's cloak billowed in the blustery wind, the hood blew back and her hair swirled like a golden veil around her. From the cliff top, she watched the small French ship dancing wildly on the waves, its tricolour and white ensigns flapping at the top of the mast.  If it carried on its course the ship would be ripped open by the reef. A man stood alone at the prow, oblivious of the danger ahead. He was too far away and the roaring of the waves crashing onto the cliffs was so loud shouting a warning to him would be useless. She unfastened her cloak, pulled her black shawl from her shoulders, and waved it above her head in the direction of the Devil's Tooth. 

A ray of sunshine tearing through the clouds bathed her black-clad silhouette in a bright golden light. For a few seconds the sun was in her eyes, blinding her before the wind pushed the dark clouds across the sky and the sun disappeared once more. When she looked toward the bay again, the ship was steering east, back to the high sea. She heaved a sigh of relief. The crew must have seen her signals and spotted the reef in time. They were safe.

She resumed her walk on the cliff path to St Nectan's chapel, a small granite building sailors’ wives visited to pray for the safe return of their men. Or rather, they came to the ancient wishing well at the back of the chapel. Today, like so many times before, Marie-Ange wanted to pray for Christopher.

"Six years already, my love," she whispered, blinking away the tears.

Six years since her husband had been lost at sea when his ship was sunk by French artillery off Corunna. She searched in her pocket for the piece of wedding ribbon she had cut earlier that morning.

"Please, come back to me." She repeated the words like an incantation and kissed the white satin bow before leaning forward to throw it into the ancient well. It whirled as it flew down, becoming smaller and fainter as it was swallowed by the shadows.  

Her dream last night still felt so real. Christopher held her in his arms while she touched his face and gazed into his grey eyes…Then he melted into the mist, leaving her cold and alone.

* * * *

Damn this ship. Damn this weather. And damn Malleval. Hugo Saintclair clapped his hands together a few times and blew on them to keep them warm. Around him, the crew shouted orders and heaved on ropes in order to switch sails and change course before they hit the rocks.  The Angel warned them, the sailors said, heaven was on their side. Shaking his head with impatience, he listened to their nonsensical chatter. Angels didn't exist, but the woman who waved at them from the cliff top had saved them from a certain death. The black, fierce looking rock in the middle of the bay would no doubt have torn the ship open.

It was sobering to think that having survived so many bloody battles in Europe he might have drowned in the grey, stormy waters of the English Channel while carrying out an assignment which had nothing to do with the army, and everything to do with his own foolishness. 

He pulled a flask from his coat pocket and drank a swallow of rum to fight the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. A grimace twisted his lips as the cheap liquor burned his throat and brought tears to his eyes.  The sooner they reached the shore, the better. He was a cuirassier officer, damn it, not a sailor. He tightened his lips, squared his jaw. Some cuirassier officer he was! Not only was he stuck on a ship in the middle of a storm, but he was about to play bodyguard to a rich noblewoman who would no doubt turn out to be every bit as spoilt, haughty, and demanding as the other aristocrats he'd had the misfortune to encounter so far.

Gripping the side of the boat, he took a long gulp of air. He had nobody to blame but himself. He should have held his liquor better and stopped gambling before it was too late.

* * * *

It was raining when Marie-Ange finally set off on the path inland. Soon the outline of Norton Place appeared in the distance—the grey, forbidding manor house crouched in a clump of trees. She walked through the gate and sighed as she stepped over several broken slate roof tiles dislodged by the storm. There would be more holes in the roof, as if the old manor house wasn't plagued by enough leaks and draughts already…

  She entered the hall, gave her wet cloak to Rosie. The maid whisked away to dry the sodden garment. Shivering and eager to stand near the fire, she opened the door to the austere oak panelled drawing room. Her fingers were raw and stiff after her long walk and she rubbed them hard over the flames.

"There you are! Any sign of our French guest?" 

She turned at the sound of her brother-in-law's voice and smiled. Bewilderment hit her as he strode toward her. With his tall stature, unruly ash blond hair and grey eyes, Robert was more like Christopher with every passing day. She shook her head.

"Not yet. Monsieur Malleval wrote that Capitaine Saintclair would be with us mid-January. I wonder if…"

She recalled the cutter that sailed dangerously close to the reef earlier in the day. It flew a French flag—two French flags, in fact—the revolutionary tricolour and the white flag of the newly-restored Bourbon monarchy. Maybe Capitaine Saintclair was on board.

"You don't have to travel to France alone with him, you know." Robert looked at her hopefully. "I'd be more than willing to come with you. Indeed, I believe that, as the man of the family, I should come with you."

Marie-Ange smiled. She had trouble considering Robert anything other than a younger brother. Yet at eighteen, he was almost a man, and she would do well to remember it. He would probably get married soon and leave her alone in this draughty old house on the edge of the moors.

"No, Robert. We talked about it before. Monsieur Malleval is unable to come for me because of his old battle wound but he wrote that Capitaine Saintclair would be a most reliable escort."

"Still, we don't know anything about him," Robert protested.

"We know he is a distinguished officer from the Second Cuirassier Regiment," Marie-Ange said, patting Robert's forearm. "And as much as I would like you to come with me, you must stay here and look after the estate. I won't need more than a few weeks to settle my inheritance at Beauregard."

Robert looked at his boots and frowned. "But…"

"You know what this bequest means for Norton Place and for you. I will be able to get the roof fixed at last and you will join the Naval Academy."

Robert pulled a face. His dream was to follow in his brother's footsteps and buy a commission in the Royal Navy but there had been no money for him to do so. Until now.

Two cocker spaniel puppies burst into the drawing room and jumped at her skirt.

"Rusty! Splinter! Calm down!" She laughed and knelt down to stroke the dogs' shiny coats. "Besides, who would look after my two darlings here?"

Robert still looked disgruntled.

"Cheer up." She grinned. "I heard there was jelly for pudding tonight."

This time there was something akin to anger in his eyes.

"I wish you would stop treating me like a child," he growled before storming out.

Her breath caught in her throat. What was wrong with him? Robert was the only family she had left. They had never argued before today.

"Come on, boys, let's go out," she called to them, hoping that taking the puppies out would cheer her up.

 She headed toward the cliffs once again. Her boots were soon covered with mud, the hem of her dress drenched, but she didn't notice the rain, the puddles, or the coarse tufts of grass. This time she followed the steep path down onto the pebbly beach, where the sea spray on her face and the roar of waves crashing onto the reef made her heart beat faster. She licked the salt from her lips and took a deep breath. How she would miss these walks along the coast during her time in France…Still, it would be worth it. Even though he didn't quote an exact figure in his letter, Uxeloup Malleval had promised a substantial legacy from her mother's family estate in the Beaujolais.

The sky was darkening by the time she made her way back. Her heart skipped a beat when she came in view of Norton Place and she quickened her pace. A carriage was stationed by the front steps. They had a visitor. Perhaps it was Saintclair?

She let herself in, slipped the cloak off her shoulders, and checked her reflection in the hall mirror. Lord, she looked wild. The wind had made her pale blue eyes sparkle and given her complexion a deep rosy blush. She combed her curly blond hair with her fingers, twisting it into a rough plait. It was far from perfect but it would have to do. She couldn't keep her visitor waiting any longer.

She pushed open the door to the drawing room and hurried inside. Splinter and Rusty ran under her feet, tripping her. Her cry of alarm died on her lips as two strong arms caught her. Surprised, she tilted her head up to look at the tall, dark-haired man holding her against his hard, wide chest. His intense blue eyes held her gaze and sent a shiver down her spine. One side of his weather-beaten face was barred by a long, ragged scar. The thin line of the mouth and the tightness in his jaw gave an impression of controlled anger. For a moment fear gathered in her chest. Then he smiled, a slow, confident smile, and he was transformed into the most handsome man she had ever laid eyes on.

The dogs barked at them furiously. Marie-Ange parted her lips to order them to stop but before she could speak Robert took a few steps forward, an angry scowl twisting his face, his fists clenched by his sides.

"Let her go at once, sir," he warned, "or I…"

"Or what?" The man arched his eyebrows, a mocking smile at the corner of his mouth, as if he dared Robert to come any closer. He shook his head and released her.

 "I will ask you to restrain your puppies, Madame. The three of them," he said as he looked down at her.

"How dare you call me a puppy?" Robert's face flushed a deep red, and he took another step forward.

Marie-Ange found her voice at last.

"Rusty. Splinter. Lie down at once." She pointed to the rug in front of the fireplace. The dogs whimpered but obeyed. "Robert. That's enough. Monsieur was just helping me."

Robert muttered an apology and crouched beside the dogs to stroke their wet, muddy coats.

"You must be Capitaine Saintclair," she said, tilting her chin up to look at him again.

 The papers had been full of sketches and reports about the famous French cuirassiers and she had no difficulty imagining Saintclair in a dark blue uniform, his chest covered with shiny metal plates and his helmet topped by a black horse mane, charging onto the battlefield. His current attire of black breeches and tall leather riding boots topped by a short brown coat did nothing to dispel the heroic image conjured in her mind.

He clicked his heels together and bowed his head.

"At your service, Madame."

ANGEL HEART Blurb:
Devonshire, 1815
A mysterious Templar relic
A web of intrigue and lies
A woman about to lose her heart

Marie-Ange, the young widow of an English officer, accepts an inheritance in France only to find that everything in Beauregard is not as it seems. Why is the sinister Malleval so obsessed with her family? What exactly is this mysterious Templar Cross he believes Marie-Ange can lead him to? And could her darling husband Christopher still be alive?

Marie-Ange finds herself trapped in a dangerous web of lies, political intrigue and mystical possession, and the only person to whom she can turn for help is Captain Hugo Saintclair. Yet the enigmatic Hugo represents a danger of a different kind …

ANGEL HEART is a lavish mix of romance, adventure and a hint of the supernatural, largely set in France against the turbulent background of Napoleon’s return from Elba and his ultimate defeat at Waterloo.

You can find it at Museituppublishing 

https://museituppublishing.com/bookstore2/index.php?page=shop.product_details&flypage=flypage.tpl&product_id=462&category_id=60&option=com_virtuemart&Itemid=1

And from Amazon Kindle store here http://www.amazon.com/Angel-Heart-ebook/dp/B009YJT194

And Amazon http://www.amazon.co.uk/Angel-Heart-ebook/dp/B009YJT194

The Lion's Embrace by Marie Laval

This is an excerpt from Chapter 1

Algiers, April 1845

 “Fissa, fissa,” Harriet urged as she followed the boy down the narrow alleyways leading to the harbour. It wasn’t dark yet but already a full moon lit the Algiers sky, shimmered on the surface of the sea, and steeped the walls of the old town in its silver light.

          Drunken, rowdy sailors and soldiers on leave crowded the streets. Men lurked in shadowy doorways. She had been in too much of a rush getting out of Lord Callaghan’s palace to be scared earlier, but now anxiety knotted her stomach and tightened her throat. She gripped the dagger at her side. Coming here on her own might not be such a good idea after all, but Lucas Saintclair was at the Seventh Star and she desperately needed to talk to him. He was the best guide in the whole of the Barbary States, the only man who could help her.

          At least nobody gave her a second glance. With her indigo blue tunic and trousers and the turban she had bought at the souk, she looked like a Tuareg fighter —albeit a diminutive one.

          In front of her a man relieved himself against a wall and stumbled into a pile of rotten rubbish, his breeches still open. She wrinkled her nose in disgust and stepped over him.

          The boy pointed to a blue door above which a crudely painted golden star dangled precariously. Harriet slipped a silver coin in his hand and was about to push the door open when it flew straight back in her face. A short, stocky man ran out into the street. Wheezing loudly, his eyes bulging with fear, he looked as if the devil himself was on his tail.

          It was.

          A tall, dark-haired man entirely dressed in black strode out of the tavern and bumped into her.

          “Rood Bâlek!” he growled, grabbing her arm to push her out of the way.
She tilted her face up to look at him. If there was something of a pirate in his strong, weather-beaten face covered with dark stubble, it was his eyes that sent a shiver down her spine. They were the coldest eyes she had ever seen; icy blue, and so pale they were almost transparent.

          He stared down at her. She held her breath, fearful he had seen through her disguise and would rip her scarf off.

          He shoved her aside, slid his hand in the pocket of his leather waistcoat, and pulled out a dagger with a curved blade. In long, supple strides he caught up with the other man and toppled him onto the ground.

          “Now, Rachid, you snivelling rat,” he said in French as he pressed the tip of his black riding boot onto the other man’s throat. “You have five seconds to tell me where the map is. Un… deux…” He flipped the dagger like a toy between his fingers.

          “Oh, my God,” Harriet breathed out. She glanced around, but nobody was paying the two men the slightest notice. There was no time to think, a man’s life was at stake. With a muffled cry she hurled herself at the tall stranger, jumped on his back, and hooked her arms around his neck.

          He let out a roar of anger and swirled round to shake her off, but she wrapped her legs more tightly around his waist.

          “Bon sang! Qu’est-ce que...”

          He dropped the dagger, twisted his body, and managed to grab her waist to slide her to the front so she was now against his chest. Aware she was losing her grip she lunged forward and sank her teeth into his shoulder.

          He growled, held her at arm’s length, and threw her off. She fell on the cobbles. The turban softened the impact to the back of her head, but a vicious pain at the bottom of her spine made her cry out. The man swore in French. Although she only caught a few words, she understood he was angry. Very angry. His victim had escaped.

          She let out a sigh of relief. She had done it. She saved a man’s life. Her joy, however, was short-lived. The Frenchman leaned over, picked her up by the collar of her tunic, and lifted her as if she was no heavier than a bundle of cloth. The savage glint in his eyes dried her throat; her heart hammered against her ribs.

          “Please, don’t hurt me,” she pleaded, breathless.

His eyes opened wide in shock.

          Since when did Tuareg fighters speak fluent English? Come to think of it, since when did they smell of Damascus rose soap?

          He peered more closely at the face in front of him and saw two large, grey eyes bordered with long, dark eyelashes and the tip of a small nose above the dark blue scarf. He recalled the odd sensations when the soft, curvy body had thrust against him earlier. This wasn’t a Tuareg fighter at all, it was a … He ripped the headdress off and a mass of thick, honey blonde hair tumbled out.

          “A woman? I thought as much. Who are you?” he asked in English. “What the hell did you think you were doing just then?” He shook her a little, not to hurt her, but enough to give her a fright.

          The woman didn’t answer.

          “You’re not so bold now, are you?” He narrowed his eyes, smiled his meanest smile, and was satisfied to hear her helpless cry. She had cost him days of patient stakeout. Now, because of her, Rachid was free to sell the map to the highest bidder. And he knew exactly who that would be.

          “Maybe you want to take another bite?” he snarled, pointing to his shoulder.

          “No,” she whispered.

          “Actually, maybe I’ll be the one to take a bite. You look appetizing enough.”

He lifted her closer, until his mouth almost touched hers, and he felt her warm breath on his skin.

          He gazed into her grey eyes and time seemed to stop.

          “Please,” she squeaked.

          He shook his head, dizzy, like someone pulled too abruptly out of a dream.

          “You have some explaining to do, lady,” he said, his voice a little hoarse.

          She was shaking like a leaf now. He let her down, keeping a firm hold on her arm. He didn’t trust her. She might stand in front of him, small and fragile, but he wouldn’t put it past her to run off and disappear into the maze of alleys of the old town.

          She wouldn’t go anywhere before he had answers to his questions.

         

A curious crowd had gathered around them. The man’s fingers were a steel vice around her arm. Surely he wouldn’t dare hurt her in front of so many witnesses?

          “Get your hands off her!” A man’s voice called.

          Thank God.

          “Archie!” she said, flooded with relief as her oldest, most trusted friend sliced through the crowd toward her.

          The man let go of her. She ran to Archie, welcoming the strong, safe arm he wrapped around her. She saw that he gripped the butt of a pistol under his jacket.

          “Are you hurt? Did he hit you?” His face was flushed, his thick blond

moustache quivered with indignation.

          “I didn’t touch her,” the Frenchman said, calmly. “She’s the one who jumped on me like a banshee, bit me, and set my man free when I finally had him.”

          He clenched his fists.

          “You were going to kill him,” Harriet cried out in protest. “I saw it all!”

          “What I was doing was none of your goddamned business.” He narrowed his cool blue eyes to stare at her. “You don’t seem the type to work for Rachid. Who are you? What do you want?”

          Archie’s arm tensed around her as a warning but she ignored him.

          “I’m looking for Lucas Saintclair,” she said.

          “Whatever for?” He cocked his head to one side.

          “I have a proposal for him.”

          A slow grin spread on his lips.

          “Then it looks like you found him, darling.”

          There was a moment of stunned silence.

          “You are Saintclair?” Harriet and Archie exclaimed in unison.

          He nodded, bent down to pick his dagger, and slid it into his pocket

          “What do you want with me? Apart from spoiling a nice evening, that is.”

The Lion's Embrace blurb:

Arrogant, selfish and dangerous, Lucas Saintclair is everything Harriet Montague dislikes in a man. He is also the best guide in the whole of the Barbary States, the only man who can rescue her archaeologist father from the gang of Tuareg fighters that has kidnapped him. As Harriet embarks on a perilous journey across Algeria with Saintclair and Archibald Drake, her father’s most trusted friend, she discovers a bewitching but brutal land where nothing is what it seems. Who are these men intent on stealing her father’s ransom? What was her father hoping to find in Tuareg queen Tin Hinan’s tomb? Is Lucas Saintclair really as callous as he claims—or is he a man haunted by a past he cannot forgive? Dangerous passions engulf Harriet’s heart in the heat of the Sahara. Secrets of lost treasures, rebel fighters, and a sinister criminal brotherhood threaten her life and the life of the man she loves.

Does forever lie in the lion’s embrace?

The Lion's Embrace is available from MuseitUp Publishing http://museituppublishing.com/bookstore/index.php/museitup/romance/historical-romance/the-lion-s-embrace-detail
From Amazon http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Lions-Embrace-ebook/dp/B00BACDSK6
and http://www.amazon.com/The-Lions-Embrace-ebook/dp/B00BACDSK6