Extract from The Captain and The Countess

 

 

 

Rosemary Morris’s most recent novel The Captain and the Countess has received 5* reviews and is available as an e-book for 77p from www.amazon.co.uk and for $0.99 from https://museituppublishing.com until midnight on the 17^th August.

 

Exract fromThe Captain and The Countess

 

London 1706

 

Edward, the Right Honourable Captain Howard, dressed in blue and white, which some of the officers in Queen Anne’s navy favoured, strode into Mrs Radcliffe’s spacious house near St James Park. 

Perkins, his godmother’s butler, took his hat and cloak. “Madam wants you to join her immediately.”

Instead of going upstairs to the rooms his godmother had provided for him during his spell on half pay—the result of a dispute with a senior officer—Edward entered the salon. He sighed. When would his sixty-one year old godmother accept that at the age of twenty-two he was not yet ready to wed?

He made his way across the elegant, many windowed room through a crowd of expensively garbed callers.

When Frances Radcliffe noticed him, she turned to the pretty young lady seated beside her. “Mistress Martyn, allow me to introduce you to my godson, Captain Howard.”  

Blushes stained Mistress Martyn’s cheeks as she stood to make her curtsey.

 Edward bowed, indifferent to yet another of his grandmother’s protégées. Conversation ceased. All eyes focussed on the threshold. 

“Lady Sinclair,” someone murmured.

Edward turned. He gazed without blinking at the acclaimed beauty, whose sobriquet was ‘The Fatal Widow’. 

The countess remained in the doorway, her cool blue eyes speculative.

Edward whistled low. Could her shocking reputation be no more than tittle-tattle? His artist’s eyes observed her. Rumour did not lie about her Saxon beauty.

 Her ladyship was not a slave to fashion. She did not wear a wig, and her hair was not curled and stiffened with sugar water. Instead, her flaxen plaits were wound around the crown of her head to form a coronet. The style suited her. So did the latest Paris fashion, an outrageous wisp of a lace cap, which replaced the tall, fan-shaped fontage most ladies continued to wear perched on their heads. 

Did the countess have the devil-may-care attitude gossips attributed to her?  If she did, it explained why some respectable members of society shunned her. Indeed, if Lady Sinclair were not the granddaughter of his godmother’s deceased friend, she might not be received in this house.

The lady’s fair charms did not entirely explain what drew many gallants to her side. After all, there were several younger beauties present that the gentlemen did not flock around so avidly.

He advanced toward the countess, conscious of the sound of his footsteps on the wooden floor, the muted noise of coaches and drays through the closed windows and, from the fireplace, the crackle of burning logs which relieved the chill of early spring.

The buzz of conversation resumed. Her ladyship scrutinised him. Did she approve of his appearance? A smile curved her heart-shaped mouth. He repressed his amusement. Edward suspected the widow’s rosy lips owed more to artifice than nature.

“How do you do, sir,” she said when he stood before her. “I think we have not met previously. Her eyes assessed him dispassionately. My name is Sinclair, Katherine Sinclair. I dislike formality. You may call me Kate.”

“Captain Howard at your service, Countess.” Shocked but amused by boldness more suited to a tavern wench than a great lady, Edward paid homage with a low bow before he spoke again. “Despite your permission, I am not presumptuous enough to call you Kate, yet I shall say that had we already met, I would remember you.”

“You are gallant, sir, but you are young to have achieved so high a rank in Her Majesty’s navy.”

“An unexpected promotion earned in battle which the navy did not subsequently commute.”

“You are to be congratulated on what, I can only assume, were acts of bravery.”

“Thank you, Countess.”

The depths of her ladyship’s sapphire cross and earrings blazed, matching his sudden fierce desire.

Kate, some four inches shorter than Edward, looked up at him.

He leaned forward. The customary greeting of a kiss on her lips lingered longer than etiquette dictated. Her eyes widened before she permitted him to lead her across the room to the sopha on which his godmother sat with Mistress Martyn.

With a hint of amusement in her eyes, Kate regarded Mrs Radcliffe. “My apologies, madam, I suspect my visit is untimely.”

Her melodious voice sent shivers up and down his spine, nevertheless, Edward laughed. Had the countess guessed his godmother, who enjoyed match-making, wanted him to marry Mistress Martyn? No, he was being too fanciful. How could she have guessed?

“You are most welcome, Lady Sinclair.  Please take a seat and partake of a glass of cherry ratafia.” Frances said.

 “Perhaps, milady prefers red viana,” Edward suggested

“Captain, you read my mind, sweet wine is not to my taste.”

In response to the lady’s provocative smile, heat seared his cheeks.

Kate smoothed the gleaming folds of her turquoise blue silk gown. The lady knew how to dress to make the utmost of her natural beauty. Her gown and petticoat, not to mention sleeves and under-sleeves, as well as her bodice and stays, relied for effect on simple design and fine fabrics. He approved of her ensemble, the elegance of which did not depend on either a riot of colours or a multitude of bows and other trimmings. Later, he would sketch her from memory.

Kate inclined her head to his godmother. “Will you not warn your godson I am unsound, wild, and a bad influence on the young?”

Edward gazed into Kate’s eyes.  Before his demise, had her husband banished her to a manor deep in the country? If it was true, why did he do so?

Kate’s eyebrows slanted down at the inner corners. She stared back at him.  He laughed, raised her hands to his lips and kissed each in turn. “I look forward to furthering my acquaintance with you.”

“High-handed.” Kate gurgled with laughter. “Captain, please release me.”

     What did he care if she were some ten years his elder? He wanted to get to know her better. Edward bowed. “Your slightest wish is my command.”

…. A frozen glimpse of despair deep in her eyes unsettled Edward. Did he imagine it? He could not speak. Why should a lady like the countess despair? 

 

 

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

Introducing Reluctance

It is probably time I told you about my new book Reluctance, released on Good Friday, 6th April. It will be my first release for MuseItUp Publishing, and I must be an unknown quantity for most of you! I live in the UK, and I'm really proud of this book. Writing it was a good experience, not least because I got to describe the countryside around my home!

There’s a National Trust property called Gibside click not far from me, where George Bowes made immense wealth from the coal trade in the seventeen hundreds. We often walk by his house and the orangery, both of which are roofless shells now, but the stables and the Palladian chapel are probably just as they were in his day. He had no sons to follow him, so his daughter inherited everything and was reputed to be the richest heiress in the country. She made a most unfortunate marriage which scandalised society at the time. So much is true.

I thought I could use the basic thread, and the setting, and make a very good story out of it. The reasons people married then, as now, are many and varied, and I wanted to explore why a woman might give up her wealth, independence and property to a scoundrel.

My heroine, Frances, was the character who initially formed in my mind. Well educated, and with an aversion to marital duties after her first marriage, she had absolutely no incentive to marry again. Yet she would do so. What was it that changed her mind? That’s the question that intrigued me.

 I think the best thing about the hero/heroine is that they are first and foremost friends. From that, comes everything else. He, for different reasons, is also against marriage, but to say more would give away the plot. There's a villain, and he is very keen on marriage - but for all the wrong reasons! 1803 is an important year in my heroine's life and nothing will be the same once it is over.

 I’ve always lived within forty miles of where I am now in the Tyne Valley, Northumberland. The only continent I haven’t visited is South America – and I’ve no plans to do so! With a degree in English/History and recently retired from library management, I write almost every day – usually historical adventures. I’m currently writing about a male protagonist in sixteenth century France, and perspiring over a siege at St-Dizier in 1544, but I think I'll soon bring him back to Scotland. His French is suffering along with mine too much to stay!

I aim to write my blog three times a week and you can visit it here: Jen

I send the odd missive to Facebook and Twitter (@speckledbirds) and that’s about it.

Go read Reluctance link

and let me know what you think of Frances and Jack. Happy reading!

Jen Black