Guest blog: Eliza Knight - 'A Lady's Charade'

About the Book:

From across a field of battle, English knight, Alexander, Lord Hardwyck, spots the object of his desire—and his conquest, Scottish traitor Lady Chloe. 

Her lies could be her undoing…

Abandoned across the border and disguised for her safety, Chloe realizes the man who besieged her home in Scotland has now become her savior in England. Her life in danger, she vows to keep her identity secret, lest she suffer his wrath, for he wants her dead.

Or love could claim them both and unravel two countries in the process…

Alexander suspects Chloe is not who she says she is and has declared war on the angelic vixen who's laid claim to his heart. A fierce battle of the minds it will be, for once the truth is revealed they will both have to choose between love and duty.

Excerpt:

Chapter One

South Hearth Castle

Border of Scotland and England

September, 1415

“Allure! My lady! Ralentir!”

Chloe laughed when she turned around on her speeding horse to spy her French maid. Poor Nicola clutched the hood of her headdress with one hand, her hands scrambling to maintain the reins of her horse, and her bottom bounced up and down at a rather humorous pace. She conceded her old nurse and slowed her horse to a trot until Nicola could catch up.

“My lady, shame on you. You know better than to ride with such… such… imprudence!”

“Oui.” Chloe chose to concede once more.

There was no point in arguing with the woman. Especially when she was sure Nicola would only have the last word. But she just couldn’t help riding hell bent for leather! They’d been waiting on the coast of France for nearly a fortnight before the ship could safely take them across. Then an entire week had been spent cramped inside a small ship’s cabin, with the swaying and rocking of the vessel. She felt like the nearly three weeks past had been consumed by sitting still, and now that they’d reached Scotland she only wanted to be free. To feel the fresh, clean, crisp air wash over her skin as she rode at break neck speed toward home. Nicola gave her a disapproving look, but nodded anyway, silvery blonde curls falling out of her headdress. Whether or not she believed Chloe’s apology was sincere, she was accepting of it, it seemed.

They were not alone of course. A dozen of her father’s guard surrounded her, none of them willing to contradict anything Chloe said. Why? She wasn’t sure. Mayhap because she’d been on the continent for so long, they knew not what to expect of her, or perhaps it was simply that they too wanted to reach home. And yet again, it could be that her father had told them not to argue with her.

Whatever the reason, she was glad they’d let her have a bit of fun for however fleeting it was. Chloe turned to the guardsmen who appeared to be in charge.

“How much further?”

He looked about himself for a moment before turning back to her. “South Hearth is not much further, mayhap another day. Shall we make camp now, my lady?”

Chloe narrowed her eyes. “South Hearth?”

“Aye, my lady.”

“We are not going to Fergusson lands?”

“That we are, my lady.”

“But you said South Hearth. My family has not held South Hearth for…” She trailed off remembering the last time she’d been at the border holding. Jon had been alive then.

“Nigh on five years now, my lady, but his lordship, your father, has once again proven we Scots shall prevail.”

So, her father had taken siege of the castle again? A lot had happened since she’d been sent to serve the French queen five years ago, at the age of thirteen. She couldn’t say she was surprised, or really upset about it. In fact, she was a little elated. South Hearth was home. She’d grown up there. Hadrian’s Wall was her playground. But the fact remained, if her father had retaken the castle—someone would want it back.

“Let us make camp then.” Chloe tried not to giggle at the look of pure relief that crossed her nursemaid’s face. The woman’s rump must be burning.

The following morning they set out at a slower pace, just after sunrise. They broke their fast with pears and cheese as they rode, all of them eager to reach South Hearth walls. As the sun rose high in the sky, the turrets of the keep were visible over the crest of a hill.

Home.

Chloe broke out into a wide smile, and ignoring the protests of Nicola and her retainers, she prodded her horse into a canter down the road toward the gate. When she arrived, the guards not far behind her, and Nicola bouncing her way painfully down the hill, her smile faded. Guards circled the top of the battlements. The drawbridge was up, the portcullis down, and gate door closed tightly. They expected trouble. Just as she’d thought. Someone would most definitely be coming to take back the castle. But when was the question.

Before she could open her mouth to order the men to open the way for her, they did so. Calls to her escort were tossed over the walls, and the men she traveled with answered back. As the gates opened, the sounds and smells of the city assaulted her senses. Loud clanking, banging, shouting. Smells of cooking, rubbish, and animals. It all mixed together, and she longed for the French chateau of Queen Isabeau with its pretty smells, and enchanting music.

They rode into town, up the rode past merchants, peasants, clergy and guild workers toward the keep stairs. South Hearth had seemed such a grand place when she was young. Now it only seemed a fort of sorts, not a home.

“My child!” A tall woman atop the steps to the keep came rushing forth.

Chloe recognized her mother immediately. “Maman!” She sped up her horse until she reached the bottom of the keep stairs and then ignoring the hands offered by the guards, leapt to the ground and into her mother’s arms.

It’d been two years since she’d last seen her mother. The Lady Fergusson, had stayed with her for her first few years in service to the French queen, her mother’s cousin, before returning to her husband in Scotland.

Chloe breathed in her mother’s scent, and tried to blink away the sting of tears in her eyes. Come, inside. You must be in need of a bath and something to eat.”

Chloe nodded. As they reached the tops of the steps, Nicola finally drew up to the courtyard, a harried looking knight beside her.

The maid had probably given the man a good tongue lashing, only because Chloe herself wasn’t there to receive the punishment.

“It is so good to be home.”

“Oui, I am glad you finally arrived. We were beginning to worry. Your father and I expected you over a week ago.”

She threaded her arm through her mother’s as they made their way up the spiral staircase to the upper chambers. “There was a storm, and the sea was not safe. We had to wait nearly two weeks before boarding the ship.”

“Ah, I see. At least you have arrived safely. If you hadn’t come by tomorrow a search party was going to be sent out.”

Chloe gasped. “Did you not get my missive?”

“Missive?” They stopped walking and her mother turned toward her, her brows drawn together in concern.

“Oui, Maman. I sent a message to warn of our delay.”

“I received no such warning.”

A chill ran up Chloe’s spine. Had her missive been intercepted? Chloe shook her head. As bad as it was, she dearly prayed the messenger had simply pocketed her coin and spent his time leisurely perusing some bawdy French coastal tavern. She’d seen plenty of the wanton women lining the docks, lifting their skirts to show not so pretty calves.

“I shall ask your father about the missive. No matter, let us not dwell on it.”

Her mother led her to her old chamber, the furnishings surprisingly the same. Those who’d occupied South Hearth after them had not bothered to change it. Her dark polished oak wardrobe was still against the wall. She walked in and ran her hand up the post of the large bed, then sat on the chest of carved oak with roses at the end. The tapestries were even the same. She gazed with nostalgic wonder at the bright blues, golds, reds and greens woven into a picturesque scene of a knight saving a damsel outside a fairy tale castle. She’d spent hours staring at the scene, picturing what her own husband would be like.

“After you’ve had a chance to rest, please come to the great hall. Your father would like a word with you about your future.”

Chloe turned a quizzical look on her mother, who had the foresight to look guilty. “My future?”

Her mother’s countenance could only mean their plans would not be seen well in her own eyes. “Oui.”

“Please, maman, can you not explain?” she pleaded with her mother. She’d only just returned home. Could her mother not just tell her?

“The great hall, ma cherie.”

Chloe hurried through her ablutions, feeling refreshed from her journey and donned the rich blue and gold brocade gown Nicola picked out for her. She rolled her eyes to heaven with frustration at how slow the maid took to plait her hair before donning the matching blue and gold headdress. Her gold braided girdle fitted over her hips, the ends of the tied cord coming halfway down her thigh. She tucked her dirk in place, put on her slippers, and batted Nicola’s hands away.

Although her mother had advised her to rest, this Chloe could not adhere to. Her life was at stake. She rushed to the great hall, where the servants were busy setting out goblets, wine jugs and platters of delicious meats, vegetables in delectable sauces, almonds, figs, and large loafs of bread with steam still rising from their crusty shells.

Her mother stood beside her father who sat in his great chair at the center of the trestle table, her hand on his shoulder.

“Papa,” Chloe said, dipping into a low curtsey.

“How is it that you were only in France for five years, yet you came back with a French accent?” Despite his rebuke, her father smiled, although it was rough around the edges.

“If it pleases, I will try to refrain.”

“You are a dutiful daughter, are you not?”

“Oui—I mean, yes, Papa.”

The baron had changed little in the five years since she’d been gone. He was still strong, fit, and the way he looked at her, still wished she’d fallen instead of her brother Jon. For all his anger at the turn of events though, beneath his hard exterior, she thought she saw a spark in his eyes. Pride perhaps. Pride for her. At least, she

could hope that’s what it was.

“Sit down,” he ordered, his hand sweeping out to indicate the chair beside him. Her mother took her cue, and sat on his other side.

“I am pleased you have returned safely.” He awkwardly patted her hand.

“As am I. It is good to be home.” Chloe kept her gaze in her lap.

“Glad, I am, that you feel that way. South Hearth belongs to the Fergussons. It always has, and we will never let some Sassenachs take it from us again!” At this, he pounded his fist on the table.

Chloe jumped at the sudden movement, but quickly recovered herself.

“As for you, daughter, you will be married.”

“Married?” Chloe couldn’t keep herself from responding, or from the horror that invaded her voice. She didn’t want to marry. Not yet anyway. She hadn’t been home more than a few hours. There’d been no time to meet any of the eligible bachelors, make her choice. But from the determined set of her father’s jaw, she could easily surmise, there wouldn’t be a choice. The picture of her own knight sweeping her off her feet reared up and then started to fade away.

“Aye. You will do your duty.” His statement left no room for argument.

“My duty.” Chloe let the words roll off her tongue. How bitter and rancid they tasted.

“My second in command, Angus is in need of a wife. Since Jon, my son and heir has passed on from this earth, I naturally want to make sure the Fergusson clan is in capable hands. Your duty as my daughter, and only child, is to marry whom I choose for that purpose.”

“Angus.” Chloe tried to remember the man, and then there he was, melting from the woodwork it seemed as he suddenly appeared at the table.

He was old, nearly her father’s age. Still built like a warrior, but old none the less. His face was cruel. Lines etched into the corners of his eyes and brow. But no lines around his mouth. He didn’t smile much.

When she met his eyes—cold watery brown eyes—he nodded.

“Angus, you remember my daughter, Lady Chloe?” her father asked, without even so much as looking at Angus or herself.

Angus didn’t say a word, just nodded again. The man sat down, and the meal began. She watched as he stabbed at a piece of meat, the movement almost like he was stabbing at her heart. There was no talk of wedding plans or even a date, and for that, Chloe was relieved. Mayhap she could push it far enough off, that the man might perish.

What a perfectly horrid thing to think! She berated herself and immediately said a prayer for the man’s health.

After that, Chloe tuned out the conversation, and no one made any comments to her either. When the meal was complete, she snuck out the buttery door and headed for the family chapel. No one deigned to stop her, and even if they did, she would have pushed

past them. Her father was going to force her to marry the cruel, old, Angus. From the look of him, he would be rough with her, unkind. Not a match she would have chosen for herself if they were the two last people on earth, and humankind’s survival depended on it.

Buy Link: http://www.amazon.com/Ladys-Charade-Medieval-Romance-ebook/dp/B0055IHTT2

About the Author:

Eliza Knight is the multi-published, award-winning author of sizzling historical romance and erotic romance. While not reading, writing or researching for her latest book, she chases after her three children. In her spare time (if there is such a thing…) she likes daydreaming, wine-tasting, traveling, hiking, staring at the stars, watching movies, shopping and visiting with family and friends. She lives atop a small mountain, and enjoys cold winter nights when she can curl up in front of a roaring fire with her own knight in shining armor. Visit Eliza at www.elizaknight.com or her historical blog, History Undressed, which was recently mentioned in a feature article in The Wall Street Journal. www.historyundressed.blogspot.com

First Review

Reluctance

 by

Jen Black

"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

AN INHERITANCE FOR THE BIRDS, Regency Comedy

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

Available at The Wild Rose Press, Amazon, Barnes and Noble, All Romance Ebooks and other places where ebooks are sold.

BLURB:

Make the ducks happy and win an estate!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"QUACK!"

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

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

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

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

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

The Reluctant Marquess is now in e-book!

Amazon Kindle:
Amazon PRINT:
Charity Barlow wished to marry for love. The rakish Lord Robert wishes only to tuck her away in the country once an heir is produced.

A country-bred girl, Charity Barlow suddenly finds herself married to a marquess, an aloof stranger determined to keep his thoughts and feelings to himself. She and Lord Robert have been forced by circumstances to marry, and she feels sure she is not the woman he would have selected given a choice.

The Marquess of St. Malin makes it plain to her that their marriage is merely for the procreation of an heir, and once that is achieved, he intends to continue living the life he enjoyed before he met her.

While he takes up his life in London once more, Charity is left to wander the echoing corridors of St. Malin House, when she isn’t thrown into the midst of the mocking Haute Ton.

Charity is not at all sure she likes her new social equals, as they live by their own rules, which seem rather shocking. She’s not at all sure she likes her new husband either, except for his striking appearance and the dark desire in his eyes when he looks at her, which sends her pulses racing.

Lord Robert is a rake and does not deserve her love, but neither does she wish to live alone.

Might he be suffering from a sad past? Seeking to uncover it, Charity attempts to heal the wound to his heart, only to make things worse between them.

Will he ever love her?

M rated Except

Charity stood by the tall arched window, the light turning her hair gold as she swung round to frown at him. “That was rude of you, Robert. You had no call to speak to me like that in front of Lord Southmore.”

“Southmore is not a man to be trusted.”

“He is your friend, is he not?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean I approve of everything he does.” Robert walked to the table. “Would you like a sherry?”

“No, thank you.”

Robert dropped his hand and went to sit on the sofa.

He watched her walk around the room, her skirts swaying gracefully around her. “Come here.”

She remained where she was.

 “Please?”

“If you wish.” She crossed the room to stand by his side.

He took her hand, turning it over in his large one, marveling at her delicate fingers. He thought of the carvings he’d seen on her mantel. “I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

“Are you?” She pulled her hand away, her voice doubtful.

He patted the sofa beside him. “We need to learn more about one another, don’t you agree?”

When she hesitated, he seized her by the waist and tumbled her onto his lap.

“The servants might come in.” Charity struggled to rise, but he held her fast within his arms.

“No, they won’t.”

“How can you be sure?”

“They wouldn’t dare. I told them we wished to be alone.”

Her green eyes widened. “Why do such a thing? There will be gossip in the servants’ quarters.”

“Servants love to talk. Why must we deny them something to talk about?” His hands roamed from her tiny waist to her bodice and her full breasts, enjoying the feel of her soft curves. She was unlike the willowy women he was used to. Her derrière felt plump and delightful against his hardening erection. Should he stop? He struggled with his conscience and his conscience lost.

He slid his hands up her smooth thigh, wishing to bare her body and study every bit of her he wanted to kiss and lick.

“Robert, should you…”

“Yes. I intend to make love to you.”

She squirmed and gasped. Her full lips open and inviting. “Now? Here?”

“Why not now and here?” he asked, forced to remove his hand as she jumped up. He drew her down again. “Don’t you want me to touch you?”

“But this is scandalous.” Charity’s eyes widened, her small pink tongue licked her bottom lip, sending a bolt of fire straight to his groin. She gave a shy smile. “A kiss perhaps.”

He found himself trembling as if it was the first time for him too, when he took her chin in his hands and softly pressed his lips to hers. Charity gave a soft moan. Her hands moved through his hair to the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. God, he’d started something now. How he wanted this luscious and delicate woman.

She drew away with a deep shuddering breath. “The bedchamber at night would surely be the ….”

Robert began to undo the hooks on her bodice. “I find myself unable to wait.”

“Unable? But you said …”

He undid the last hook and pulled her gown away. Leaning forward, he kissed the tender nape of her neck. “Can’t a man change his mind?”

“You agreed.” Charity continued to make a half-hearted attempt he disregarded as blood roared in his ears. “You said that we could wait before—”

“Hush.” He kissed her satin shoulder and let his fingers wander. Her shift was trimmed with lace and green ribbon, her corset embroidered with birds and violets. She looked delectable, good enough to eat. And he determined to do something very much like it.

Robert’s breathing grew heavy, and his cock hardened. He fumbled at his breeches to free it. Charity watched him, her eyes enormous. She opened her mouth to protest and he kissed her to silence her. The kiss lengthened, and after he finally broke away he gazed into those wonderful green eyes with amber highlights, and tasted her lips again. He couldn’t get enough of her sweet mouth. He drew away to find Charity breathing quickly, her pretty lips swollen and lush. So she enjoyed his kisses! Confident, his hands continued their work and while she didn’t assist him, neither did she stop him. Soon, her petticoats and corset joined her gown, a froth of ribbons, lace and silk on the chair.

His breath came in pants, as his mind fogged with lust. When he cupped her breasts to rub the taut nipples through the silk, she arched her back and gave a tiny cry.

He broke away to gaze at her. Her flushed skin was rosy and beautiful, her eyes hazy with desire, her breath as heavy as his.

He wanted her sweet body convulsing with pleasure under him.

“Don’t you think it’s time we made love?” he asked, his voice tight with need.

AUTHOR'S WEBSITE:

Prizes and books to be won on my blog tour from March 12-23: GODDESS FISH PROMOTIONS

Anthem for Doomed Youth

by Carola Dunn, author of the Daisy Dalrymple Mysteries, the Cornish Mysteries, and over 30 Regencies. 

Anthem for Doomed Youth, the 20th Daisy Dalrymple Mystery, came out in 2011, but it's just been issued in paperback. This is the poem quoted at the beginning of the book, which lent me the title and inspired the story.

Anthem for Doomed Youth

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries for them from prayers or bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs--
The shrill demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers, the tenderness of silent minds,
And each slow dusk, a drawing-down of blinds.
                         

                Wilfred Owen

(killed in action just a week before the Armistice)

The UK edition

 On the whole my Daisy mysteries, set in the 1920s, are light-hearted little murder stories, but obviously this one has a serious theme. However Daisy's cheerful nature peeks through. In fact, the book divides into two interwoven threads, following Daisy and Alec through separate investigations which may--or may not--be connected. I'll give you a taste of each.

Here are Daisy and her friend Sakari:

DI Gant was not lying in wait, but as they reached the pudding course, a message was brought to them: He had arrived and wanted to see Daisy.

Daisy was speechless. She had thought herself safe for the day, though she should have considered the irregular hours worked by detectives. Somehow she hadn't expected Gant to stay on the job late. After all, he had abandoned the triple burial site before Alec even arrived there.

Sakari spoke for her. "Tell the inspector that Mrs Fletcher will receive him when she has finished her dinner."

"I've lost my appetite," said Daisy, pushing away her enormous slice of sponge cake layered with fresh strawberries and whipped cream.

"Nonsense, Daisy. It will do him good to wait. If you let him spoil your meal, you give him a victory."

"We can't have that." Daisy took another look at the cake and decided it was still irresistible—worth lingering over, in fact. She savoured every bite.

After a twenty-minute wait, Detective Inspector Gant was even more irritable than earlier in the day. When Daisy and Sakari joined him and his silent acolyte in the writing room, he said rudely, "I don't need Mrs Prasad."

"But I do," said Daisy. "I'd be extremely uncomfortable shut up alone in here with two men who are virtual strangers."

"But we're police officers, madam!"

"So is my husband. Perhaps I should send for him to come and—"

"That won't be necessary," Gant conceded with a martyred air. "Mrs Prasad may stay."

As Sakari had already sat down and looked singularly immoveable, he had little choice, short of arresting her for obstruction. It was a near thing, though, when a waiter brought in the ladies' coffee, and Sakari decided she wanted a liqueur with it. Daisy was sure she was just being awkward, and she guessed Gant realised it too. His face turned an interesting shade of mauve.

"Daisy, will you have something? A Drambuie? I know it's your favourite."

"Lovely, thank you." Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. She could do with a bracer.

So Gant had to wait for the waiter to go off and return before he could start the interview. He paced round and round the writing table till Sakari said, "Do take a seat, Inspector. You are making me quite dizzy. If you insist on disturbing us at this hour, you must take us as you find us."

"It's only nine o'clock! And may I point out, I'd no intention of disturbing you." He sat down. "You're at liberty to leave!"

"Do you imagine I could rest easy," Sakari said soulfully, "while you interrogate my dearest friend?"

Daisy frowned at her irrepressible friend. Sakari sighed and fell silent. The waiter came in with the liqueurs and poured out their coffee.

"Anything else, madam?"

Sakari opened her mouth. Daisy and Gant waited on tenterhooks, but all she said was, "No, thank you. That will be all. For now."

Gant pursed his lips but managed to contain himself in the face of the final provocation. "Mrs Fletcher, all I want is for you to go over again exactly what you saw and did when you found the body."

"If you're hoping I'll remember some clue I didn't mention before, I'm afraid you'll be disappointed. But here goes."

US edition

And here is her husband DCI Alec Fletcher of Scotland Yard:


The butler announced him. A tall, lean man who had been standing staring out of a window, came forward to greet him, walking with the aid of a stick. He moved stiffly, but his shoulders were unbowed by age, his steel-grey hair still thick. Observing his lined face and liver-spotted hands, knowing the age of his son, Alec reckoned he must be in his seventies.

"Chief Inspector, Cheriton did not inform me of the purport of your visit, but I can only assume you bring bad news."

"I'm afraid so, sir. Won't you sit down?"

Sir Daniel raised his chin with an impertinence-depressing stare, then thought better of it. With a sigh and a faint, ironic smile, he said, "We none of us want to admit the influence of anno Domini, do we? Perhaps I will."

He moved to the table and took the seat at the end, motioning to Alec to join him. Alec was pulling out a chair when the door was flung open and a plump, fair girl-child burst in.

"Grandfather, they said there's a policeman—" She stopped dead on seeing Alec. "Oh!"

"You were not invited, Delia." The baronet's voice was icy. "I will not have you rushing about in this hoydenish manner."

"It's my daddy who's missing!" she cried. "You don't care."

"Of course I care."

"Then why didn't you—"

"Don't argue. Go back to your mother at once. You will be told what you need to know in due course."

He was unduly harsh, Alec thought, but it was none of his business and, in any case, nothing would make him relate the grim story in her presence. In fact, he was glad the girl's mother and grandmother were also apparently to be excluded.

Delia glared at her grandfather, then her face crumpled and she ran from the room, sobbing noisily.

"My apologies, Chief Inspector. I don't know what they teach at that school she goes to, but it's clearly not self-restraint."

The simple fact of his speaking thus to a stranger, and a mere policeman at that, showed him not half so cool and calm as he would have liked to appear. His face had taken on a greyish tinge Alec didn't like. He looked every minute of his age.

However, he continued abruptly, "Please go ahead. I assume your presence indicates that my son is dead."

Alec sat down. "Pending positive identification by a member of the family, sir, so we believe. All the evidence points that way. Have you a photograph?"

Sir Daniel was prepared. He handed over a studio portrait in a silver frame of an Army officer, a major—in his late thirties, at a guess—in dress uniform. "It's not very recent. We don't go in for family photography. Well?"

Army officers in uniform tend to look very alike, yet there was no doubt in Alec's mind. "I'm sorry, this strongly resembles the deceased. We're still required to have someone make a personal identification, I'm afraid."

He inclined his head in acceptance. "Regulations must be observed. I take it Scotland Yard would not be interested had Vincent died a natural death."

"Correct."

"May I know...what happened?"

After a brief internal debate, Alec said, "The information could materially affect our investigation, sir, but if you will give me your word—"

"You need not fear that I shall talk to the press," the baronet said with a touch of anger.

"I'm sure of that, sir, but I must have your assurance that you won't tell any of the family, even. No one at all."

"You have my word."

"Mr Halliday was shot through the heart. Death must have been instantaneous."

There was silence while Sir Daniel absorbed this. Then he said, "May I at least tell the family that he didn't suffer?"

"If you wish." Alec didn't add that Spilsbury said Halliday had been bound hand and foot for several hours before death. He had undoubtedly suffered physical discomfort and considerable mental distress.

Fair Border Bride

Fair Border Bride

By Jen Black

Blurb: In 1543 Harry Wharton finds himself caught up in the middle of a reivers' cattle raid and left for dead. Alina hides him, but her father threatens to kill him and events force her into a life-changing decision. An exciting historical romance set on the Anglo-Scottish frontier in Tudor days.

Excerpt:

“Are you come to kill me, or help me?”

At the sound of the croaky, laboured voice, she dropped his cap and jerked backwards. Her heart loosed a single mighty thump against her chest wall. Poised to rise and flee, she hesitated when the man made no effort to move. She frowned. He hadn’t sounded like Harry at all. His eyes were open, but only as mere slits. Careful to stay out of reach of his arm, she bent low to peer into his face.

She prodded his shoulder. “Harry?”

His eyes had closed again.

“Sir? Sir?”

His lids lifted, but only half-way. “Yes?”

Alina shuffled to one side, so he did not have to adjust his line of vision to see her. “What are you doing here?”

His lids closed once more. “My head…hurts.”

“You have a swelling. There.”

“Ahhhhhh!”

She whipped her finger back from his brow. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to cause pain.”

One of his eyes opened to the merest slit and regarded her with displeasure. “My horse has a gentler touch than you, madam.”

“Well!” Affronted, Alina could think of nothing to say.

“No,” he said. “Since you ask, I am not well.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Then you should have done.” He closed his eyes again.

Alina stared at him. His name was Harry Scott, and because of that, hurt or not, her father would kill him. But Harry had saved her from the bull, so she owed him something. She couldn’t walk away and leave him.

Yesterday the intensity of his gaze made her heart flutter.

Today he behaved as if she were a stranger.

Birdsong flooded from the branches above. Dragon dozed in the sunshine. The stranger’s horse moved a pace or two out into the meadow and continued to graze. Could she keep him hidden? Father might return at any moment. She turned back to the prone figure.

“Can you walk?”

His dark brows drew in towards his nose while he considered the matter. “I doubt it.”

“I can’t shift you on my own.”

“No need. Just let me be. Sleep…would be…good.” His voice slurred on the words and his eyes closed.

Alina leaned over and shook his arm. “You can’t sleep here. Someone will find you, and then it will be all over. There was a raid last night, and Father will think you were a part of it.” He took no notice, so she shook him again and raised her voice. “Do you want to die today?”

He groaned, and his hand lifted, fingers splayed, to stop her rough shaking. “Enough, I am awake.”

She sat back on her heels and surveyed him. “I hope you are not too heavy, Harry.”

His fingers clenched on the fabric of her skirt. “You know me?” His voice was sharper, demanding. “You know my name? Wait. Help me sit up.”

“Please.”

It was the kind of flippant reply she gave Lionel when he tried his new found authority on her. Lionel didn’t like it when she stood up to him, but she was the elder and had no intention of being brow beaten by her brother. Harry, however, was unmoved. He stared at the damp hem of her brown skirt as if fascinated by it.

“You are correct,” he said. “I am sorry. Would you please help me sit up? I shall do my best to assist.” Resigned amusement flavoured his apology.

Lionel never reacted like this. Alina made no move to help the man at her feet, but studied the lines of his face and remembered the oddness of his remark. “What do you mean when you ask if I know your name?”

“For God’s sake, woman! Help me!”

“How do I know you won’t attack me?”

He groaned. “By the Rood! How will I manage to attack you when I can’t sit up? You could fell me with a hazel twig at the moment.” Frustrated resignation rang through his voice.

“Can you turn over? It will be easier if you are on your back.”

“I can but try.” His mouth lifted in a crooked smile.

She observed his careful sequence of movements with a critical eye. Each limb seemed sound, and when he rolled over and stared at the spreading canopy of green leaves above him, she could not help but gasp, for his eyes glowed like sapphires in the soft light beneath the tree. Her heart gave an odd little jerk.

“Where are you?”

“Here.” She moved closer, confident he would not hurt her. “Can’t you see me?”

“I can now you’ve moved.” His eyes flickered and squinted as he struggled to focus on her. “What lovely eyes you have. I hope they are kind eyes. If I move my head it makes me dizzy, so just now I prefer not to, if you don’t mind.”

“Then how am I to move you?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Visit Jen’s blog: http://jenblackauthor.blogpsot.com

Find Fair Border Bride on Amazon Kindle: here 

Enjoy the book trailer! here

Warm Up Your Winter - 'The Snow Bride'

She is Beauty, but is he the Beast?

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

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

Now out at Bookstrand Publishing 2011

Buy the ebook:

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Read Chapter One

...and here is another excerpt to tempt you:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



* * * *



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lindsay Townsend