Monday for Tea

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Music and supper with the ton

An excerpt post, but not for tea. The excerpt is from Hold Me Fast.

“Let’s go back to the hotel, and I shall buy you a drink before dinner,” Bran said.

Jowan would prefer the drink without the dinner. He was doing his best to remain positive, but the word “No” kept echoing in his mind and, somehow, in his gut, too.

Still, Bran wasn’t about to let him stew in his own misery. Besides, Jowan could not turn up drunk to the musicale. He owed it to his people to make a good impression on these Londoners, especially those who were going to decide whether or not the new mine went ahead.

They had brought evening wear with them—Jowan had Bran to thank for that, too. He had insisted they should be prepared for all eventualities. They had both been outfitted by a Plymouth tailor and were—or so the man had assured them—elegant enough for London society.

Certainly, Bran looked good in his, and Jowan could have been his twin but for one inch more in height and hair that was a lighter shade of brown. They had both chosen black for breeches and coat. Jowan had a green waistcoat embroidered in copper and Bran’s was blue with silver embroidery. The clocking on their stockings matched the embroidery, as did the buckles on their black shoes. A pin on their white cravats added another spot of colour—green for Jowan and blue for Bran.

From what he’d seen on his way around London, Jowan wondered if many of the gentlemen would fill their garments to as much advantage. He and Bran both lived active lives, turning their hands to anything needed on the estate’s farms, in the mines or in the fishing fleet.

Perhaps London ladies preferred the weedy creatures he’d passed on Oxford Street. What did Tamsyn prefer now? And there he was again, thinking of her.

“Shall we take a hackney, Bran?”

“Will we get dirtier catching one of those flea and stink traps, or walking?” Bran wondered.

They walked.

The Winshire mansion was in one of the older squares of Mayfair. The largest building of any in the vicinity, it was lit from basement to attics, and so many carriages were attempting to access the front steps that the traffic was queued as far as the eye could see down streets in every direction.

They bypassed the carriages and joined a second instance of traffic congestion on the footpath, as guests waited to ascend the steps of the house. This queue was short and swiftly moving. They soon reached the front door, where they showed their invitations to a footman. The entry hall was large enough to swallow the drawing room at Inneford House. The stairs rose up through the house, lit by a great chandelier, but Jowan could just make out a ceiling lantern high above. The house was twice as high as Inneford House, too.

They ascended the stairs step by step in the queue to the reception line on what in any less elegant house would have been the landing. If one could call a space as large as four tenant cottages a landing.

At last, it was their turn to be greeted by their hostess. The butler took their invitations and announced them to the Duke and Duchess of Winshire. The ducal couple were perhaps in their sixties but still vigorous. Jowan could see traces of Drew in the duke—or the other way around, he supposed. The duchess greeted them both with a smile. “You are Drew’s guests,” she said. “Go on into the drawing room, Sir Jowan, Mr. Hughes. Drew is waiting for you there.”

The drawing room carried on the theme of the house. Jowan had seen assembly halls that were smaller, though to think of assembly halls in the same context as this richly appointed and elegant room seemed like a form of blasphemy.

“I’m feeling like a country mouse,” whispered Bran.

“You are,” Jowan pointed out, keeping his own voice low, “and so am I.”

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Tea with a pair of distinguished authors

The Duchess of Haverford, renowned for her progressive views and enlightened mindset, epitomizes a refreshing departure from society expectations. Unlike many of her peers who cling to rigid social positions, she possesses the ability to discern a person’s true worth beyond their title or wealth. Growing up, she was undoubtedly a spirited child, characterized by her openness to embrace people from all walks of life.

Recently, the Duchess found herself drawn to the vibrant atmosphere of a London circulating library. It was there that she had the pleasure of attending an event featuring two distinguished literary figures: Lady Alicia Hartley, celebrated for her captivating prose in “The Lost Dowry,” and J. C. Melrose, whose poignant narrative, “In My Brother’s Shadow,” left a lasting impression on the audience.

The reading, a blend of eloquence and emotion, stirred the Duchess’s admiration for both authors. Impelled by her genuine appreciation for their literary talents, she extended a gracious invitation to join her today for tea, a gesture reflective of her innate inclination to forge connections beyond the confines of societal conventions.

Lady Alicia, with her pen dipped in the ink of romance, wove a tale of love and passion, but with a distinctive twist: her heroines were not damsels in distress awaiting rescue, but formidable figures in their own right, possessing agency and independence rarely seen in the literary landscape of the time.

C. Melrose’s narratives ventured into the realms of war and adventure, where heroes were forged amidst the crucible of conflict and adversity with protagonists, imbued with courage and fortitude, navigated treacherous terrains and faced formidable foes, embodying the timeless virtues of honor and resilience.

“More tea?” Eleanor asked with the pot in her hand.

“You can warm mine.” Alicia smiled brightly and lifted her cup.

“Justin,” Eleanor said as she warmed Alicia’s cup, “you’ve teased me long enough. I still find it difficult to believe that Alicia didn’t know you were a male. I mean, when your work was compared to hers, she assumed you were a woman using initials to hide her identity.”

“He did use initials to veil his identity.” Alicia put down her teacup and placed her hand on the arm of Justin’s chair. “It resulted in a significant misunderstanding that nearly extinguished the spark of attraction between us before it had a chance to ignite.”

Eleanor could see why Alicia is hailed as an exceptional romantic author. The eloquence and emotion in her prose attested to her mastery of the craft.

“I fell in love with her when she bowled me over fleeing my uncle’s office.” Justin’s glaze shifted between his wife and Eleanor. “A scathing review had been published and singled out my book in comparison.”

“Justin was my anchor when I needed one.” Alicia pulled her gaze away from her husband and focused on Eleanor.

“Though I must admit, the brink of disaster was partly of my own making.”

Eleanor, intrigued, placed her teacup on its saucer. “Of your making?”

“Indeed.” Justin’s smile carried a hint of mischief. “You, my dear Alicia, made it quite a challenge. Your incessant harping about J.C. Melrose hardly helped matters.”

Eleanor’s brows creased, puzzled. “What does J.C. Melrose have to do with any of this?”

Justin hesitated for a moment, exchanging a knowing glance with Alicia. “J.C. stands for Justin Caulfield. Melrose was my mother’s maiden name. My editor chose the pen name to avoid any undue influence from my uncle, Isaac Caulfield—”

“The Isaac Caulfield of Caulfield Publishing?” Eleanor’s mouth was agape, her surprise palpable.

“Yes, indeed. Isaac is my uncle,” Justin confirmed. “He actually published my debut story without my knowledge. For me, all that mattered was writing the stories about the men I served with and the situations we were in. It was an opportunity to…” Justin paused.

“Justin’s honored those with whom he served. He had a driving need to tell their story in his way.” Alicia’s eyes shimmered with pride as she looked at her husband.

Eleanor, touched by the revelation, couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for Justin’s predicament. “Would you care for something stronger than tea?”

“You are most kind, but no thank you. The success of my first book left me with little choice but to continue using my pen name.”

“Are you either of you writing any new stories? I read a story that reminded me of Lady Alicia’s writing, but it was penned by Ruth A. Casie.” Regretfully, military war stories were not her cup of tea.

“You must be speaking of The Lady and the Flame. When Justin came to do a reading where I live, Sommer-by-the-Sea, I told him the story of Margret’s Miracle. We were touring Sommer Castle at the time. There were two other people who listened to folk tale. Miss Casie contacted me about the story. In the end, I suggested she write the story. She did quite a good job of if.

“Other than that, we haven’t written in some time.” Eleanor focused on Justin. “Uncle Isacc retired and passed the company to us.”

Justin glanced at the mantel clock. “It’s getting late. it’s time for us to bid you farewell.”

Eleanor stood. “I’m glad you found each other. Your story is a breathtaking adventure. I am honored and want to thank you for sharing so much with me.”

“Eleanor.” Alicia left her husband’s side and embraced Eleanor. “Thank you for your invitation. We have a long journey ahead of us to Sommer-by-the-Sea.”

Eleanor walked her guests to the door. “I wish you both safe travels. The lesson I learned from your story is a very profound one, the transformative power of understanding, respect, and collaboration.” She hugged Alicia. “Please, you must visit me again.”

The Lady and Her Quill

Lady Alicia Hartley’s head kept telling her to stop loving him, but her heart couldn’t let him go.

“It’s very easy to get involved with [the] character’s feelings in this historical romance.  Both are right and wrong, and when they realize that’s when the excitement and adventure really starts.” [Petula, Goodreads, 5 Stars]

Renowned author Lady Alicia Hartley has lost her muse after a bad review. She blames it all on the author JC Melrose. A chance encounter with a handsome, witty Justin Caulfield has her heart racing, and her muse seemingly back. Is he her savior or her worst nightmare?

The recently retired Captain Justin Caulfield is facing his own demons. As gifted author JC Melrose, his stories honor men who died at the hand of one man. His only focus is to avenge their deaths, that is, until he meets and falls in love with Lady Alicia.

The two authors take on a writing challenge based on a story of stolen gold taken from the newspaper headlines all to determine the better writer. While researching the story, Lady Alicia is captured by the thieves’ ringleader. Can Lady Alicia turn this mystery into an award-winning story? Can Justin save his real-life heroine? Can they both overcome their own challenges for a happily ever after?

Buy Link: Kindle Unlimited

An Excerpt from The Lady and Her Quill

A visit to Lady Alicia’s London publisher brings her unpleasant news.

“Lady Alicia.” He pulled out his pocket watch. “You’re early. What a pleasant surprise. Please, be seated.”

“I apologize for my early arrival, but I am eager to speak with you.”

“Are you here alone?” He came to her side and glanced out the door.

“Yes.” She winced at the trace of defiance in her voice. Another social blunder. Beatrice warned her London propriety was different from that at home in Sommer-by-the-Sea. It amazed her that a different world existed three hundred miles south of the village.

A chaperone.

The idea made her teeth itch. Today, Beatrice was otherwise engaged and in truth, Alicia’s patience ran thin waiting for her.

She stepped inside. The office was cramped not because it was small, but because it was in disarray. Everywhere she looked, there were books and papers. Dark walnut bookcases stuffed with unorderly books lined the left side of the room. Light filtered through bedraggled curtains on the large windows to her right. Several stacks of papers filled Mr. Caulfield’s desk, which was positioned in front of the window. Similar bookshelves were on either side of the fireplace on the far wall – but were hidden behind a pile of papers on a second desk across from Caulfield’s. The clutter of papers and books rendered that desk unusable. A modest fire burned in the grate to take off the chill.

She was surprised the entire place didn’t go up in flames.

She stepped with care around crates that littered the floor, removed the London Gazette laying on the chair, and settled into the seat.

“My sister was unavailable to join us. She and her husband are preparing the family for a trip north to join our parents for the village’s Harvest Festival. I wanted to speak to you before we left.”

Had he heard her? She followed his stare. He was focused on the Gazette in her hand. She glanced at his desk, the chair next to her, but there was no place to put it.

“I’m leaving with the family for Sommer-by-the-Sea. I look forward to reading at Mrs. Miller’s Circulating Library. I wanted to thank you for seeing that my books were delivered.”

“You’re most welcome. I’m sure reading small segments of your story will encourage people to either borrow or buy your book. I am glad you’re here. I wanted to speak to you today on another subject. I too, will be leaving London.” He reached for the Gazette. “Here. Let me have the newspaper, if you please.”

Alicia took a quick look at the headline: Missing Walmer Castle Chest Found – Empty?

She glanced at Caulfield’s extended hand. She was about to give the newspaper to him when she spotted a corner of the paper was turned down, exposing the book review page. She opened the paper and stopped.

One review was circled: The Lost Dowry.

She read the article out loud.

“This is the fifth little story by Lady Alicia Hartley. While her other stories held promise, this book does not reach the standards the author established in her previous publications. Perhaps the author’s muse has gone astray. The characters and conflicts in The Lost Dowry had potential but only the heroine, who is quite good, shines. It is unfortunate that the others appear to have lost their way. They are forced, mechanical, and obstruct the story. In a word, they are disappointing. In this story…”

Skipping the summary of the plot, she went to the final paragraph.

“She should read J. C. Melrose’s In My Brother’s Shadow or any of the other eight stories in that series. There is an author who evokes a man’s emotion, albeit the author could use some assistance with the female point of view. Can you imagine if these authors combined their skills? They would lay out a plot with characters that would keep you reading until the last page or the last flicker of your candle.”

The newspaper trembled in her hand. She went back to the beginning of the article to find the name of the reviewer. Anonymous.

The coward.

Her eyes focused on the review. The small quakes and quivers of the paper she held attested to the state of her nerves.

“How did an appraisal of my story turn into a review for…” Her words clipped, her tone chilly, she spoke with as reasonable a voice as she could manage and scanned the article. “J. C. Melrose?”

She lowered the paper. Mr. Caulfield’s lips moved as the empty feeling in her stomach built into a furious storm. She wasn’t aware of anything he said, until his words filtered through at last.

“Lady Hartley, are you listening? Reviews like this are…not unusual. Keep in mind, you can’t please every reader. I’m glad to publish your little stories.”

“Little stories.” Her heart galloped like a horse in the steeple chase. Her hand touched her pendant. Remain calm.

But soothing herself was getting more difficult by the moment. Even rubbing her stone didn’t help now.

People were buying her novels, all of them. Alicia thrust the offensive paper at him.

“Perhaps we should give the readers some time. We plan to publish your next story in the summer. I want to speak to you about my plans for the company. I’ve bought a new press—”

“The plan was for my new story to be published in February. Now you want a delay? Or do you mean to cancel our agreement?”

His face closed, as if guarding a secret. Her heart sank. He accepted this review. He may be tolerating her tirade, but he agreed with Anonymous.

Unable to remain calm a moment longer, she shot him a penetrating glare as she rose, her parcel in hand.

“Not at all.” He sprang to his feet, his chair scraping the floor behind him. “Being an author is not easy, Lady Alicia. I warned you before we began you would be at the mercy of the reading public, a capricious lot. I knew you were persistent and had promise.” He studied her over the rim of his glasses. “I believe you still do, but with the new press I have plans to—”

But.

How often had she heard that insignificant word in front of every variation of the word no, a weapon men used to deny a woman her due?

“This is one review.” Alicia paced the small space in front of his desk. “Caulfield Publishing has published five of my,” she turned and faced him, “‘little stories’ to your financial advantage.”

He gave her a sheepish glance.

“Before I let you read this…” She paused and held up her parcel. “I’ll give your suggestion to delay publishing more thought, then send you my decision.”

As disappointment and despair dimmed her enthusiasm, she questioned what happened to yesterday’s excitement and celebration. The Lost Dowry was in the circulating library. Congratulatory notes from friends were piled on the salver on the foyer table.

And there was the letter.

She couldn’t believe her good fortune when she read William Lane’s message, although Elkington believed it. She had never seen her brother-in-law so excited. He took out the sherry and they all toasted the occasion. But now…her dream was dissolving in front of her eyes.

How could one awful review ruin everything? Mr. Lane would not want to read her manuscript now, and Mr. Caulfield questioned publishing her next story. Remaining calm was out of the question.

Her secret was out. She had done a good job and convinced herself and everyone else Lady Alicia Hartley was an author.

Everyone but one reviewer. Her breath came in small bursts. She stared at the Gazette on his desk and wanted to tear it to pieces.

“Lady Alicia, please sit down. We’ll discuss this and come to a decision that is satisfactory to us both.”

She glanced at the man, remained motionless, and held her words behind her teeth, not trusting herself to speak. Afraid she’d say something she would regret, Alicia turned and marched to the door with as much dignity as possible.

“My ‘little stories,’ as you like to refer to them, are all the rage.”

She grabbed the latch and hoped he didn’t observe her trembling hand or her watery eyes. At the moment, her single thought was to escape.

“Please, come sit and we can discuss our course of action without any—”

“Womanly emotions?” Her voice was heavy with sarcasm.

“No, not at all. I’ve been trying to tell you about some changes.”

“Another time, perhaps. My family is traveling north, and I mustn’t delay.” By all that was holy, she needed to get away from the man.

“I understand. My regards to your sister and brother-in-law.” He called to her as she pulled open the door and collided into a solid obstacle. Startled and thrown off balance, Alicia lost her grip on her parcel and sent the bundle tumbling to the floor.

Strong hands grasped her shoulders to steady her. Alicia’s head snapped up. She stared into concerned gray, silver-streaked eyes. She took a deep breath and was surprised by the scent of lavender and citrus.

“I… I… forgive me, sir.” She lowered her gaze to the gloved hand on her right shoulder and back to his penetrating stare. “Release me, please. I assure you I have recovered.”

The man’s concerned expression vanished, replaced with a humorous glint. He removed his hands and stepped away.

His great coat flowed around him as he bent and retrieved her parcel from the floor. Her shoulders felt the ghost of his strong yet gentle grasp. As he stood, she looked away eager to leave.

“There is nothing to forgive.” He bent his head toward her and handed her the bundle. “I, too, would want to make a fast escape from Mr. Caulfield.”

“Thank you,” she said without any humor, pulling the parcel close.

“My pleasure, I assure you.” The gentleman tipped the brim of his hat.

Alicia turned and rushed down the stairs.

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Tea with her husband and a problem

“Surely there is something we can do, James,” said Eleanor, the Duchess of Winshire to her husband. “It is outrageous that young Laurel must marry within a matter of weeks or lose her inheritance from her father.”

James shook his head. “Her father has been dead for years, Eleanor. If she was going to object, she should have done so before now. The fact that she has said nothing, and taken no action to challenge the will, means that the courts are unlikely to even listen to her at this late stage. And certainly not before the deadline of her twenty-fifth birthday.”

Eleanor sighed, impatiently. “She says she did not know about the provision, and indeed, how should she? Girls are not encouraged to attend the reading of a will, and apparently neither of her older brothers saw fit to enlighten her. Her youngest brother, who inherited when the older two died, was overseas with the army. He assumed that Laurel knew. Her fiance of the time should have known, but I gather he had not bothered to read the marriage settlements. Whether he really intended to marry her or not, I have no idea, but he has certainly lost his opportunity now.”

James frowned. “Is she certain, dearest? Would she not be better to marry the man she knows than to make herself and her dowry the subject of a contest in a gaming hall?”

Eleanor’s sigh was heartfelt. “So I suggested to her,” she said. “But Laurel says that she would rather be penniless and dependent on her brother for the rest of her life than to exchange another word with that snake, by which I take it she meant her former betrothed.”

“You might remember, Eleanor, that Mrs Dove Lyon’s has had great success as a matchmaker. Perhaps she will manage another of her love matches for your young friend Laurel.”

Eleanor managed a still deeper sigh. “If there is nothing we can do about the will, I suppose we must leave it to that woman. But James, if Laurel is not happy with the outcome of the contests, I am determined that we shall offer her a refuge.”

“Of course, dearest,” said her lovely husband.

***

Find out what happens to Laurel in, Hook, Lyon, and Sinker, currently available at the preorder price of 99c, and published on 20th March. It is part of the Lyon’s Den series, and also a reinterpretation of The Little Mermaid, in the spirit of my A Twist Upon a Regency Tale series.

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Tea with Mrs Grant

“Your grace, I am grateful you are taking the time to see me today” The new bride seated across the table, Mrs. Grant, blushed furiously. “Lady Wallenford sends her deepest regrets that she could not join you today.”

Lady Wallenford had requested this opportunity to meet and to introduce one of her protégés, Mrs. Myra Grant. Before her marriage, Mrs. Grant had been a teacher at the charity home sponsored by Lady Wallenford and two other peeresses, and was the perfect person to answer any questions the duchess might have.

“As she explained to me in her note this morning. I think it is commendable of any mother to consider the health of the children more important than socializing. I do hope the twins recover soon from their fever.”

“As do I.”

“Though this is not really a social call, I’m given to understand.”

“Oh.” The young lady—she was indeed both young and a lady—turned a deeper shade of red.

Eleanor patted her hand. “I’m teasing you. I know you are here to seek my sponsorship of the children’s home. I’m told that Lady Wallenford resided and worked there, and that you took her place after her marriage.”

“Yes, your grace.”

“As a widow with a child to care for and no family, that must have been a great blessing.”

“Yes, your grace.”

Eleanor suppressed a chuckle. Instinct told her that Mrs. Grant was a very good sort of girl who’d had to overcome great obstacles. She had a deep admiration for women like that, as well as a deep curiosity to know more.

She was asking the wrong sorts of questions.

“I want to know more about the children’s home, Mrs. Grant, but first, tell me more about yourself. Where did you grow up, what happened to your baby’s father, and how did you land at the children’s home?”

Mrs. Grant cast her gaze upon the teacup held in now trembling hands and then sighed. “I am blessed in my marriage to Mr. Grant. He knows the truth, all of it, as do all of our lady sponsors and I daresay their husbands, as well. Lady Wallenford assures me the truth will not discourage your patronage.”

Eleanor refilled the younger woman’s cup. “To be lucky in love is no small thing, my dear. What came before such luck, well, it is a tale as old as time, is it not? But do tell me the story of this romance with Mr. Grant. I heard that it might not have taken place except that this was a Leap Year.”

Mrs. Grant smiled and then laughed. “Very well, your grace. Once upon a time, in a small village in Sussex…”

A Leap Into Love

Can a gentleman be too charming? The ladies of Upper Upton think so.

And it’s almost Leap Day, when a man who refuses a lady’s proposal of marriage must offer a forfeit.

When the single ladies of the village conspire to teach their charmer a lesson that might bankrupt him, the town’s loveliest young widow steps up to warn him.

His secrets and hers make them a perfect match—and she’s the lady he wants. But she won’t accept his proposal, not even to rescue him.

As Leap Day approaches, the clock is ticking. Can he convince her in time to say yes to his offer and take a leap into love?

 

An Excerpt for A Leap Into Love

They stepped out of the inn yard and onto the road. Arthur settled himself on his shoulder and snuffled his neck.

He should offer the lady his arm, but she’d put some distance between them, walking in the other wheel rut. “And so what is the verdict on the worsted?”

She bit her lip. “The worsted.” She sighed and squinted at Wills who was ranging far ahead. “We shall buy some of it. Depending upon your price, of course. Mrs. McClintock will be along tomorrow to examine it and talk to you. But in truth…” She stopped, bit down on her lip again and raised her eyes to him. “There is a plot, Mr. Grant. I feel honor-bound to tell you. You must…” Her gaze skittered along the bushes hedging the lane as if someone lurked there eavesdropping. “You must leave town on twenty-nine February. There is a plot.”

Twenty-nine February. “A plot.”

“Yes.”

Twenty-nine February was Leap Day.

The fog lifted. He’d heard of the tradition but never seen it practiced: on Leap Day a lass could propose marriage to a lad. Miss Gurnwood wanted Mrs. Smith to propose to her brother. The stringy young vicar needed a wife. And what had that to do with a plot against himself?

“They mean to conspire, all the unmarried ladies in town. They mean to ask you to marry them.”

He swallowed a chuckle. He’d drawn ladies to his handsome self since he’d begun sprouting whiskers. It was good to know he still had the knack. “And why would they do that?”

Her chest rose with a quick breath. “Why? You’re a widower, they say, and in need of a mother for your children.”

“Is that all?”

She pressed her lips together. “A man who is…well-spoken, reasonably young, and well-established is rare in a village like this.”

“And braw and handsome.”

“Yes, and a…a…well, I must say it: a man friendly with all the ladies. They mean to take you to task. They mean to ask you to marry them, and when you say no, they mean to ask as a forfeit the silk and muslin cloth you purchased at auction today.”

Artie squirmed and looked to his mother, sensing her disquiet.

He patted the plump bottom, and the babe settled. “If I say no. And of course I’ll have to since I’m not some eastern potentate setting up a harem. It’s a diabolical plan. Not too far ahead, Wills,” he called.

“So you see, you must leave.”

“I’m not one to run from trouble, Mrs. Smith.”

Not any kind of trouble. As an officer of the 42nd Foot, he’d fought every skirmish he came across with nary a scratch. It had been an act of charity, taking food to a sick family in Lisbon, that had felled him with a dire case of the mumps and sent him home on half pay.

In the distance Will swung his lantern, well out of earshot.

And Wills was more proof that Alexander Grant didn’t run, not even if the problem was not his own.

He’d set his mind to what was right, so he might as well go ahead with it, and directly too. She’d not go away thinking he was anything but dead serious.

He touched her arm.

“Mrs. Smith, there is another way to thwart them.”

Meet Alina K. Field

USA Today Bestselling and Award-winning author Alina K. Field earned a Bachelor of Arts Degree in English and German literature, but prefers the much happier world of romance fiction. Though her roots are in the Midwestern U.S., after six very, very, very cold years in Chicago, she moved to Southern California where she shares a midcentury home with her husband and her spunky, blonde, rescued terrier.

She is the author of several Regency romances, including the 2014 Book Buyer’s Best winner, Rosalyn’s Ring. She is hard at work on her next series of Regency romances, but loves to hear from readers!

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Tea with a Pirate

Friends, welcome Ruth A. Casie to the blog today, with her account of an interesting visit to Her Grace, the Duchess of Haverford

Eleanor, the Duchess of Haverford is a progressive woman for her time. She judges a person by their character and not their title or purse. Some think she must have been a handful growing up, always open to meeting all sorts of people. There was one time when she visited Sommer-by-the-Sea, a village near Newcastle Upon Tyne, and had tea at the Rostov Tearoom. She was certain she saw the Grand Duke Nikolai Baranov, a Russian spy. Her astute self quickly identified His Imperial Highness’s interest, Lady Patrice Edgemont. Ah, but that is another story for another time.

Today, Eleanor is having tea with a pirate and his wench. Oh, dear reader, did you spill your tea? I should have been more clever in introducing them. Eleanor is expecting Lord and Lady Reynolds today. They have become dear friends who do not stand on ceremony. They are close enough to address each other by their given names. I know, it is outrageous. And close enough to divulge their deepest secrets.

Lady Reynolds, the former Darla Maxwell, was her father’s greatest prize. Graeme Maxwell and his close friend and business partner, Ewan MacDougall, collaborated in searching for a suitable husband for her. Darla has a … magical background, which, as a young woman, she sought to deny. She found it off-putting to those who knew. Therefore, she had it in her mind to never marry. Eleanor is hoping to find out more about how Darla’s magic influenced her life and what changed her mind about marriage.

Lord Wesley Reynolds, the son of the well-known silk merchant, has a most interesting background. Eleanor is looking forward to hearing more about it.

“More tea?” Eleanor asked with the pot in her hand.

“You can warm mine.” Darla smiled brightly and lifted her cup.

“Wesley,” Eleanor said as she warmed Darla’s cup, “you’ve teased me long enough. I still find it difficult to believe that you were ever a pirate and now one of the King’s most trusted men.”

“Wesley’s personal history has several twists and turns.” Darla put down her teacup and placed her hand on the arm of Wesley’s chair. “It has made him the man he is today.” 

Eleanor knew that Darla was Wesley’s devoted advocate. She smiled, understanding theirs was a sincere love match.

Wesley patted his wife’s hand. It was a tender touch, one that didn’t escape Eleanor’s notice.

Wesley turned toward Eleanor. “As a young man, I followed in my father’s footsteps. He was both an excellent silk merchant and businessman. He taught me the silk business, from cultivating the silkworms to making the final cloth to selling and shipping the bolts. I learned by traveling with him and observing him at his work. He was a well-respected merchant and excellent negotiator. When he passed away, I was ready to take over, although I would never be able to take his place.

He picked up his teacup and finished the brew.

“You are aware that there are rumors that you sailed out of the Cinque Ports in southern Europe in the service of the King.” Eleanor was determined to find out more about his pirate days and what he had done to be awarded a title and Glen Kirk Castle. The estate sat on the border with Scotland.

Wesley moved back in his seat as if he wanted to avoid the subject.

“Wesley,” Eleanor’s quiet voice broke the building tension. He looked at her. “If this is difficult—”

Wesley glanced at Darla, who gave him an encouraging nod. He let out a breath and continued.

“I provided the king with the silks he wanted, as I did with many monarchs across Europe. Because of my connections, I was a good sounding board for him. I had my own ships, and one thing led to another.”

“That led you to become a pirate?” Eleanor was not going to let the subject go.

“I had no love for the Spanish. They thought I was a charity, taking my goods off my ship without paying for them. So, I simply took from their ships as payment of their debt. All in all, a fair transaction.”

Eleanor chuckled, a bit unladylike, but she was with friends. “I dare say they deserved it. It sounds like a good life.”

“Over the years, my brother told me what happened while I was in boarding school, how we had to leave our home, and why. I believed Darla’s father and MacDougall, my father’s closest friends, plotted against him and my family. I thought they ruined his business and took his property, all circumstances that led to his death.”

“Oh, dear. That is a deep betrayal. Darla’s father, you say? I surmise you don’t believe that tale now. What made you believe it in the first place? And why the change of heart?” Eleanor’s interest was piqued.

Wesley’s eyes darkened, and his jaw tensed as he struggled to contain his emotions. “I put my trust in someone close and was deceived,” he finally admitted, his voice strained with regret.

Eleanor, seeing Wesley’s turmoil, poured a glass of port and handed it to him.

Wesley accepted the drink with a nod of thanks. His gaze dropped to the ruby liquid as he took a sip.

“Did this have anything to do with the pirate king, McAlpin?”

Wesley chuckled and drank the last of his port.

“I understand why you ask.” He returned Eleanor’s gaze, his eyes reflecting his resolve. “The MacAlpin has the reputation of being a ruthless, savage pirate. But, in all my dealings with him, he proved to be fair and trustworthy. He was instrumental in seeing justice served.”

He paused, a heavy sigh escaping his lips, and then he continued. “It was difficult, after years of believing something so strongly that had woven its way into your soul, to become fundamental, your very essence, and then to uncover the truth and recognize you’d been lied to for a very long time.”

He glanced at his wife, his expression showing that the hurt of the deception still remained.

“From the first moment we met on the docks by my father’s ship,” Darla offered, “and I mistook him for MacDougall’s son-in-law, Magnus, I was drawn to Wesley. I was exceedingly relieved to learn he was unencumbered. Very pleased indeed.”

“Darla’s father is a gem merchant. Maxwell and MacDougall were nothing like I expected. After my father’s death, I was told again of their thievery. I had it stamped into my brain, and I didn’t question it. You see, from an early age, I was fostered by the Highland Maxwells. When I came back and worked with my father, he had already moved the family from our home on MacDougall’s island, forced out, I was told. I accepted it as truth, and when my father died, I vowed to take revenge for all the injustices Maxwell and MacDougall did to my father and my family.”

“Wesley thought to use me as a pawn in his effort to hurt my father.” Darla sat still, holding Wesley’s hand.

Wesley gazed at Darla, their hands naturally entwined, a silent bond between them. “That wasn’t one of my shining moments,” he admitted. “The more time we spent together and the more I knew you, your father, and MacDougall, the more I knew I had it all wrong, but evil kept buzzing in my ear, pushing me to carry out my plans.”

Darla met his gaze with understanding. “You found the truth,” she said calmly, her voice steady. “It’s all over now.”

Wesley’s gaze softened, filled with gratitude and admiration as he gazed at his wife. “I’m a very lucky man.” His tone carried a warmth and passion that couldn’t be mistaken.

“More tea? Cook made some delicious scones,” Eleanor offered with a warm smile. “Darla, I understand you have unique insight—”

Wesley’s expression tightened as he got to his feet. “Come, Darla.” His tone was clipped. “We’ve imposed on Eleanor long enough.” He extended his hand to his wife, a silent signal he wanted to leave.

Eleanor, surprised at Wesley’s change in behavior, put down the plate of scones she was offering and, for a moment, was startled into silence. “Forgive me, my lord, if I have offended you or your wife.”

“No, Eleanor. You have done nothing of the sort. Wesley is very overprotective.” Darla, still in her seat, gently took his hand and pulled him toward her. He remained as he was. “I do have a unique ability. I have second sight. I see things before they happen. Some people—”

“Unintelligent, witless ones—” Wesley spit out between clenched teeth.

“Eleanor understands your meaning.” Darla acknowledged before turning toward their host. “Some people believe it’s witchcraft. They say and do foolish things. It is why I kept to myself while growing up. Why I never allowed myself to become attached to a gentleman. How could I get someone I loved tangled in that rat’s nest? Some may see my gift as a blessing, but I assure you it is not. Imagine knowing something terrible is going to happen, and you’re not able to influence it at all.”

Darla put her hands in her lap. “I thought I would never marry. I was satisfied with being alone for the rest of my life. I was wrong. I had no idea that I was waiting for the right person, my soul mate. I never saw that coming until I met Wesley. So much for my second sight. When I found him, I knew I would never let him go. He is my love,” Darla declared as she rose from her seat and stood next to Wesley, “my life.”

“As you are mine,” Wesley said, his wife in his arms. He turned to Eleanor. “Deception and family honor were at stake.”

Darla glanced at Eleanor. “So was my heart.”

Eleanor stood. “I’m glad you found each other. Your story is a breathtaking adventure. I am honored and want to thank you for sharing so much with me.”

“Eleanor.” Darla left her husband’s side and embraced her dear friend. “Thank you for your invitation. We have a long journey ahead of us to Glen Kirk Castle.”

Eleanor walked her guests to the door. “I wish you both safe travels. The lesson I learned from your story is a very profound one. It is a cautionary tale about the destructive nature of revenge and the healing power of forgiveness and love.” She hugged Darla. “Please, you must visit me again.”  

The Pirate’s Jewel

Deception and family honor are at stake – so is her heart.

Wesley Reynolds will do anything to avenge his family’s banishment from Dundhragon Castle, even throw in the notorious pirate MacAlpin. His plan is to ruin Lord Ewan’s trading network. He has a more devious plan for his father’s ‘best friend,’ the man who abandoned them at the eleventh hour. He’ll ruin the man’s most precious jewel, his daughter Darla. Wesley’s so close to ruining the trade network and succeeding he can almost taste it, but revenge is not nearly as sweet as Darla’s kisses.

Darla Maxwell, beloved by her parents, has no prospects of marriage. Her father and Lord Ewan search to find her the right husband. Darla’s special gifts are frightening to many. She has visions that often come true. The murky image of a man haunts her. She’s sure it’s Lord Ewan’s soon-to-be son-in-law, but the vision morphs when she meets Wesley. The meaning couldn’t be any clearer to her; her destiny lay with Wesley.

When revelations surface, indicating Wesley has been deceived and his revenge misplaced. Will he find the truth of what really happened to his family in time to stop the pirates? Will Darla ever forgive him? Will he ever forgive himself?

Buy Link: Kindle Unlimited

An Excerpt

The ship glided out of the protection of the dock and sailed into the churning channel. Huddled under the sail, hugging her knees, Darla thought she might as well be blind. To add to her discomfort, the aroma of beer from the surrounding barrels was overpowering in the small space.

The rise and fall of the ship had her holding on to the barrels for dear life. Large raindrops that randomly pelted Darla’s shelter intensified. The ends of her canvas hideout fluttered and hammered a beat as gusts of wind plowed into the standing barrels, sending sprays of water through the spaces between them. The tight ropes holding her sanctuary together sang as they strained against the pitching of the ship and the onslaught of the wind and rain.

From her hiding place, she had no sense of what happened beyond its boundary. No way to prepare for the next roll of the ship, gust of wind, or drenching rush of water. Shouted orders, along with the grunts and salty words of the crew, reached her ears above the sound of the howling wind and crashing water.

“Take in the sail. Toss out the sea anchor. We need to keep the ship headed into the wind. Tie a bag of oil to the windward side and toss it over. Let’s hope that keeps the waves from breaking over the side.”

Water that soaked through her makeshift canopy gathered above her and rained down on her, adding to her misery. She lifted her skirt, tucked her mantle close, but the water wicked through her clothes. Soaked and tired to the bone, she gave up trying to keep dry. Drained of any warmth, she shivered and waited for her ordeal to end.

Riding up and down the swelling sea, the rise and fall of the ship continued. The limited air in her space soured. Woozy, she needed fresh air but was trapped with no way out. With her head on her knees, she closed her eyes and prayed for the journey to end.

The thundering snap of a rope, followed by the full force of the wind and water startled her from her daze. Part of the sail slid off the barrels. She grabbed at it, but the wind pulled the canvas from her hand. For a moment, she delighted in the salty air and took a deep breath. The ship lurched and the barrels protecting her came loose from their bindings and turned into crushing weapons.

Strong arms grasped her. She didn’t care if her father found her. Getting free of her prison was all she wanted.

The wind roared down the deck, sprays of water erupted from the prow as the ship bounced and rolled in the sea. Nothing hindered the man’s grip. Finally, she raised her head, but the shroud of fog blanketing the ship made it difficult to see.

Darla strained and made out dark wet hair plastered to his face. The ship shifted beneath her feet. Unsteady, he held her close, she clung to him. She didn’t have to see clearly to know who held her.

Close to his chest, she made out rivulets of blood sliding down the side of his head, but she clung hard to him. She pulled away from his chest and stretched to reach his ear with her mouth.

“You’re hurt.”

He said nothing as he moved them forward.

“You have my thanks.”

He turned and gave her a flash of a smile.

“Wesley.” She smiled at him.

“I was afraid you’d think I was Magnus.” He cupped her head and drew her to his chest. He staggered forward, fighting his way against the wind to reach the entrance. Here, there was some protection from the wind. He made fast work of the door.

The wind howled outside. She let out a breath, but Wesley didn’t stop. He hurried down the narrow passageway into a cabin.

“You’ll be safe here.” He sat her in a chair and then went to leave. “Whatever you do, stay inside.”

A secretive smile softened his lips before he left, closing the door behind him. She ran to the door, looked through the small hole, and watched him make his way down the passageway, his broad shoulders nearly scraping both walls.

About Ruth A. Casie

Hi! I’m Ruth A Casie. I write historical adventures from the shores of medieval Scotland to the cobblestone streets of Regency London. My stories embrace strong woman and the men who deserve them. Within the pages you’ll discover ‘edge-of-your-seat suspense, mind boggling drama, and heart melting emotions. Grab your favorite cup of tea, or an ale if you prefer, and join my heroes and heroines as they race across the pages to find their happily ever after. I hope my stories are your next favorite adventures!

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Tea with a proud Grandpapa

One of Eleanor’s favourite times of day, when they were in London, was after the afternoon callers had left, and before she had to prepare for whatever entertainment the evening would bring.

When they were in residents at one of her husband’s country estates, the pace of life was quite different, with earlier mornings, far fewer evening engagements, and callers only a few times a week. Or not at all, if the weather was inclement.

But in London, the late afternoon was one of the few spaces of time in any day that she and James could be alone. Alone or, as now, with a very special visitor. Only their grandchildren were allowed to intrude on their special time together. Twice a week, they would invite one, or at the most, two, of the growing tribe of offspring, from both her family and his.

Today’s guests were the two daughters Ruth had accepted as her own when she married Val, the Earl of Ashbury. The shy demure little misses Eleanor and James had first met during Val’s tempestuous courtship of James’s daughter were much more confident now, and they adored their Grandpapa. And their Grandmama, but especially their Grandpapa. And no wonder, Eleanor thought, as she watched James gallop the girls around the room, first Mirrie and then Ginny. He adores them. He adores all our little ones, and I adore him all the more for it.

Should she point out that the girls were growing a little large for pig-a-back? No, for James, excellent though he was, was only a man, and would ring the room three more times each, just to prove how strong he was. “When you are done, my loves,” she said, instead, “I have tea and cake, and after, a new book to read to you all.”

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Tea with Arial and a story

The Duchess of Winshire had been one of the early supporters of Arial, Countess of Stancroft, as she attempted to establish herself in Society. The courageous lady had faced down gossip and scandal, fomented by her wicked cousin and her husband’s nasty step-mother. Her dignity and grace under fire had won Eleanor’s admiration and her heart, and her door was always open to Arial.

Today, Arial was seeking her help. “It is for my sister Rosalind, Your Grace,” she explained. “She has been abducted. My husband had ridden after her, and so has her betrothed, Lord Merrick. One of the neighbours saw her being taken. The silly old biddy did not raise the alarm until we after we had discovered that Rose was missing. We think we know where she has been taken, and I trust Peter and Merrick to get her back, but I need to manage the gossip! It is too late to put a gag on the neighbour, so we must instead, I think, make Rose out to be the heroine that she actually is. I will tell you the whole story, and then I hope I can count on your help.”

Eleanor did not hesitate. “You have my help, Arial, but please, tell me what actually happened.”

***

This kidnapping takes place in Inviting the Wild, which is about going to the publisher in the next dayRose attempts to prevent the abduction of the elderly gentleman next door and is carried off as well. More about that closer to July, when the book is due for publication.

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Tea with Rebeka and Arik

“Rebeka.” Lord Arik called for his wife as he took the steps two at a time as he hurried into the tower room at Fayne Manor.

Rebeka, with her staff in hand, looked up from the small desk and papers. “I’m here.”

His sanctuary as a boy, he stared at the walls filled with runes and the cheval glass that stood at one end of a pentagram on the floor. She had placed it across from the hearth with its blazing fire as he had instructed.

“I’m looking forward to meeting Her Grace. Are you ready?” Rebeka asked.

Arik nodded his agreement and brought her to the center of the pentagram. The flames from the hearth danced and caressed their reflection in the mirror. He gave her a tender kiss, and then they turned toward the Eastern wall and began the ritual.

“Hail, Guardians of the East. I summon the power of air.” Arik’s voice echoed through the room.

“By the air in her breath, be with us now,” Rebeka replied and tapped her staff.

They turned to the South. “Hail, Guardians of the South. I summon the power of fire.”

“By the fire in her spirit, be with us now,” came Rebeka’s reply, along with a tap of her staff.

They faced the West. “Hail, Guardians of the West. I summon the power of water.”

“By the waters of her womb, be with us now.” Another tap from Rebeka’s staff.

They turned North toward the hearth. “Hail, Guardians of the North. I summon the power of the earth.”

“By the earth that is her body, be with us now,” Rebeka said with a strong final tap.

“As above, so below. As within, so without. Prepare Haverford’s door of time and present us to the duchess sublime. So mote it be.”

The air stirred, at first rustling Rebeka’s long hair then catching Arik’s loose-fitting shirt. Yet everything else in the room was still. They repeated the chant. Even though they were deep into the ritual, they sensed that the room changed.

The flames leaped high in the hearth when the last word was spoken. Soft sounds gathered into whispered words that grew more insistent until a voice called to them, “Lord Arik. Lady Rebeka.”

The smooth surface shifted and swirled. The image of a man materialized. They stepped to the mirror. “Berkeley Court?” Arik asked.

“Her Grace the Duchess of Haverford is expecting you, my lord.”

Arik took Rebeka’s hand, and together, they stepped into the mirror. Rebeka glanced behind her to see a partially draped cheval glass. The rest of the small tower room was empty. The hearth was cold.

“Good afternoon, my lord, my lady.” A footman stood before them, unshaken at watching two people walk through the mirror. “Welcome to Berkeley Court. If you will come this way I will show you to Her Crace.”

The footman took them down the tower stairs to the second floor. From there, he took them to the garden room where a mature lady, eleganty dressed, waited for them, a full service of tea at her side.

“Please do come and sit with me. Lady Rebeka would you like to pour tea?” asked Eleanor, the Duchess of Haverford.

“Your Grace, I am honored at the request, but I’m afraid my skills at pouring tea would appall you. In the United—. In America, we put the tea leaves in small bags and then dunk them in boiling water. Lord Arik can pour tea better than I can.”

Arik placed his hand over his wife’s. “Rebeka underestimates her abilities. It’s her way of easing into the differences in time.” Before Arik could act, the duchess took command of the pot.

“I am certain there are many things you both had to reconcile, pouring tea only a minor one.” The duchess glanced at Rebeka. “Sugar? Cream?”

“Black, please.”

“Same for me, if you please,” Arik said.

The duchess handed the tea to her visitors. “A biscuit?” She motioned toward the plate. “Cook makes delicious treats.”

Arik dutifully put a biscuit on his plate. Rebeka declined.

“Traveling through time. I dare say I never gave it a thought. After all, time is what time is. Or so I thought.”

Rebeka noted the excitement in the duchess’ eyes. “I agree, Your Grace.” Rebeka put down her teacup.

“Please, call me Eleanor. No need to be so formal.” Eleanor sat back in her chair with her teacup in her hand and a large smile on her lips.

“By all means. We were surprised when we received your invitation. I will say we questioned it. Of course, the Haverford name is well known even in our time. And with your Somerset estate a day’s ride from ours, Arik sent his brother, Logan, for a visit. Your ancestors were quite cordial. Logan returned telling us what a lovely time he had. He also confirmed the tower room.” Rebeka looked at the biscuits on the plate.

Eleanor turned to Arik. “I found a notation in the estate journal about Fayne Manor and decided to meet you. Once I learned about Rebeka’s traveling through time, I had many questions. What was your first impression of Rebeka?”

“He thought I was a pain in the…” Rebeka glanced at Arik.

“Arse.” Arik smiled at her and then turned to Eleanor. “My wife is quite correct. She had this compulsion to interject herself and her opinions everywhere. She didn’t know her place.” He turned to his wife. “And you, madam? What did you think of me? An actor?”

Arik’s exasperated expression said it all. He returned his attention to Eleanor. “Can you believe it? The Druid Grand Master and Lord of Fayne Manor, and she thinks I’m some carnival performer.”

“What did you expect? I had no idea I had traveled four hundred years into the past.” Rebeka put down her teacup, her eyes on the biscuit. “When I arrived, I encountered Doward, the old tinker.”

“Tinker?” Her Grace asked.

“It was Beltane, and with the way Doward was dressed and riding on a horse-drawn wagon, I naturally assumed he was an actor going to some enactment. They are popular in the twenty-first century. Then we came upon Arik and his men, all on horseback and dressed like Doward; well, what should I have thought? Arik was marching through the woods all proud and self-important, playacting.” Rebeka took a biscuit from the plate.

Arik raised his eyebrow and controlled his temper. “I was patrolling my domain. We were under attack, as you soon found out.”

Rebeka nibbled on the biscuit.

The duchess put down her teacup. “Oh, no.” She leaned toward Rebeka. “And you thought it was all a charade. What happened?”

“We were traveling and came to the river at the crossing. The bridge was damaged, and Arik and his men had to repair it so we could get the Doward’s wagon across. There was no room for the wagon at the shore, so Doward, me, and Logan, Arik’s brother, made camp up the road. The thieves attacked the wagon. They must’ve thought with only one soldier, a woman, and an old man, we would be easy to subdue. This biscuit is delicious.”

Her Grace smiled and offered her the plate. “Please, have another.”

“Subdue?” Arik didn’t try to hide his anger. “They meant to kill you. All three of you.”

“What happened?” Eleanor was not fooled. This was a man who cared dearly about his people and more so about his wife. She had read it in the diary he left in his library.

“The attackers were as shocked as I was. You see, both camps were attacked at the same time. We quickly took care of the marauders who attacked us by the river and went to help the others upriver. I didn’t know what to expect.” Arik shook his head and chuckled. “Rebeka dispatched three attackers before I got there.” He faced the duchess. “She did well. No, she was excellent. She used her walking staff as a weapon in a way I’d never seen. I would have her at my side in any battle.”

“I have read about the ancient Amazonian women and thought that all a fantasy,” Eleanor said.

“I am not a warrior. In college, I studied the Japanese physical movements that help build your physical, mental, and spiritual development. I enjoyed the mind-body connection. I had no cause to use them in combat until I was back in time. At the river, I fought for my life.”

Arik took her hand. “And you did well. That was when I knew there was more to you than I thought. Doward led me to believe the King had sent Rebeka to do research in my library.”

“That’s not exactly what Doward told you.” She took another biscuit from the plate. “You see, Eleanor, by the time we reached Fayne Manor, Doward and I discovered that I was in the wrong time. We also thought that the information I needed to go back would most likely be in Arik’s vast library.”

“I see.” Eleanor nodded her agreement as she refreshed everyone’s tea.

“I’m not certain you do. It was a dangerous game we both played. Arik was certain I was sent by his enemy, Bran. I was certain Arik would think I was a witch and that he would kill me if he knew I traveled through time.

“I began to research his family journals and diaries. I had no idea where to look or what to look for.” How clearly she remembered going through the vast library. She learned so much about his family, about him.

“And everything she did made me suspicious. I was certain the King or the King’s men had sent her. I will say she did excellent work with her research. I read it several times without letting her know.”

“Be that as it may,” Rebeka interjected. “I came from a time when women spoke their minds. On that count alone, I didn’t endear myself to him. No, not at all. But emotions stewed underneath it all. We wanted each other. We just didn’t trust each other.”

“Rebeka, why didn’t you tell Arik your mission? Surely, he would have helped you.” Eleanor smiled.

“I am a proud woman. In my time, I am a renowned history professor. I thought I’d made quick work of it. Besides, it was 1605. No one, not even Lord Arik, would believe that I had traveled through time. And with King James I sharpening the English Witchcraft Act I dared not say anything. I feared for what they might do to me.”

“But, Rebeka—.”

Rebeka put up her hand. “Before you say anything, yes, Arik is the Druid Grand Master, but I didn’t know it then, and I didn’t believe in magic. At least not at that time.”

“Not believe in magic? Then how do you explain your time travel? Surely that was magic,” the duchess said.

“You’re correct, of course. It’s amazing how we hold on to our prejudices. But Arik taught me about magic—on many levels.”

“And I understand from Arik’s journal that together, you saved Fayne Manor. I can see it in your eyes. You are a strong and vibrant pair. I wish you both well.”

Arik put down his serviette. “Thank you for your invitation and tea. We have a long journey ahead of us.”

Eleanor stood and walked her guests to the door. “The lesson I learned from your story is a very profound one. Love can transcend time, even four hundred years. Please, do visit again.”

How It All Began

In ancient times, druids and magic reigned supreme. Valor, courage, honesty, honor, and heart were their ingrained values. Destined for greatness, over the centuries this family rose above the others, but not without its own struggles.

This is the story of the druid Grand Master Lord Arik of Fayne Manor and his effort to protect all he holds dear from the Dark Magic that wants to destroy it all. Amid the spells and incantations, will he discover that the magic of the heart is the most potent force of all?

Knight of Runes

Rebeka Tyler, a distinguished expert in medieval and Renaissance studies and a casual martial arts enthusiast, never envisioned herself as a warrior. However, thrust into the 17th century, she finds herself caught in the conflict between two powerful druid masters. While deciphering ancient runes and unraveling a family secret to secure her return, Rebeka engages in battles for survival against in a society she knows well from her studies, as well as against the malevolent druid, Bran.

Amidst the struggle, emotional complexities arise with Lord Arik, the druid knight, as long-buried truths about their shared past come to light. The key to triumph lies not in individual efforts but in a partnership between Rebeka and Arik. Yet, this alliance comes at a steep price – her heart and, if fate favors her, her rightful future. For Rebeka, this journey isn’t a mere journey into the past but a return to where she truly belongs. In this riveting tale, the boundaries between love, destiny, and sacrifice blur as Rebeka navigates a world of ancient mysteries and profound connections.

Review: “Friends. FRIENDS. Oh my gosh, listen to me. If you only pick up one book this upcoming summer, it needs to be Knight of Runes. Imagine Game of Thrones and Outlander having a lovechild whose nanny was Jane Austen. Yes, I am serious. No, I am not kidding. It’s that good.” – Stacie T. 5 Star Review

Buy Link: https://amzn.to/2C73zRV
Ruth’s Website: https://ruthacasie.com/books.html

Excerpt:

Prologue

England – May 1605

I should not have stayed away so long.

Unable to shake the ominous feeling of being watched, Lord Arik kept the small group moving quickly. On high alert, his eyes continually swept the underbrush bordering the rain-slicked forest trail. He and his three riders escorted the wagon with the old tinker and the woman quickly through the forest. At length, he slowed the pace. The horses winded as they neared the Stone River.

“The forest is flooded,” he said. “I suspect the Stone will be as well. Willem, ride ahead and let me know what we face at the crossing.”

Willem did his lord’s bidding and quickly returned with his report. “The river ahead runs fast, m’lord. The bridge is in ruins and cannot be crossed.”

Arik raised his hand and brought the group to a halt. “We must make repairs, Doward,” he said to the old tinker, “there’s no room for the wagon at the river’s edge. You and the woman stay here and set up camp. Be ready to join us at the bridge when I send word.”

Logan, Arik’s brother, spoke up. “I’ll keep watch here and help Doward and Rebeka.”

Arik nodded and, with the others, continued the half mile to the bridge. “I am not pleased with this new delay.”

“It can’t be helped, m’lord,” Simon said. “We would make better time without the wagon.”

“We cannot leave Doward and the woman in the forest on their own, not with what we’ve heard lately. We’ll have to drive hard to make up the lost time,” Arik said as they came to the crossing.

The frame of the bridge stood solid, but the planks were scattered everywhere, clogging the banks and shallows. Arik leapt from his horse onto the frame to begin the repairs. “Hand me that planking.” Arik pointed to the nearest board.

Simon grabbed the nearest plank and examined it. “Sir, these boards have been deliberately removed.”

Arik reached for the board just as an arrow whooshed out of the trees and slammed into the plank’s edge. Willem pulled his ax from his belt. In a fluid, practiced movement, he spun and sent his ax flying. The archer fell into the river and was swept downstream, Willem’s ax lodged in his forehead.

A dozen or more attackers broke through the stand of trees. Poorly dressed fighters carrying clubs and knives moved toward them. There was only one sword among them, held by the leader—Arik’s target.

Arik tossed the board into the river and readied his sword. “They plan to pin us here at the river’s edge. Come, we’ll attack before they form up.”

Arik and his men surged forward, driving a wedge through the enemy’s ragged line, forcing what little formation they had to scatter and fight, each man for himself.

A man, club in hand, rushed at Arik. Before the attacker could bring his weapon into play, Arik pivoted around him. He raised his sword high and slammed the hilt’s steel pommel squarely on the man’s head and moved on before the man’s lifeless body collapsed to the ground.

Willem and Simon, on either side of Arik, advanced through the melee. Their swift swordplay moved smoothly from one stroke to the next, whipping through the air. They slashed on the down stroke and again on the backswing, sweeping their weapons into position to repeat the killing sequence as Arik and his soldiers steadily advanced, punishing any man who dared to come near them.

“For honor!” Logan’s war cry carried from the small camp to Arik’s ears.

Arik stiffened. Both camps were now under siege. He pulled his blade from an enemy’s chest. The body crumpled to the blood-soaked ground. Arik breathed deeply, the coppery taste of blood in the air.

“For honor!” he bellowed in answer. His men echoed his call, arms thrown wide, muscles quivering, the berserker’s rage overtaking them.

The remaining assailants fled headlong back into the forest.

Motioning to his men to follow, Arik raced toward Logan and the camp. He could hear shouts and cursed himself for not seeing the danger earlier. He crested the hill and came to an abrupt halt.

Logan’s sword ripped through the air as he protected Doward. The tinker drew his short blade and did as much damage as he could. But it was the woman Arik noticed. Her skirt hiked up, she twirled her walking stick like a weapon, with an expertise that left him slack-jawed. She dispatched the enemy, one by one, in a deadly well-practiced dance.

A man rushed toward her, knife in hand. The sneer on his face didn’t match the fear in his eyes.

She stepped out of his line of attack, extended her stick to her side and, holding it with both hands, swept the weapon forward, striking the intruder across the bridge of his nose. Blood exploded from his face in an arc of fine spray as his head snapped back. Droplets dusted her face, creating an illusion of bright red freckles. As he fell, she reversed her swing and caught him hard behind his knees. He went down on his back, spread-eagled. The woman swung her stick over her head and landed a precise blow to his forehead that knocked him unconscious.

As the woman spun to face the next threat, her glance captured Arik’s and held. In the space of an instant, time slowed to a crawl. Her hair slowly loosened from its pins and swirled out around her. His breath caught, and his heart quickened as a rapturous surge raced through his body. Something eternal and familiar, with a sense of longing, unsettled him.

In the next heartbeat, she tore her eyes away, leaving him empty. Time resumed its normal pace. Another fighter lay at her feet.

Arik joined the fight.

by

Tea with Cordelia

The Duchess of Haverford had formed the habit of holding an afternoon tea early in the Season for the current year’s debutantes. It gave the girls an opportunity to meet one another away from the endless manoeuvring of the marriage mart and out from under the thumbs of their mothers and chaperones, who were having tea in another room down the hall.

It also allowed Eleanor, the duchess, to discover likely protégés and possible problems. Every year-group of debutantes had them. The girls who had the potential to join the ranks of the ladies whose work for diverse charities contributed so much to the wellbeing of the country their husbands governed. The girls whose sole focus was themselves, and who would tear others down in order to promote their own interests.

Eleanor circled the room, attempted to speak to each girl in turn. “Let me see,” she said to the latest, a very pretty young little lady with light brown curls. “You are Miss Cordelia Milton, are you not.”

The lady lifted her chin proudly and somewhat defensively. “I am, Your Grace. I am the daughter of Josiah Milton.”

Eleanor nodded. No shrinking violet this one. “I am acquainted with Mr Milton. We serve on some of the same committees.” Mr Milton was a self-made man, rising from humble beginning to become one of the richest men in the United Kingdom. Miss Milton was his only child.

Miss Milton’s face lit up with a lovely smile. “My father has mentioned you, Your Grace. He has nothing but praise for your influence as a trustee of the orphanages he also supports. Also the asylum for women.”

A safe haven for wayward women, facing the consequences of the lifestyle many had not adopted out of choice. The world they lived in was not kind to women who had children out of wedlock, no matter how they arrived at that unhappy state.

“Do you also have an interest in such causes, Miss Milton?” Eleanor asked.

The girl nodded with another of her delightful smiles. “My father says that we have been blessed with more than our share of riches, and that we ought to share what we can in a way that will do the most good.”

An excellent attitude, and one that was rare among the aristocracy. Mr Milton clearly intended his daughter educated to marry into the upper sort. She certainly had had the education, and was ladylike in appearance and manners. No one would sniff, either, at her dowry or her beauty.

But whether the young men currently on the market could get over the young lady’s working class connections was another matter. Perhaps someone from the gentry would be less likely to look down on Miss Miller for her antecedents.

Eleanor resolved to do what she could to smooth the girl’s path.

***

Cordelia is falls in love with the son and heir of a marquess, and their road to happiness is marred by the snobbishness that Eleanor derides.

 

by

Tea with a would-be rescuer

November 1793

“Is it dangerous?” Eleanor asked her husband’s unacknowledged brother.

They had been friends for close to a decade, since he first rescued a drunken Haverford from footpads one evening, and dragged him home to Haverford House.

He had said, in exasperation, “I do not know why I bother. He never changes. I should have left him in the gutter to rot.”

She had replied, “I wish…” and then had caught the rest of the words back. They were not true, in any case. She wished her husband at the other end of the country. She wished him on a five year diplomatic mission to Asia. But she did not wish him dead. She had not descended to that level.

Tolliver had somehow understood all of that without her saying it, and after that often kept her informed about her husband’s activities. He had taught her how to use this information to manage the distance that she needed to keep from Haverford in order to stay sane.

She was mother to the duke’s two sons, his official hostess, the chatelaine of his houses, an asset to him in his political campaigning, but other than that, he largely left her alone. She owed much of that to Tolliver.

He was testing her gratitude now. Bad enough that he risked his own life in missions into the horror that France had become now that the Committee for Public Safety was sending dozens, hundreds, perhaps thousands of people to the guillotine.

But he wanted to take David. The boy she had taken into her house and into her heart was twenty, barely a man. She would fear for him every day he was over the channel. He was eager to go, and Eleanor had no power to stop him.

“Is it dangerous?” Tolliver asked. “I will not lie to you, Eleanor. It is. We take every precaution, but there is always danger. I can promise you that I will watch over David. He is my nephew, after all.”

That was true. Tolliver, the base-born brother of Haverford, and David, Haverford’s base-born son. “He is very young…” she began, but David answered her from the doorway.

“Not so young. I am a man, Your Grace.” He stepped cautiously into the little parlour, as if he expected Haverford to emerge from a corner to berate him. Haverford had got it into his head that David was a danger to Aldridge, his eldest legitimate son. It was ridiculous, but Haverford had made the claim and would not back down.

Still, he had come to Haverford House at her request, bless the boy.

“The duke is away in Brighton with the Prince of Wales,” Eleanor assured him. “Yes, David, I know you are a man. I hope you will forgive me for worrying about you.”

“I shall be as careful as I can, Your Grace,” David assured her. “But this has to be done, and I am able to help do it. Wish me well, Your Grace, and let me go with your blessing.”

“You have my blessing, David, and I shall pray for you every day until you return to England,” said Eleanor.