Author: judeknight

by

Spotlight on Beguiled by the Highlander

Daughters of the Isle, Book 1

Pre-order – Release date 3rd June 2025

She fell for an enigmatic stranger from the sea—and then he broke her heart

Isolde MacDonald knows exactly what she wants, and wedding the arrogant Highlander, William Campbell—who will do anything to claim her land— is most definitely not it. Fiercely proud of her heritage, she’s bound to her beloved isle through an ancient prophecy of her foremothers and is certain no Campbell will understand her bond with her land or her love for her sword.

She doesn’t need a man to make her life complete—until a stranger with no memory of his past washes up on the beach and steals her heart.

He can’t recall his own name—but he’ll do anything to win her heart

When he’s attacked on his own ship and tossed overboard during a storm, he awakens with no recollection of who he is. But of one thing, he is sure. The beautiful Isolde MacDonald, with her independent spirit and skill with her sword, is the only woman he wants.

But when his memory returns, the truth threatens to destroy them both

To win her, he must discover the truth. But there’s more at stake than an ancient prophecy, and if they can’t put the past behind them, they just might lose everything.

BUY LINK
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0F2SNRCZD

EXCERPT

Isolde entered the solar, where he was lying on the floor before the fire. Several oil lamps lit the chamber, and for the first time she got a good look at her stranger from the sea.

The breath caught in her chest, an inexplicable constriction, as she gazed, entranced, at the vision before her. Even battered and grazed from the savagery of the storm-tossed sea, his starkly chiseled features were utterly compelling.

His torn shirt revealed tantalizing glimpses of his broad shoulders, and the drenched linen molded his impressive biceps like a second skin. Her mouth dried and she took a hasty step back, lest anyone noticed her indefensible reaction to an unconscious man.

Heat blasted through her, burning her cheeks, but thankfully everyone was focused on their unexpected guest. She swung about and threw another slab of peat onto the fire, but the reprieve did little to calm her racing heart.

She took a deep breath. Whatever foolishness was gripping her, she would not allow it to distract her from her duty. She was the eldest daughter of Sgur Castle, and she would never give cause for anyone to question her integrity.

“I’ve never seen this man before,” her grandmother pronounced, and Isolde gave a silent sigh. She could procrastinate no longer.

“Whoever he is, we must tend the wound on his head,” she said, as she returned to her grandmother, who was on her knees beside the man. “And ensure he has no other injuries.”

“No bones appear to be broken.” Her grandmother stood and gave Isolde an inscrutable look. “Have the maids dry him while ye attend to his head.”

One of the maids brought warm water, and Isolde steadfastly kept her eyes on her task of cleaning the gash on his head, and not at his expanse of naked chest as the maids vigorously rubbed life back into his chilled body.

The wound did not look too bad and fortunately was no longer bleeding. Likely they could thank the sea water for that, otherwise the poor man would’ve been at the mercy of her sewing skills as she stitched his head together.

She rolled back on her knees and focused on his face as the maids finished their task and wrapped thick blankets around him. Now he was dry, they could move him into the box bed, but she had to confess she was a little concerned he was still insensible.

“Can ye hear me?” She leaned closer and frowned when her whisper elicited no response. Trepidation licked through her. Certainly, he wasn’t dead, but suppose he never awoke again?

It was foolish to think she could wake him from oblivion when the journey from the beach, and the less than gentle ministrations of the maids, hadn’t evoked even a groan from him. But she had to try.

She grasped his shoulder through the blanket and gave him a good shake. “Wake up. Ye’re safe now, but ye must open yer eyes.”

His impossibly long black lashes flickered, and for a reason she could not fathom, she held her breath, as he slowly did as she had bid him.

His eyes were a captivating swirl of blue and gray. Like a stormy sea.

How apt.

She scarcely had the wits to chide herself for such a fanciful notion.

Instead, she smiled at him. A comforting smile, to assure him all was well.

“Where am I?” His voice was hoarse. There was no reason for the sound of it to send delicious shivers along her arms.

“Sgur Castle. We found ye on the beach. Tis lucky ye’re alive.”

Confusion clouded his eyes. “The beach?” he echoed, as though he had never encountered the word before.

“Aye. We can only guess ye went overboard during the storm. Although we found no shipwreck,” she added hastily, but now the thought had occurred to her, they would need to search at daybreak for any wreckage.

He gazed at her as though he was unaware of anyone else in the chamber. It was a novel sensation and undeniably thrilling. “Who are ye?” he whispered.

“Isolde MacDonald.” She refrained from giving him her full title. Besides, she’d already told him he was at Sgur Castle. “What is yer name?”

His lips parted, and then an expression of disbelief, no, horror rippled over his face, and he struggled to sit up, the blanket falling to his lap, revealing his breathtaking chest. By sheer force of will, she refused to look and instead gave him an encouraging smile.

“I can’t . . . I cannot recall.” The words sounded as though he’d ripped them from the bowels of hell itself.

Her smile slipped. “What?”

He sucked in a jagged breath, his fierce gaze never leaving hers. “I don’t know who I am.”

Meet Christina Phillips

Christina grew up in England and spent her childhood visiting ruined castles and Roman remains and daydreaming about Medieval princesses and gallant knights. When she wasn’t lost in the past, she was searching for magical worlds in the backs of wardrobes and watching old Hammer Horrors from the safety of behind the sofa. She now lives in sunny Western Australia with her high school sweetheart and their two cats who are convinced the universe revolves around their needs. They are not wrong.

by

Choices on WIP Wednesday

In my story for Love’s Perilous Road, my heroine is accosted by the villain.

***

All Felicity wanted was a couple of hours sleep, which was surely not too much to ask. But apparently it was. She had talked to Robin for a few minutes and then gone upstairs to find Victor Grant waiting in the hall outside of her bedchamber.

“I trust your patient has not died in the night,” he said, in a tone that implied the opposite.

The best form of defense was attack. “Were you spying on me, Mr. Grant?”

“Let us say, rather, I was looking out for the lady I mean to make my bride.”

“I have already refused your proposal, Mr. Grant. I will not marry you.”

Grant smiled. “I think you will. I hold your reputation in the palm of my hand, Lady Felicity. One word from me, and the whole of England will know you spent the night in the schoolhouse with Weatherall. And what is he, after all? A penniless schoolmaster. Distantly related to an earl, it is true. But by no means a match for a Belvoir, one of the great families of England.”

“Of the United Kingdom, Mr. Grant,” Felicity informed him, lifting her chin proudly. And yes, she was proud. The Belvoirs had served king and country since there was a country, and all without scandal staining their name. Grant was mistaken if he thought his threat would work on her, however. That very pristine reputation would protect her, and if it did not? Then better retirement to the country alone than marriage to a yellow-bellied cur.

“The answer is still no,” she said.

The man had not expected that. His smile slipped, and he snarled. “Then I will have no choice but to tell that Bow Street Runner who is here looking for our highwayman that Weatherall is Captain Moonlight,” he said.

Felicity absorbed the blow, schooling her face to show no expression. He could not know for certain, and even if he had witnessed something incriminating, it would be his word against Justin’s. And her word. She would give Justin an alibi even if she had to perjure herself. “What utter nonsense,” she said.

“I am going to Brighton today, Lady Felicity. I shall call on your brother and tell him what you have been up to. He, at least, will have a care to your reputation.”

Felicity managed to say, quietly, “I am of age, Mr. Grant. I will make my own choices.”

“Be sure that you make the right one,” Grant insisted and swaggered off, leaving Felicity far more disturbed than she would allow him to see.

by

Tea with the grandchildren

WindsGate, 1824

The last of the expected carriages had trundled up the long zig zag from the village in the rain, just after lunch, and now the Duchess of Winshire’s parlor was a chaos of noise and colour, with relative by blood and by choice filling the room. Sisters, daughters, nieces, and wives of sons and nephews sipped tea, coffee or hot chocolate. Sons, nephews, and husbands of sisters, daughters and nieces savoured brandy or quaffed beer. Or, in a few cases, the ladies savoured and quaffed, and the gentlemen sipped. In the wider Winshire/Haverford family, the women were as powerful in their own spheres as the men in theirs, and they had been blessed with strong marriages based on love and partnership.

Which accounted for the loudest contributors to the cacophony–children of every age, seemingly several dozen of them, but the duchess, Eleanor, was aware that the number was somewhat smaller. They moved fast, though, and counting them in a physical sense would have been impossible. Eleanor could count them by couple, but she would rather simply enjoy. There, in one corner, was a group building and destroying towers of blocks with loud squeals and giant crashes. In another, a group of schoolgirls nearly old enough to put their hems down and their hair up had their heads together in earnest conversation. Several boys were on the hearth rug, refighting Waterloo with miniature armies.  Another group of both boys and girls had commandeered the globe and were either planning a major world voyage, or were exploring the journeys that some of these dear people had taken to join them for the summer holidays.

Her son Jonathan had brought his wife and children across northern Europe and then the North Sea. James’s second and third sons had brought their wives and children across the Mediterranean and up the coasts of Spain and France. Matthew, now King of Pari Daiza Vada in the Kopet Dag mountains north of Iran, and John, who ran Kopet Dag shipping from a veritable palace in Venice. Even one of James’s daughters, the one who had married the ruler of another mountain kingdom, was here with her solemn bearded husband and her wide-eyed sons and daughers.

Her wards, as dear to her as daughters, were all there with their children, and so were James’s England-based daughters, Ruth and Rosemary. Also his niece Sarah, her husband and their brood–his three young sisters as well as their own children. And David and Prue had come, with their nine children, several of whom were grandchildren to Eleanor, even if on the wrong side of the sheets.

Dearest of all, if a grandmother was allowed such an emotion, was the infant on the knee of James’s other niece, Cherry. Sally was currently demanding to be put down to join the attack on the blocks. Sweet little Sally, long-desired and finally born, after many disappointments. To Eleanor’s son Anthony, the Duke of Haverford, Cherry and Sally were the centre of the universe, and who could blame him? Indeed, the little girl was treated like a little princess, and – if not for a sensible nursemaid – would be thoroughly spoiled.

How wonderful to have them all together.

by

Backlist Spotlight on Lady Beast’s Bridegroom


(Book 1 of A Twist Upon a Regency Tale)

Permanently 99c or free on KU https://amzn.to/3uJByrr

A reclusive bride. A reluctant fortune-hunter.

Lady Ariel lives retired in the country after being badly scarred by a fire that killed her mother and brother. Society gossips about her and calls her Lady Beast.

Her second cousin, who inherited her father’s title but not his private wealth, wants to have her committed so he can manage—and steal—her fortune.

Only finding a husband will prevent the cousin from having his way

Peter, Lord Ransome, has inherited his father’s debts along with responsibility for a stepmother who loathes him, her daughters, and his own two half-sisters.

Only a wealthy bride will save his estate and his family, especially the sisters who have fled his stepmother.

Once wed, the Beau and the Beast find they have more in common than they thought, but their accord is shaken when their enemies rouse Society and the rabble against them.

In their struggles to survive deadly hatred, they find that their marriage offers more than they bargained for.

by

First dance together in WIP Wednesday

This excerpt is from A Gift to the Heart, which is finally taking shape.

***

Livy was already with Lady Marple. “You don’t have to dance with me, Mr. Sanderson,” she blurted. “I will not hold you to your offer. I know your brother dragooned you into it.”
Bane was amused. “Drake doesn’t make my decisions for me, Miss Wintergreen,” he told her.
Perhaps she thought he was laughing at her, for she lifted her chin and sniffed as if offended. “I am not interested in a pity-dance,” she said, through gritted teeth.
“Good. Neither am I. I wish to dance with the only woman in this ballroom who is worth a second look.”
He meant every word, but she had made up her mind to be contrary, or she thought he was spouting empty flattery for she snapped back, “Go and ask her, then.”
“I was referring to you, Miss Wintergreen. And before you accuse me of laying it on with a paddle, I mean every word.”
Was that alarm in the lady’s eyes? And if it was, was he to be encouraged by it or discouraged? Drake had arrived, and was raising his eyebrows at their banter. It was banter, was it not? Bane nodded at Drake but kept his attention on Livy.
“I am not sure that I wish to dance,” the lady commented, crossing her arms defensively, then shooting a glance at her aunt and letting them drop to her side again. Were ladies not meant to cross arms? Bane would never understand all the silly rules these people imposed on one another.
“Perhaps you would prefer a stroll rather than a dance?” Bane suggested, as Miss Cilla joined them.
“Perhaps you are afraid I will stand on your feet,” Livy retorted, which certainly sounded as if she wanted to step out on the floor with him.
Good, for he had been looking forward to this dance all evening. He grinned at her. “Deathly afraid, that a little sylph like you might damage me. Do you commonly suffer the experience of crippling your partners?”
Livy’s lovely eyes were alight with the joy of verbal battle. “My previous experience is not based on dancing with elephants.”
“Your previous experience is based on dancing with rabbits, if this evening is typical. An elephant is much more up to your weight.”
“Are you calling me overly large, Mr. Sanderson?”
He laughed out loud at that. “Not compared with me, Miss Wintergreen.” He winged his elbow at her and could have cheered with relief when she placed her hand on his arm and allowed him to lead her onto the floor.
Drake and Cilla joined them, and the dance was one where two couples formed a group of four people who stayed together through the dance, though they occasionally combined with another group to make a broader set of patterns with eight dancers.
It was a vigorous dance, too, with no time to stand out briefly and talk to one’s partner unheard by the rest of the crowd on the floor.
The lady he was fast growing to love was as graceful as she was lovely. Even better, she was the right size. He didn’t have to shorten his steps to match hers, or stoop to put his hands on his waist when the dance called for him to assist her in a short jump, or bend himself almost in half to go under her raised arm.
Reinforcing the point, he had to do all those things when he repeated the patterns with her sister while Livy danced them with Drake.
Bran’s mind jumped to a quite different sort of dance, a private one. He was abstemious, his mother’s fate fuelling a disinclination to promiscuity. Even so, he was no virgin, having been less disciplined in his youth, when his blood ran hot and his position as son—even illegitimate son—of the wealthiest man in town won the favour of a number of daring females.
He had always had to temper his passion to the size of his lovers, fearing he might otherwise cause an injury. And if he thought any further about how Livy’s height and size might change the experience, he would embarrass himself. Modern cut-away evening coats for men meant that the results of private thoughts became a matter of public display—not something he wanted to experience right here on the dance floor.
Time to think of something deflating. The missing engineer. The parlous state of the rural poor or, even worse, those who had flocked into London after last year’s failed harvest, looking for work that did not exist.
For a short time, his mind ran on two tracks, one matching his movements to the demands of the dance and relishing the company of his lady, and the other adding detail to a plan he and Drake had made for funding for a dame school in the slums.
A man called Basingstoke, the vicar of an inner city parish, was setting up a network of them, each paid for by private donors who believed that all children, boys and girls, had a better chance of escaping poverty if they could read, write and do basic arithmetic.
Calculating costs worked to subdue his animal appetites—they’d need enough rent a room, hire a teacher, pay for basic supplies such as slates, chalk, and coal for heating, and more. It was achievable. He hoped his courtship of Livy would likewise be merely a matter of working out the steps, calculating the costs, and putting a plan into practice. Truly, they seemed to be made for one another.

by

Secrets of Success in Work-in-Progress Wednesday

It’s an AI image, and I couldn’t persuade the thing to give me Regency era costumes. Pretty picture otherwise, though.

In editing Hearts at Home for publication on May 1st, I had the pleasure of revisiting old friends. This excerpt is from The Beast Next Door, first published in the Bluestocking Belles’ Collection Valentines from Bath. I thought I’d share with you Charis’s discovery about how to attract a man.

The Master of Ceremonies finally discovered Charis in her hiding place. Blushing under Lady Harriett’s wise gaze, Charis allowed the man to present the Earl of Chadbourn as a suitable dance partner.

He exuded strength in spite of his slender frame, stood tall, possessed thick brown hair, and dressed all in black down to his stockings, gloves and cravat. The armband told her the lack of colour was not a fashion choice but marked a death.

However, when she attempted to express sympathy, his friendly smile faded. He said, “Thank you,” mildly enough but nothing else as he escorted her to their place on the dance floor.

It was not as bad as she’d feared. Lord Chadbourn recovered his good humour and proved to be an excellent dancer. He even kept his attention on her with every evidence of courteous enjoyment. After some remarks about the weather and her dress failed to ignite a conversation, he admitted to being more at home on his land than in fashionable company and responded to her timid question with a brief comment on new crop succession planning, which became an enthusiastic dissertation when he discovered she was truly interested.

No. It was not bad at all, except that a succession of less interesting men followed the earl’s example. She tried fading back into the shadows, but apparently, dancing with a handsome earl destroyed her cloak of invisibility, because each time a partner returned her to her delighted mother, another waited to claim the next set.

She tried the same technique that had worked so well with Lord Chadbourn, asking questions until she hit on a topic her current partner could wax lyrical about. As the hours dragged and she continued to twirl and promenade—and smile, a fixed polite fiction as painful as the feet that were aching worse than her head—she learned more than she ever wanted to know about the best points of a race horse, how hard it was to tie a perfect cravat, and the pleasures of collecting snuff boxes.

The hour was late. Surely this torture must be over soon? She gave half an ear to the fribble who was escorting her back to Mother while, with the rest of her mind, she rehearsed reasons why Mother might consent to let her sit out a dance or two. “… don’t know when I have enjoyed a dance more, Miss Fishingham,” the fribble said. “Upon my word, I don’t. Never thought I’d meet a lady so interested in…”

So that was the secret? That was what men wanted? A listener who made appropriate noises while they rabbited on and on? Even Lord Chadbourn, though he, at least, was interesting and polite enough to stop and check that she was not bored.

by

Spotlight on The Fiercest Pirate in Surrey

Hester Fairfax abducts her childhood best friend, Benjamin Littleton before he succumbs to his father’s plans for his life – all for his own good, of course.

For fans of Alexandra Vasti and Felicity Niven comes a novella about chasing your dreams and finding yourself in only one bed with your best friend.

Hester Fairfax dreams of escaping her dull life in rural, landlocked Surrey. As a child she schemed to run away and become a pirate, but now as a 24-year-old spinster she’s resigned to moldering away beside her neglectful father. Her one chance at adventure is fulfilling an old promise to kidnap the most eligible bachelor in the neighborhood: Benjamin Littleton, the baronet’s son, before he moves to London.

Benjamin Littleton can barely keep his head above water. He’s drowning in obligations: studying to become a barrister, courting a woman his father chose, and living up to his family’s incessant demands. When his childhood friend abducts him just before he becomes betrothed, Benjamin discovers that everything he didn’t dare wish for is now within his grasp.

After a carriage crash, thunderstorm, and an unexpected night spent in an abandoned cottage, Hester and Benjamin realize they could chart a life together free from neglect and disapproval. If only they’re fierce enough to chase it.

Buy link:  https://a.co/d/j1mK6Hm

An Excerpt from The Fiercest Pirate in Surrey

“Benji,” she said after a pause. “I’m not truly a lady. I might be a gentleman’s daughter, but most people just see me as an eccentric spinster.”

He looked her up and down, gaze inscrutable. “You’re no spinster.”

A flush spread across Hester’s body. Why? He said nothing inappropriate. And it’s only Benji. But something about the low, demanding tone and the way his eyes had lingered made her wonder… made her hope. Stop this foolishness. He’s marrying Miss Dunham. And since when did that matter to her? She gave him an impish grin. “But I am delightfully eccentric.”

“And I would never allow such a lovely and delightfully eccentric maiden out in such dangerous weather.” He paused. “I’ll beat you to the door if you try.”

Hester raised a brow and elaborately turned to look at the door behind her. “I’m closer.”

“I have longer legs.”

The air seemed charged with tension, as if there was another storm raging in the room between them. This wasn’t normal, this was different and strange and…not childlike at all. Desperate to bring this back to familiar corners, Hester threw him a smirk. “We’ll see about that.” And she flew backward to the door.

Her loose hair tangled around her, and a laugh burst out as she scrambled for the door handle. A heavy body slammed into her back, and then Benjamin somehow lurched forward, those giant arms outstretched, and he slammed both palms flat against the wooden door.

“No, you don’t,” he said in her ear, amusement leaking through.

Hester, trapped between his chest and the door, relented. She clutched her sprained wrist to her chest and leaned her forehead against the door, right between his palms. “I surrender,” she got out through chuckles.

Benjamin shifted behind her, and the heat of his chest burned against her shoulder blades. His breath warmed her neck. “Stay,” he whispered.

A shiver went down her spine. She closed her eyes, basking in the warmth of his arms. “I don’t think I have much of a choice,” she murmured.

He bent his head, and she felt the barest edge of his lips against the shell of her ear. “How the tables have turned, my captor.”

A ribbon of heat and desire unspooled in her chest, slipping through her belly like a butterfly and throbbing inside her core. Hester bit her lips to keep back a moan of delight.

His hips slotted against the small of her back, he was so tall compared to her, and he broadened his stance.

Hester opened her eyes and turned her cheek to the cool door. His left hand was mere inches away. His long fingers were flexed against the wood, the large hands warm and capable. What would those hands feel like on her? She shuddered at the thought.

Abruptly, Benjamin withdrew. The blast of cold air that wrapped her back and arms nearly made her cry out. “Forgive me, I forgot myself. We aren’t children anymore, are we?” His hands lifted from the door and he took two steps backward. “We should forsake childish games.”

Meet Anne Knight

Anne Knight has been writing stories since she was three years old. Before she could read or write, she followed her parents and babysitter around, begging them to dictate her words. Eventually she learned the alphabet and began writing herself. She sneaked her first romance novel when she was thirteen, but did not become an avid reader or writer of the genre until after college.

Anne lives in Arkansas with her real-life swoony hero, four children, and two cats. The cats are named Cyrano and Ivanhoe.

by

New friends on WIP Wednesday

This week’s excerpt is from The Beast Next Door, a story that appeared years ago in a Bluestocking Belles’ Collection, but which I’m currently editing for publication as part of Hearts At Home. My heroine has sought a quiet place where she can read uninterrupted by her noisy family.

***

The bench outside the long-forgotten folly was wet, but Charis had expected that. She took her book from her bag, and spread the bag on the bench to protect her skirts. She never saw anyone here, not since her friend Eric left, ten years or more ago. But someone must know she came, because the area around the bench was always kept weeded, and the folly itself was cleaned from time to time, so it lacked the heavy overload of dust and cobwebs to be expected in such a neglected spot.

She was settling herself to read, when a large shaggy dog bounded out of the woods, his tongue lolling cheerfully from one corner of his grinning mouth. His tail waved enthusiastically, and she braced for whatever he intended, but he stopped a pace or two away and sat, stirring the wet grass and weeds with his tongue, lifting one paw as if hoping she would shake it.

“What a beautiful gentleman you are,” Charis said to him.

The dog tipped his head to one side, his tail speeding up.

“Shake?” Charis said. Is that what he wanted?

Apparently so. He shuffled forward, not raising his hind end completely from the ground. When he was a few inches nearer, he lifted his paw again, this time within reach if she just bent forward.

And so, she did.

The dog grinned still more broadly and half lifted again so his tail could wag at full speed.

“Yes, you are a friendly boy,” Charis agreed. “And someone has taught you beautiful manners.” She looked around, wondering if the dog’s owner was near, but no one was in sight.

The dog collapsed at her feet, leaning his head against her knee, and she obliged by rubbing behind his ear, then down to his chin. He closed his eyes in ecstasy and tipped his head even higher.

“That’s what you like, is it not?” Charis asked him and continued to caress the dog as she opened her book. Her own place, her book, and a friendly dog to pat. She could feel the tension draining as she settled in to enjoy her brief period of freedom.