Author: judeknight

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Money problems on WIP Wednesday

Here’s a scene from my next story in Jackie’s Climb, the next novel in A Twist Upon a Regency Tale. Guess the folk tale that inspired this one!

Bessie did not attract much interest at the market. She was nearly ten years old and would not be in milk again until she had been successfully bred and had given birth to the resulting calf, which meant no milk for at least nine months.

The first person to make an offer said he would pay two pounds, for he could get that much value out of her hide and her bones. “Not much value in the meat,” he opined. “It might be fit for the dogs.”

Jackie was horrified. “She has many useful years yet,” she insisted. She could not sell her old friend to be made into handbags, dog food and glue.

She received three more offers in the next two hours, and all of them were insultingly low. “A good cow might fetch as much as twenty pounds,” she told one man, indignantly, after he’d suggested that he could take Bessie away if she’d accept ten shillings.

“Aye, lad,” the man agreed. “A good cow. But that’s not what you have to sell now, is it?”

By the middle of the afternoon, she was tired, hungry, thirsty, and discouraged. She hated the thought that she might have to take Bessie home and admit that she had failed. Finally, a fifth buyer approached. Humbly, and without much hope. Poorly dressed and bent with age, she did not look like a buyer, but as she examined Bessie with gentle touches and soft murmurings, Jackie found herself warming to the woman.

“You’ve allowed her to dry off,” the woman commented.

“She calved two years ago, and gave good quantities of milk for twenty months,” Jackie explained. “We thought we would breed her again after we sold the calf, a lovely little heifer.” She shrugged. “It was not possible.” Though Civerton was not on Hunnard land, many people from the estate and the village came here for market. It would not be wise to explain that she and her mother were being victimised.

The woman asked how long Bessie had given milk, and in what quantities. “She seems sweet natured,” she commented.

“She is,” Jackie assured her. “She has a very sweet nature. Do you want her for yourself, Mistress?”

“I do. To join my little herd. I cannot pay much, mind. I’ll have to feed her for nearly a year before I get anything back. Ten shillings, lad. What do you say?”

“I’ve been offered two pounds,” Jackie said, honestly.

The old woman examined Bessie with narrowed eyes. “I could not go to two pounds,” she said. “You should take it, lad.”

“It was a knacker,” Jackie explained. “I couldn’t sell dear Bessie to a knacker.”

“No,” the old woman agreed. “It would be a great shame. I will tell you what, young man. I will give you one pound and a packet of my never-fail heavy crop beans. Come up like magic, they do, and taste delicious. I don’t give them to just anyone, mind. But I do like a boy who wants a good home for his cow.”

A pound. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough, but it was a better offer than any but the one from the knacker. “I’ll take it,” Jackie said.

It was on the walk home that Jackie had her idea. A pound wasn’t enough to pay the rent, but it was the entrance fee to the Crown and Pumpkin’s gambling night, which was on tonight. Yes, and Jack Le Gume had two pounds of stake money hidden in a hollow oak just outside the village. Jackie had planned to give it to Maman with the price paid for Bessie, but even three pounds, with the money they had already saved, would fall short of what was needed.

But what if she could double her stake? Or better? Hunnard was one of the habituees at the Crown and Pumpkin. How fitting it would be if his losses paid the extortionate rent that he was demanding. Yes. Jack Le Gume would certainly be visiting the Crown and Pumpkin tonight.

First, she needed to face her mother and admit that all she’d received for the cow was a package of bean seeds. Maman was as upset as Jackie expected.

“Bean seeds? Jacqueline, how could you! You foolish, foolish girl. Even a few shillings would have been better than that!”

Almost, Jackie confessed to having the pound, but she clung to the picture she’d imagined—Maman’s face tomorrow morning, when Jackie showered her with money and admitted that she had withheld the pound the woman had paid in the interests of multiplying it.

It would all be worth it.

Maman snatched the little pot of bean seeds from Jackie’s hand, strode across the room, slammed the window open, and threw the seeds—pot and all—out the window. “That for you bean seeds. Do you think we will be here to see them grow? Or will have any ground to grow them in after that scoundrel Hunnard throws us out? Do you not understand what he has planned for you, you foolish child? Out. Get out now, and find some work to do. Clean a few more horse stalls. Wash dishes at the inn. We need money, Jacqueline.”

Poor Maman. She always got angry when she was upset. Perhaps Jackie should tell her about the pound, and how she planned to make more money. “It is not quite as bad as it seems, Maman.”

But Maman interrupted her. “You are just like your father. It was the same with him. Always, something would come along to save us. He was certain of it. Always. And always the same. He would gamble away our last coins and things would be worse. Get out of my sight, Jacqueline. I do not wish to see you.”

Jackie left.

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Tea with Drew

Eleanor, Duchess of Winshire, was particularly fond of her husband’s fourth son. Drew was always obliging, always ready to help a sister or a brother, to attend his stepmother’s events and contribute to their success, and to support his father in any one of a myriad of ways. Drew was, in fact, a thoroughly nice gentleman.

He always joined Eleanor and James for lunch, if they were all in London. His father made it an insistent and permanent invitation when the young man’s investments began to show a profit and he bought his own townhouse and moved into it. He was here today, and had been telling them about a balloon ascension that he’d watched in Hyde Park. “And so I have promised to take Bartholomew and Jamir to the next one,” he finished. Bartholomew was James’s fifth son, and Jamir was his dearest friend.

“Your brother tells me you have been borrowing dozens of horses,” James asked his son. “Is it for a race? Or a joke?”

“Neither,” Drew told him. “It is, I suppose, a trick. But in a good cause.”

“What sort of a trick,” Eleanor wondered. It was not like Drew to play tricks on people.

“I can tell you, I know,” Drew said. “It is highly confidential, but you will not speak of it.”

James and Eleanor exchanged glances. His said, “What on earth is he up to?” and hers replied, reassuring him that, “This is Drew. We can trust Drew.”

“You remember my friend Jowan Trethrewey? I told you that the singer, Tammie Lind, was a childhood friend of his.”

What did that have to do with dozens of horses? “Yes,” Eleanor agreed. “She sang at my concert. She was magnificent, but she does not look at all well.” An understatement. Miss Lind looked fine on the stage, when she was singing. But in person and up close, she was gaunt and pale. Eleanor feared for her wellbeing, particularly given that she was under the control of one of the nastiest men Eleanor had ever met.

As if he had followed her thoughts, Drew told her, “She wants to be rescued from the Earl of Coombe. Jowan has come up with a plan. And to carry it out, he needs horses. Lots of horses. All as close to identical as I can get them.”

He leaned forward as he told them what Trethrewey had in mind. It was ingeneous. Eleanor hoped that it worked.

Hold Me Fast

Published 19th September

She has paid for her fame with her heart and her dreams. What must she pay for peace and love?

Tamsyn Roskilly and Jowan Trethewey were childhood sweethearts, until their parents conspired to separate them. Seven years later, Tamsyn has become addicted to drugs and alcohol, supplied by the earl who has seduced, debased, and abused her. Their childhood romance may be over, but now Jowan owes her a rescue.

As he and his friends nurse her through withdrawal, Jowan and Tamsyn fall in love again. But Tamsyn does not believe she is worthy of love, or that Jowan can truly overlook her past. And the wicked earl is determined to take her back.

It will take the help of their friends and their entire community for Jowan and Tamsyn to finally prevail.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DBXN9GYJ/

https://books2read.com/u/3GLkPQ

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Spotlight on Hold Me Fast

Hold Me Fast

She has paid for her fame with her heart and her dreams. What must she pay for peace and love?

Childhood sweethearts Tamsyn Roskilly and Jowan Trethewey are ripped apart when her mother and his father conspire to sell Tamsyn to a music-loving earl. He promises to make her a famous singer, and to keep her from Jowan.

Hold Me Fast starts seven years later, when Tamsyn has become Tammie Lind, a sensational singing success. Jowan, now baronet in his father’s place, hears she has returned to England after a lengthy and successful tour of Europe and beyond. He travels to London to speak to her, but the earl continues to stand in their way.

However, Jowan discovers that Tamsyn has become addicted to drugs and alcohol, supplied by the earl who has seduced, debased, and abused her. Their childhood romance may be over, but now he owes her a rescue.

As he and his friends nurse her through withdrawal and help her make a new life in their home village, Jowan and Tamsyn fall in love all over again. But Tamsyn does not believe she is worthy of love, or that Jowan can truly overlook her past. And the wicked earl is determined to take her back.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DBXN9GYJ/

https://books2read.com/u/3GLkPQ

Published 19th September

(Hold Me Fast is a reinterpretation of the border stories about the man stolen by the queen of the Fae to be her lover and her musician (in some versions) or her knight (in others). Brave Janet wins him by holding on to him as the queen changes him into one monstrous shape after another, until he returns to her own, the magic vanquished.)

An excerpt from Hold Me Fast

Tamsyn was absent during the auction but appeared briefly at the start of the supper. Jowan recognized the man with her as the Earl of Coombe, but he had changed over the past seven years. Then, he had been a gentleman in his prime, elegant, and sophisticated but also handsome and charming. To the sixteen-year-old Jowan, he had represented the fashionable world—that circle of superior beings who sometimes passed through their village, pausing only long enough to look down their noses at the locals. Jowan had hated that he found the man impressive and somewhat intimidating.

From a distance, he looked much the same, but as Jowan worked his way through the crowd to approach, he realized how much the man had aged in the last seven years. The firm skin beneath his eyes had become bags and his neck had relaxed into jowls, his waist had expanded, and his hair had receded from his forehead.

He was moving from group to group, introducing Tamsyn and stopping to chat for a few minutes. Jowan placed himself in a group with Lord Andrew and several others, waiting for the man to reach them, but Coombe turned the other way and was soon lost in the crowd.

No matter. Jowan would follow as soon as he had finished the conversation he was having with Snowden about enquiry agents. But when he did, he found that Coombe was on his own.

Jowan, having concluded that Tamsyn was nowhere in the ballroom, asked Lord Andrew to introduce him to Coombe.

“Not a nice man,” Lord Andrew warned him. “Aunt Eleanor decided to tolerate him for the sake of Miss Lind’s singing, but he would not normally be invited to any of her entertainments.”

“We met some years ago,” Jowan explained. “Miss Lind was a childhood friend. I had hoped to speak to her.”

Lord Andrew shrugged. “As long as you’re warned,” he said.

Coombe was holding forth to a group of men about his European tour. When Lord Andrew and Jowan approached, his eyes darted sideways, as if he was about to work another disappearance. He must have thought better of it, for he greeted Lord Andrew, saying, “Winderfield. I trust your belle-mere is happy with the performances this evening.”

“I believe Her Grace is well satisfied,” Lord Andrew replied. “Coombe, I wish to make known to you Sir Jowan Trethewey from Cornwall.”

“Lord Coombe and I met long ago,” Jowan said, with the minimum of polite bows. “You may remember your trip to Cornwall, my lord, since you collected such a treasure there.”

“You were no more than a gormless boy, Trethewey,” Coombe replied. Up close, the signs of dissipation were even more obvious, from the threading of broken veins on his face and discolouring his eyes.

Obvious, too, was the hostility in those eyes.

Jowan ignored it. “Yes, and Miss Lind was no more than an innocent girl. I hoped to pay my respects to my old friend.”

“Miss Lind was tired, and an associate has taken her home,” said Coombe. “However, you are wasting your time, Trethewey. I can assure you that Miss Lind has no interest in revisiting her girlhood.” His eyes narrowed and he shifted into a threatening stance, setting his shoulders, and leaning forward. “Leave her alone. That is my last word on the subject.”

He turned his body to shut Jowan out, saying to Lord Andrew, “I do not wish to be rude, Winderfield, but I consider it my duty, as Miss Lind’s protector and patron, to keep such annoyances from her. She has moved far beyond past acquaintances such as impoverished baronets from the remote corners of nowhere.”

Jowan didn’t bother to hide his grin at the lame attempt at an insult, and Lord Andrew, seeing his expression, rolled his eyes. “Lord Coombe, I am surprised to hear you insulting my friends under my father’s roof,” he said.

“Perhaps you might give Miss Lind my compliments on her performance,” Jowan said to Coombe’s back. “Drew, thank you for the introduction.”

Bran was waiting within sight, and Lord Andrew walked with Jowan to join him. “I’m sorry that didn’t work out as you hoped,” he said. “Miss Lind is Cornish, is she? I wonder what she really thinks about meeting you again.”

“You think Coombe was lying?” Jowan asked.

“I think he lies as easily as he breathes,” said Lord Andrew. His eyes were alive with questions, but he had no chance to ask them before another of Her Grace’s guest stopped to talk to him about the evening’s cause. “Duty calls,” said Lord Andrew, and left Jowan and Bran to talk.

Jowan told Bran what had happened. “That last song was for me,” he said. “It’s one her Granny used to sing to us both.” But then why, having recognized him and sung to him, did she run off before they could meet?

“She can’t have known you were going to be here,” Bran argued.

That was true, and Jowan had followed Tamsyn and the village choir to enough festivals and competitions to know the next question to ask. “Are the musicians still here?”

They were, having a supper of their own in a little room off the ballroom, and someone soon pointed them to the conductor. “Miss Lind’s last encore,” Jowan asked him, after he had introduced himself. “Was that unplanned, as far as you know?”

“It was, as a matter of fact,” said the conductor. “We had the accompaniment for ‘Say, Can You Deny Me’, but at the last minute, she told me she was going to sing something else. I didn’t know the tune. It was Welsh, was it? Sounded a bit like Welsh.”

“Not Welsh,” said the man who had sung the duet with Tamsyn. “Pretty, though.”

“Very pretty,” Jowan agreed. He thanked them for their music and left the conductor with a guinea to share with the others.

“That last one was for you,” Bran conceded.

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What should I write for 2025?

This is a repeat of a request that went out to my newsletter subscribers today.

I’ve just signed up to do four more novels A Twist Upon a Regency Tale. So that’s somewhere between a third and a half of my writing time sorted for the next twelve months. I’ve written the first couple of thousand words in Jackie’s Climb, which is inspired by Jack and the Beanstalk. I’m also going to write my own version of Rumplestiltskin, Tatterhood, and the Twelve Dancing Princesses.

I’m also committed to another Lyon’s Den (and one in 2026), and three more novella for collections. With these added in, I’m sorted for about half of what I can do in the next twelve to sixteen months.

But I’d love your opinion about what I should add to my writing schedule to fill the rest of the time.  I can manage probably another four short or three long novels, and some novellas and short stories.

I’ve outlined the options below, and (for the first four options) given you a link to where you can read more.

Option 1: Lion’s Zoo

In The Darkness Within, the fourth Lion’s Zoo book, I mentioned the men who gathered when Max needed them. Hawk, Wolf, Dragon, Tiger, Centaur. Squirrel, whose real name was Reuben, could probably have his tale told, too.

Find out more about Lion’s Zoo

Option 2: The Golden Redepennings

I still have Books 6 and 7 of The Golden Redepennings to write. Book 6, An Unpitied Sacrifice and Book 7, Children of Wrath.

Find out more about these two books

Option 3: A Coil ln Time

Have I mentioned my Roman time travel? This is it. A three part series following three girls from the twenty-first century as they try out a time machine one of them has made and get stuck in the 2nd century. I’ve written more than half of The Heart of a Roman Gentleman (working title). Two more to go.

You can read an excerpt here.

Option 4: In the Shadow of the Mountain King

This follow-on series from The Return of the Mountain King will tell the stories of the four younger children of the Duke of Winshire, Drew, Rosemary, Barnabas and Thomas, all of whom readers have met in earlier books.

Find out more about the Mountain King and his children. 

Option 5: New Romantasy series

Urban Victorian Noir. Or possibly Georgian Romantasy, or even Medieval.

My ideas are fluid enough to float a battleship, but the plot elves are toying with ideas about the fae once known to, and even worshipped by different cultures, hidden among us–and at war with one another.

Yes, I know. Urban Fantasy, right? But I think I can put a different spin on it. The question is, would you read it?

Option 6: Tidy up loose ends

Then there are the stories that have been lingering for a long time. Revealed in Mist ended with a chapter from Concealed in Shadow, and the rest of the book has never been written. Someone asked me the other day whether Jonathan, Aldridge’s brother, would ever get his story. The answer is yes. He has a story. It is stuck in my head with the plot elves. I need to write it. But when? As for Lord Danwood’s Dilemma, the less said the better.

Can you think of a character I’ve written who deserves a happy ending? Let me know!

Please let me know what you think.

I’ve set up a survey in Survey Monkey. I’ve give each of the options some tick boxes and space for a short comment. But please, feel free to email me if you have more you want to say. I would love to hear from you.

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Tea with the no longer haunted

The Duchess of Haverford, renowned for her progressive views and enlightened mindset, epitomizes a refreshing departure from society’s 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, a close friend of Lady Margaret Blanefield, had the pleasure of receiving her friend’s daughter, Lady Elizabeth, and her new husband, the financier James Alexander. The Whispering Hollows haunting was well established. Some say that the town, as well as the Duke, had paid a pretty penny for someone to come in to ‘remove’ the ghost, but it came to nothing. It took Lady Elizabeth and her James to put things right and the ghost to rest. Eleanor was eager to meet the brave duo, and this was her chance. They were returning from their travels abroad following their nuptials and would only be in the area for a few days.

“More tea, Mr. Alexander?” Eleanor asked, holding the pot in her hand.

“You can warm mine.” James smiled and lifted his cup.

“Lady Elizabeth?” she asked as she warmed James’s cup.

“Please, Your Grace. That sounds much too formal for friends,” Elizabeth began. “Elizabeth is fine.”

“And James for me, if you please.” He dropped a cube of sugar into his cup.

“Very well, please call me Eleanor.” She put the teapot down. “Now that that’s all settled, should we celebrate Thomas’s passing?”

James stopped stirring his tea.

Elizabeth’s hand froze her teacup inches from her lips.

Putting his teacup back on its saucer, James turned to Eleanor. “Thomas will not be joining us. The curse that held Thomas here after he passed has been lifted. Thomas is now at rest.”

“That is a relief.” Eleanor’s shoulders eased as she sat back. “I worried about the poor man. How did you manage to free him?”

Elizabeth cleared her throat. “The entire event was somewhat supernatural. My mind was on James’s return. He had been away in the Black Watch for six years.”

“And I couldn’t wait to see Elizabeth. Her letters were what got me through all those years, the good ones as well as the bad ones.” James cast a loving smile at his wife. “I am a very lucky man that she waited for me.”

“Was that the supernatural part?” Eleanor asked, trying to stifle her smile.

“Not at all. I got myself turned around in the patch and encountered a man. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I realized who and what he was.” She glanced at James. “Thank heaven James was at my side.”

“The man suffered for twenty years, and for what?” James wasn’t angry as much as he was disappointed. “In anger, he was left to die and cursed to boot.”

“It was when my parents were young. Mother was much in love with Father. He teased her about his conquests.”

“Let me guess,” Eleanor said. “She was left thinking she was wanting.” Eleanor let out a deep breath.

“My grandfather gave her a lovely necklace that a local boy, a childhood friend of my mother’s, designed.”  Elizabeth nervously smoothed out her skirt, unable to face Eleanor.

“And your mother allowed your father to think she was involved with Thomas…to make him jealous.” The Duchess leaned close and gently put her hand on Elizabeth’s. “My dear, you are not responsible for your parents’ actions. They must face the consequences of their actions, whether intentional or not.”

“You were the one who made them take action,” James said calmly. “If you hadn’t gone into Thomas’s pumpkin patch, he would still be chained to this earth. With your help, he found peace.”

“Oh, how so?” Eleanor asked.

“I picked a pumpkin from the patch, intending to give it to my younger sister. You see, she dropped the one she carved, and it smashed on the floor. That started everything. In the end, both Mother and Father confessed what they had done.”

“Retribution for Thomas was them admitting the truth,” James said. “It lifted the curse and resolved an issue between Elizabeth’s parents that had haunted them for twenty years. That, too, was resolved.”

“Do you believe in ghosts?” Elizabeth asked Eleanor.

“Oh, dear. I do not believe in ghosts, but I do believe in skeletons, and I have loads of them in any number of my closets!”

That set all three of them into a bout of laughing that lasted, on and off, the rest of teatime. Their conversation continued for another hour or so until James glanced at the mantel clock. “It’s getting late. It’s time for us to leave.”

Eleanor stood. “I’m glad you helped Thomas, ” she said, turning to Elizabeth. And I’m thrilled that you waited for your James. Your story is a great adventure. I am honored and want to thank you for sharing so much with me.”

Eleanor walked her guests to the door. “The two lessons I learned from your story are insightful ones. First, in life, one must take responsibility for one’s actions. Second, true love can endure time and distance.”

She hugged Elizabeth and James. “Please, you must visit me again.”

An Excerpt from The Ghost of Whispering Hollow

Part of The Spirit of Love of Hearts Through History Anthology

 By Ruth Casie

In the haunted hollows, love dances with destiny.

Amidst the moon-dappled oaks of Blanefield Manor, where ancient secrets whisper through time, James returns from war—a soldier scarred by battle and longing. Elizabeth, his childhood friend, has been his solace through ink-stained letters. But as they unravel a family curse impacting both their lives, they face a haunting love, and Whispering Hollows reveals its true magic. In a dance of shadows and moonlight, their hearts reignite—a love that defies both time and spectral secrets.

Buy Link: Amazon

Chapter One

Glenmore, Scotland
October 31, 1786

In the depths of the Scottish countryside, nestled at the western end of Loch Morlich, lay the village of Glenmore. A day’s ride north of Sommer-by-the-Sea, it thrived as it had for over a century. The quiet, picturesque community was dressed in colorful autumn decorations, all to create the haunting atmosphere of the annual All Saints’ Day celebration. The village elders, their memories steeped in Samhain celebrations, recounted the tales of donning costumes to outwit devilish spirits. Today, the air buzzed with anticipation as the children prepared to dress as ghosts and carve pumpkins, rather than turnips, for the annual contest.

Blanefield Manor, the home of Edward, Duke of Blanefield, his wife, and two daughters, stood proudly beyond the village. Within its stone walls were generations of secrets and whispered confidences. Some secrets were murmured during the harvest moon when the veil between this world and the next grew thin.

In the grand foyer, Lady Elizabeth, the Duke’s eldest daughter, flinched as her sister Nancy’s grasp faltered and the carved pumpkin slipped, smashing on the marble floor. Nancy had labored over her creation all day, carving intricate patterns, certain she would win the contest. Now, her breath caught, and for a moment she stood frozen, tears trickling down her cheeks as Mr. Paris, the butler, and several footmen took charge and worked quickly to remove the mess.

“Don’t worry.” Elizabeth pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed away her sister’s tears. “I’m sure we can find another pumpkin for the evening’s contest.”

“I held it tight.” Nancy, her lips quivering, glanced at Elizabeth. “It slipped out of my hands. We’ll never be able to replace it now.”

“We won’t. But I will.” Elizabeth turned to the butler. “Mr. Paris, my coat and shawl, please. I’ll meet you at the Hollow’s gate.”

Her father, the Duke of Blanefield, appeared from the drawing room, his presence commanding attention. His eyes, usually stern and calculating, softened with concern.

“What’s happened?”

Elizabeth and Nancy spun around and faced their father.

“A small accident,” Mr. Paris, ever the unflappable servant, made it sound as if smashing a pumpkin on the foyer floor was an everyday occurrence. “A small accident,” he said. “Your Grace, Mr. Hughes has arrived. I’ve settled him in the library, as you requested.”

Her father turned to his younger daughter, a warm look of understanding on his face.

Elizabeth’s gaze shifted to Nancy, still in shock. “It slipped out of my hands, Papa,” Nancy confessed, her vulnerability laid bare, “Elizabeth said she would find another one and meet you at the gate to the Hollows.”

“You’ll recognize me. I’ll be the one with the winning pumpkin.” Elizabeth took her coat and shawl from the butler. “Thank you, Mr. Paris.” She glanced at her sister. “What do we say if James arrives?”

James Alexander was a name whispered in the halls of Blanefield Manor these past six long years. A steadfast friend to Elizabeth, he had been absent, called away to war. She exchanged ink-stained letters with him, the only way they could bridge the long distance. Over time, those pages contained their shared dreams, secret confessions, and unspoken promises. It was through these pages that their hearts grew.

Nancy’s question hung in the air.

“James isn’t returning until tomorrow,” Elizabeth said. One more day. After all this worry and waiting, just one more day. She opened the front door, ready to slip out into the fading twilight.

“Wait!” Nancy called in a shallow gasp.

Elizabeth, impatient, turned to her sister and rolled her eyes.

“Where will you find a pumpkin now? We were in the village earlier today. There are no pumpkins anywhere.” Nancy paused. The color drained out of her face. “You’re not going into the Hollow,” she said, her eyes wide, her voice trembling with fear.

“Have no concern. I will find one.” Elizabeth called over her shoulder. “Now, let me leave before all the pumpkins are gone.” She didn’t wait for a response. Instead, she rushed out of the house before anyone asked her any more questions.

Elizabeth took a deep breath and set her sights on Whispering Hollows or, as the village boys referred to it, Haunted Hollows. Nonsense, that’s what all this ghost stuff was. For decades, the Gabriels, a fine, respected family, had tended the land that yielded a bounty of vegetables for the village. Twenty years ago, Thomas, the last of the family, left without any explanation. The villagers picked through the fields, but soon, the fields were left unattended, and the neglected vegetables grew with great hopes only to wither on the vine. Whispers of ghosts and hauntings kept trespassers, especially the children, away. No one ventured into the Hollow.

With the sun beginning to set and the sky a soft pink, the village celebration would start soon. Elizabeth had no choice but to turn to the Hollows for a pumpkin. Time was running out.

How difficult could this be? There were plenty of pumpkins at the Hollow. They were clearly evident in their cozy furrows when she passed the pumpkin grove yesterday. It was curious that after years of neglect, the pumpkin patch still flourished. That was a thought for another time, right now the miracle was to her advantage.

A gust of cold air caught her by surprise as she left the shelter of the village buildings. She pulled her shawl tight to keep what little warmth it provided. Farther down the lane, the mist lying over the hills spread along the path and seemed to grow taller and thicker with each step she took.

Elizabeth’s footsteps crunched the fallen leaves as she moved through the woods. The waning gibbous moon hung in the sky, casting a sliver of silver against the quickly fading blue. She clutched her shawl tighter, the hem billowing as if it, too, sought refuge from the chill.

She told herself repeatedly all she had to do was choose the winning pumpkin and bring it to the Hollow’s gate. Nancy was clever. If Elizabeth were quick about it, her sister would still have time to carve it into something special.

But as Elizabeth stepped deeper into the mist-shrouded clearing, she had her doubts. The fog clung to her like an embrace, spirals curling around her ankles, urging her to stay, trapping her in place. Yet she pushed on, her resolve unwavering. She would not fail her sister.

Shapes materialized, phantom creatures that defied classification. Were they ghosts of lost souls, their features softened by time and sorrow? Or were they figments of her imagination, conjured on the eve of All Saints’ Day?

All Saints’ Day had weighed heavily on Elizabeth’s heart, a somber reminder of James’s departure six years ago. The waiting felt like a lifetime. Her long wait would be over soon. He would be home tomorrow.

Her breath hung in the damp air as she continued on, her boots sinking into the mossy ground.

Fear whispered at the edges of her mind, urging her to flee—to turn back and seek the safety of Blanefield Manor. But Elizabeth was no stranger to fear. She had faced it on moonless nights when the wind howled through the branches and the owls called out. She had faced it in the letters from James, written from distant battlefields.

The twilight sounds of the forest quieted. Elizabeth stopped. Her cape fluttered, a dark silhouette against the fading light, as her gaze swept in all directions. The forest murmured its enchantment, and she listened. There was magic here—the kind that defied reason, that danced on the edge of reality and called to her.

A glance at the darkening sky prompted her to move on. These last months, she had kept herself busy helping her mother and her sister. She’d do anything to make the days go faster. And now, here it was, All Saints’ Day Eve. Elizabeth didn’t need to re-read James’s message. She knew it by heart.

“Dearest Elizabeth, I have been blessed. I shall arrive at Blanefield Manor on All Saints’ Day. The journey has been long, but the thought of seeing you again sustains me. Yours always, James.”

Her heart raced at the thought of it. He and his friend Finn Elliot had left to serve in the Black Watch and had been garrisoned in America.

His letters were a comfort. His words danced off the page, echoing the warmth of his Scottish burr. He told tales about him and Finn, new friends, and the sights they encountered. Yet he spared telling her what their battalion did or where they were.

Two years ago, when she opened one of his letters, an uneasy sensation had crept over her. Her eyes had darted across the paper, desperately seeking any reassurance that her fears were unfounded until the stark truth leaped out at her.

Finn passed away this morning.

The two were like brothers despite the lack of a blood connection. Since that message, the laughter had gone from his letters. She ached for him and, at times, cried herself to sleep, concerned about him. She wanted one look, one touch. She needed to know he was well. As much as it frustrated her, she reached out through her letters and ensured he realized that she cared, that she loved him.

After the war, the remaining Black Watch regiment garrisoned in Nova Scotia. For three years, she waited and wondered if James would return to Glenmore as the same man he had been when he left. Others who had returned were often mere shadows of their former selves.

Enough worrying. With one deep breath, she pushed aside her concerns for now. They would be together soon—tomorrow. At the moment, she needed to find a pumpkin. The Hollow’s pumpkin grove was around the next bend.

As she went on, the mist thickened, swallowing the bottoms of the fence posts. Gusts of wind raced along the path, growing stronger and colder. The closer she got to the grove, the more an ominous sensation settled over her. Stopping in her tracks, she shook her shoulders. Stop being silly. She started walking again, her pace quicker in defiance of her growing apprehension.

Reaching the edge of the grove, she paused. The Hollows had always been a place of mystery—a threshold between the mundane and the magical. She’d never thought about going into the patch before.

In the distance sat several winning-size pumpkins. A sense of relief flooded through her. With a tentative step, she pushed open the gate and ventured into the patch.

She picked her way across the fallow field. Despite her caution, the hem of her day dress snagged on brambles. As she stepped around a small thicket that wasn’t more than fallen branches covered with leaves, her foot sank into the thick mud. She turned to make her escape, but thorny twigs caught her shawl. She tugged at it, not willing to leave it behind. Finally free and frustrated, for a moment she considered going home. She glanced at the pumpkin and relented.

She found a nicely rounded, golden-orange pumpkin. Relieved that her search was almost over, she reached to pick it up but quickly pulled her hand away. Worms and insects had eaten out the back, leaving only a shell. Disappointed, she took out her handkerchief and cleaned her hands.

Suddenly, a rustling sound and frantic scurrying drew her attention. A mouse darted out from the underbrush, startling Elizabeth. Her handkerchief slipped from her grasp. As she reached for it, a barn owl swooped down. Its talons grazed the earth, capturing the unsuspecting mouse.

Her heart raced, and her breaths came in shallow spurts. The brutal attack had shaken her to her core. Without looking back, Elizabeth hurried off, her footsteps stumbling over gnarled roots, her handkerchief forgotten.

The second squash was not much better than the first. Elizabeth’s disappointment grew as she went on to a third, which was too flat, and a fourth, which was too small. With each step, she went deeper into the grove until she discovered herself surrounded by dense foliage. Finally, she found a plump, beautiful pumpkin.

Satisfied, she turned to leave but stood rooted to the spot. The sun now dipped below the horizon, coloring the sky a deep purple. The mist closed in, forming a wall around her.

As evening settled in, Elizabeth’s unease grew. It wouldn’t be long until the sky was completely black. There would be little light to guide her way to the gate.

With the ground soft beneath her feet, Elizabeth hoped to retrace her steps, but the forest had swallowed her tracks. The once familiar path blurred, and shadows merged, creating a disorienting maze. Which way had she come? Which was the way back? The darkening evening pressed on, and her sense of panic began to build.

“Take a deep breath,” she reminded herself, forcing her racing heart to slow. “That’s it. Again. One more time.”

Calm at last, she glanced around and put together a plan. The pumpkin grove was laid out in neat rows like other vegetable patches. With a little concentration, she should be able to follow the furrows. She chose a row and began to walk, determined to find her way to the gate and her parents.

The path became more treacherous, and the undergrowth grew increasingly gnarled as she went on. She trudged through puddles and mud. The pumpkin in her arms grew heavier with each struggling step. The hem of her skirt repeatedly caught on brambles and thorns. Her saturated skirt weighed her down and made it more and more difficult to lift her feet.

Tired, wet, and cold, Elizabeth stumbled over one of the roots and fell hard to the ground. She let out a startled scream, more from surprise than from any serious injury.

She sat up and paused, catching her breath and taking stock of her surroundings. Should she wait for the others to gather and find her or attempt to find her way to the gate alone? But which way to go? She looked in each direction for some sign but found none. She glanced at the ground as an unsettling sensation came over her. She picked up her handkerchief. A shadow of alarm ran through her. She’d been walking in circles.

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Spotlight on A Little Bit of Hellion

By Tanya Wilde

What’s a lady to do when the man she thought was so utterly wrong turns out to be a hellion so very right?

 Lady Theodosia King has had enough. Enough of her mother’s relentless matchmaking, enough of fortune hunters circling like vultures, and enough of the Earl of Saville clinging to her shadow under the guise of righting a wrong. Determined to escape the madness, she decides to pack her bags and retreat to Brighton for the remainder of the season. But she never expected a certain earl to follow her . . .

Field Savage, the Earl of Saville, has made his share of mistakes—none more torturous than his involvement in an infamous heiress list that found its way into White’s betting book, causing chaos in London. Every attempt to correct his errors only seems to worsen them. So, when he learns that the bane of his existence has fled London, he’s determined to let her go—after getting answers to a few burning questions.

Unfortunately, everything goes horribly awry!

https://www.amazon.com/Little-Bit-Hellion-Regency-Historical-ebook/dp/B0DC1859F

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Tea with mother and daughter (and a scheme of blind matchups in the making! )

Theodosia King sat in the elegantly appointed drawing room of the Duchess of Haverford’s residence, her teacup hovering just shy of her lips. The warm fragrance of honeyed tea filled the room, mingling with the scent of freshly cut roses. Her mother, the Marchioness of Kingsley, sat to her right, chatting animatedly with the Duchess about her latest scheme—something Theodosia fervently wished would be forgotten before the next scone was served.

“I do believe, my dear Marchioness, that blind matchups could be the very thing to enliven the next social season,” the Duchess of Haverford declared with a twinkle in her eye. She was a woman who rarely missed an opportunity to create a stir, and her enthusiasm was matched only by the Marchioness’s own.

“Precisely!” Lady Kingsley agreed, nodding with such vigor that her ostrich feather hat threatened to topple. “Imagine the thrill of it! Young people meeting in a carefully orchestrated manner, none the wiser until they’re already smitten. Why, it’s positively Shakespearean!”

Theodosia, who had been eyeing the delicate sugar biscuits with mild interest, set her cup down with a soft clink. “Positively disastrous, more like,” she muttered under her breath, though it was just loud enough for both women to hear. Just ask her. She had been the one to sit through her mother’s “blind matchups.”

The Duchess raised an amused brow. “Oh, come now, Theodosia. Don’t be such a cynic. Blind matchups are an adventure. Your mother is quite the genius. One must embrace the unknown!”

“The unknown is precisely the problem, Your Grace,” Theodosia countered, crossing her arms. “The last time Mother arranged one of these dreadful encounters, Lord Chance nearly drenched our sofa in sweat. Utterly unpleasant. No lady should have to sit through that.”

Her mother waved a dismissive hand. “Not all of them were that bad.”

“I beg to differ,” Theodosia replied dryly. “They were all equally bothersome.”

The Duchess laughed. “But that’s the beauty of it, my dear. Blind matchups are a delightful gamble. One might endure a few dullards, but then—who knows? You might stumble upon a gem.”

“Precisely!” Lady Kingsley exclaimed. “We should set up some matchups for Seth.”

“Seth? He would loathe being thrust into such an ordeal,” Theodosia said. On the other hand, perhaps this wasn’t such a bad idea?

“Oh, I think Seth could do with a bit of excitement,” the Marchioness mused, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “He’s always so serious, locked away with his books and estate ledgers. A blind matchup might just be the thing for him to live a little.”

Or push him over the edge. Seth King despised anything remotely frivolous. Theodosia smiled. “You might be right, Mother. It’s only right that siblings share in joy and despair, is it not?”

“How delightful!” the Duchess declared, her tone brooking no argument. “The poor boy has been buried under responsibilities for far too long. A bit of romantic intrigue could do wonders, and it just so happens I have a few candidates in mind.”

Theodosia happily picked up her tea again, listening to the Duchess of Haverford and her mother conspire.

Ton beware!

A Little Bit of Hellion

By Tanya Wilde

What’s a lady to do when the man she thought was so utterly wrong turns out to be a hellion so very right?

Lady Theodosia King has had enough. Enough of her mother’s relentless matchmaking, enough of fortune hunters circling like vultures, and enough of the Earl of Saville clinging to her shadow under the guise of righting a wrong. Determined to escape the madness, she decides to pack her bags and retreat to Brighton for the remainder of the season. But she never expected a certain earl to follow her . . .

Field Savage, the Earl of Saville, has made his share of mistakes—none more torturous than his involvement in an infamous heiress list that found its way into White’s betting book, causing chaos in London. Every attempt to correct his errors only seems to worsen them. So, when he learns that the bane of his existence has fled London, he’s determined to let her go—after getting answers to a few burning questions.

Their plans go horribly awry when, shortly after Field catches up with Theodosia, they are set upon by highwaymen and left penniless on the side of the road.

Can they overcome their differences long enough to find help, or will their decisions lead them further down a path of mischief and mayhem? And perhaps even love?

Purchase link: https://www.amazon.com/Little-Bit-Hellion-Regency-Historical-ebook/dp/B0DC1859F1

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/tanyawilde/

Except:

Theodosia King, daughter of the late Marquess of Kingsley, stared at the man before her and studied the pearls of sweat that dotted the line of his brow, one drop trickling down the side of his cheek. The man’s nervous laughter as he dabbed his handkerchief along his face reminded her of a timorous actor who forgot his lines in a Shakespearean play.

The Earl of Saville was to blame for this. Her once unperturbed life was in shambles.

Because of him.

And his friends, it must be said, but most of all him. He was the reason her mother had started hosting what she disturbingly called “blind matchups.” Every morning—unless she escaped before her mother seized hold of her—she would be stationed in the blue drawing room while her mother and Aunt Rose, her father’s only sister, selected King-approved suitors from the receiving room, allowing them each fifteen minutes in which the men could display their peacock feathers and do a little social dance in the hope of attracting her interest—chaperoned by her trusted maid, Nancy, of course.

She loathed every second of every matchup.

She resented her mother’s strange mind.

And she hated the Earl of Saville.

Most especially today.

Even if the earl hadn’t been directly responsible for these matchups, he’d still poked at the sorest of the sore spots when he’d claimed, on that horrid heiress list, that she had Satan’s eyes. To make matters even more dreadful, he and his friends had given the whole of White’s good entertainment when they lost the list and it found its way into the betting book of White’s. The result had been predictable. Wagers spilled over the book’s pages, drawing out all sorts of wretched creatures to her drawing room.

All in all, an unpleasant reminder of her place in the world. She hadn’t liked the Earl of Saville to begin with. Not since the first time they had been introduced in her first season, and he’d visibly flinched when their eyes met. The man was arrogant, pompous, and rude. Then there was what he, they believed to be her biggest flaw . . .

Theodosia had thought she’d gotten over the incident from her childhood, but that man had brought everything back to the surface with that one comment. Reminding her—no, taunting her—that she could never escape the judgment of others. What was it that her governess had once said?

Ah, yes.

How unfortunate. With eyes like that, you must be cursed, girl. Best lower your gaze when suitors come calling one day.

Theodosia inwardly scoffed. In truth, she couldn’t quite recall the woman’s exact wording, but it had been something to that effect. Lower her gaze, she’d been advised.

What nonsense. It had never been in Theodosia’s nature to lower her gaze. Instead, she made a point to look a man dead in the eyes—like she had done with the Earl of Saville—and their discomfort be damned.

The result? Nine times out of ten brought about the flustering, sweaty mess before her. Lord Chance. Would that this had been the only count against him.

He’d also been late. How long did it take to walk from one drawing room to another? In his case, an entire cup of tea. That had been the first count against him.

The second point against him had come in the form of kissing the back of her hand upon their greeting. His mouth hovered not one, not two, but three moments too long. Must the man cling to her hand?

“Do you like tea, Lady Theodosia?”

Ah, small chatter. Smallest of the small. Irrelevant. Unnecessary. A waste of her breath. Another mark against.

What sort of question was that anyway? Did she like tea? Would she be drinking tea if she did not like it? Does anyone in England not like tea? She didn’t bother to answer, merely took a sip from her cup in response.

A small but purposeful belch slipped from her lips, and she bit the inside of her lip to keep from laughing when his eyes widened. “Oh, my apologies. The gasses in my body oftentimes demand release in the most inconvenient moments.”

He stared at her without blinking.

She tilted her head back, matching his stare.

“You . . . that . . .” He cleared his throat. “Inconvenient gasses should be left for more convenient settings.”

Is that so?

And this was the man Mama selected as a possible match. She loved her mother, but she sometimes wondered if the marchioness had any sense in her head. Her mother ought to have been able to tell with one glance this man would never do. He even wore the colors of a peacock. A green waistcoat adorned with a striking blue tailcoat.

Theodosia considered the man across from her, deciding to conclude this meeting ahead of the fifteen-minute mark. “Do you wish to marry me, my lord?”

Lord Chance sputtered on air. A true feat. “M-Marriage? N-no, I wouldn’t say that. I mean that is too early to speak of such m-matters.”

“Why is it too early to speak of such matters?” Theodosia arched a not-so-subtle brow. “You are calling on me, are you not? If you do not know if you wish to marry me because it’s still too early to decide, may I then help facilitate this decision?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Lord Chance.” She set her cup down and leaned forward in her seat. “Would you enjoy a wife who is outspoken, stubborn to the bone, has a temper, hates dancing, loves bickering, and has no problem when it comes to insulting the opposite sex?”

His eyes had turned to saucers that grew with each trait she listed. By the time she said “loves bickering,” the man had already jumped to his feet. “Quite right, quite right. I cannot see myself with such a . . . such an unconventional wife.”

Theodosia dipped her head. A resolute nod meant to encourage him to scamper away. She fell back onto the divan even before he’d cleared the room, shooting him a sweet smile when he glanced over his shoulder before hurrying off. How many more? She’d already entertained five lords today.

Five!

Her mother breezed into the room. “What did you say to that poor man? He rushed out of the house as though the devil was on his heels.”

Theodosia gave her mother a deadpan look. “Perhaps the devil was on his heels.”

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First attraction on WIP Wednesday

I just received Thrown to the Lyon back from my lovely editor. I’ll be working on it tomorrow, and you can expect to see it in October or November. Thrown to the Lyon is inspired by The Tinder Box. Here’s a snippet.

Ben took Mrs. Anderson back to the Lyon’s Den. “I beg you to stay with Mrs. Dove Lyon for a few more days, Mrs. Anderson,” he said. “Just until I have done what I can to spike Seward’s guns.”

He frowned as another thought struck him. “I will make sure to sort things out before the end of the week. Mrs. Dove Lyon is having another of her masked balls, and you will not want to be in residence at that time.”

After that, he carried Grummidge off to the nearest tavern for a well-deserved drink.

Now the immediate danger of incarceration was over, Ben decided to go straight to the duke with his questions about Seward’s possible motives. So once he arrived home, he settled to writing a letter to the illustrious gentleman.

He franked the letter and gave it to one of his footmen to take to the mail. Kempbury had his seat in Essex, so he would receive the letter on the  morrow. Ben could hope to have a response in two or three days, and Mrs. Anderson would be out of the gambling den well before the infamous Mystère Masque.

His satisfaction was somewhat blunted by the knowledge that she would be leaving the luxurious surroundings of the Den for those pathetic two rooms in a back alley nearby. But she was an army wife. She was accustomed to difficult circumstances.

And what could he do about it, after all? He barely knew the lady, although he had always admired her courage in adverse circumstances. That said, they had certainly become much better acquainted in the past couple of days. His initial impressions from four years ago had been more than confirmed.

She was brave, yes. She also kept her head in a crisis, was polite to everyone she met, and retained a sense of humor no matter what was happening. She might not be able, on her own, to thwart a lord bent on mischief, but she was able to call allies to her aid.

Admiration was a pale word for how he felt about her now. It didn’t hurt, either, that she was appealingly feminine, though he had been careful to keep his physical response to her hidden. She was, after all, a lady.

 

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Spotlight on Hot Duke Summer

Welcome to a rollicking summer in Regency England, where the weather is warm, the ladies warmer, and the dukes sizzling-hot!

https://www.amazon.com/Hot-Duke-Summer-Historical-Anthology-ebook/dp/B0CZYVZS4L/

It’s the scorching tales of a Hot Duke Summer Regency Anthology!

For lovers of historical romance, lose yourself in this collection of never before published Regency stories. From gambling halls to ballrooms, you’ll enjoy a cast of unforgettable characters from tales inspired from some of your favorite summer movies. A Regency Gidget? Yes, please! Or the hottest duke in London with a penchant for a fancy conveyance? Absolutely!

It’s glamour, passion, and adventure in one magical summer in Regency England, so join the hottest dukes for the hottest summer around!

The Duchess Bride, by Scarlett Scott

After the death of her true love the Duke of Westley, Lady Celandine Raynell has been left with no choice but to marry the odious Earl of Humberton to protect her family from ruin. On her wedding day, she’s kidnapped by a dashing, masked stranger whose eyes seem hauntingly familiar. Celandine is drawn to her captor and increasingly convinced he is her Westley. But is he? Or has she been spirited away by a villain determined to obtain a ransom from her wealthy fiance.

Dilemma Over a Duke, by Alexa Aston

Lady Evangeline Eastfield has never found a man to replace Hatch, the Duke of Wentworth, in her heart. But he has not been home in six years and has never even replied to her letters. Evie decides to marry for friendship and children, and becomes betrothed to Hatch’s brother. But Hatch has come home, and he is determined to court Evie and win her for his duchess and his love.

The Duke’s Day Off, by Annabelle Anders

Bound by propriety and the expectations of his family, Society and himself, the Duke of Ferris works hard. All the time. As, he cannot help but notice, does Miss Evalina Sparrow, his mother’s companion. He really cannot help but notice his mother’s companion. When he discovers that she is in the habit of taking a day for herself now and then, she invites him to go with her. Ferris is tempted–and to far more than a simple day off. Sometimes, what everyone needs is a day off.

The Moonstone Mermaid, by Meara Platt

In Moonstone Landing, Verity Angel (cousin to Cara, Brenna, and Felicity) who meets her true love, James Pennington, Duke of Ashford under rather awkward circumstances – talk about baring one’s soul – and other juicy body parts! James accidentally gets an eyeful of Verity when he catches her swimming in a secluded glade. From that moment on, he is determined to know her better, and every encounter convinces him that he cannot live without her.

Say Anything, Duke, by Kathleen Ayers

Parthena Holm is the horror of any hostess. Parthena has a propensity to get herself into all sorts of trouble which she does at a house party where she’s been asked to play her violin. She meets the young, reclusive Duke of Wexham who is about to propose to another young lady… until Hurricane Parthena arrives. Parthena does her best to remain invisible, but Wexham is determined to find her.

I Know This Much is True, by Chasity Bowlin

When Caroline Davies makes a sketch of Antony Bancroft, the Duke of Avingden, it was meant to be a private matter between her and her cousin. She certainly did not intend the sketch to fall into the hands of the duke himself. She had drawn him naked, after all, as well as she could since it was all from her imagination. Miss Davies had already caught Andrew’s attention. The sketch suggest that the lady is as interested in him as he is in her. He must find out!

Love is the Duke’s Best Remedy, by Sara Adrien

Edmund Brandon, The Duke of Northumberland, is informed that he must have a wife, or at least a fiancee, to convince the Lord Chancellor to approve the plans he wishes to present to Parliament. On an impulse, he hires a flower girl who does him a favour to masquerade as his betrothed for a week. He doesn’t intend to fall in love with her.

The Worth of an Earl, by Jude Knight

Jen, a waif from the slums, rescues a wealthy lady from kidnappers. Despite the objections of her grandson, the Earl of Frome, Lady Eloise insists on taking Jen to London. Against his will, Frome falls in love with Jen. Just when he is ready to throw his reputation away for the sake of love, he uncovers a secret that changes everything.
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Spotlight on Knight of Havoc<\i>

By Sherry Ewing

Long ago, Reynard Norwood loved deeply, but the lady died, and he vowed never to love again. On a mission for the Empress Matilda, he finds a lady worthy of love. She is barely surviving. How can he leave her? But how can he break his vow to the dead? Torn between loyalty to a ghost and following his heart, he must still make certain that the living lady is safe and secure.

The life of Lady Elysande Thorburn of Blackmore has been in turmoil since King Stephen and his men laid siege to her home. With few resources, she must care for an ailing grandfather and meet her responsibilities to those loyal to the household. Her options for survival are running out. One of Empress Matilda’s knights arrives at her weakest moment. He’s determined she must leave with him, but she’s just as determined to stay.

Nothing about their relationship is simple, least of all the attraction each has for the other. As havoc and conflicting demands surround them, is love even possible?