Tea with Kitty

The Duchess of Haverford sat straight in her chair and examined Lady Kitty over her tea cup. Long gone was the little girl who once visited Haverford Castle in Margate, trailing behind her eldest sister, and being solicitous of the next in age, dear little Meg, whose mind had stalled forever in childhood. Now in her twenties, Kitty had also left behind the debutante, thrilled with the gowns and glitter, loving the dancing, engaging with every sign of enthusiasm in the endless round of entertainments.

She had never shown much interest in the marriage-mart reasons behind the Season, and — for her — the gloss faded from the social whirl quite quickly. She’d had suitors aplenty. Her Grace had witnessed it for herself, and Kitty’s sister had confirmed that they’d received a number of formal offers. But Kitty refused them all. Was it because of the close friendship she’d formed with Euronyme Redepenning? Mia, as she was called? Kitty and the wife of Lord Henry Redepenning’s youngest son were the same age, had many of the same interests, and had been inseparable these past five years.

But Mia had left London this very week, sailing to South Africa to be with her husband. And with her husband’s mistress, which seemed very peculiar to the duchess.

How to begin? “Kitty, my dear, what are your thoughts on marriage?”

“It is a venerable institution with much to recommend it,” the younger woman replied, a smile dancing in her eyes.

The duchess tipped her head in acknowledgement of the quip, but raised one eyebrow.

Kitty seemed to come to some kind of a decision, for she gave one sharp nod. “Aunt Eleanor, I would like to marry, but I think it unlikely. I will not marry where I do not trust, and I trust few people, I regret to say. My family. My friends. How does one become friends with a man in our world, where every interaction is governed by rules and monitored by prying eyes?”

Unconventional, but perceptive. A man who could not be trusted was the source of much unhappiness, as the duchess knew all too well. “You are young to be so suspicious,” she commented.

Kitty put her cup down on the table beside her chair and leant forward. ” Has anyone ever told you about what happened between me and the Earl of Selby?”

The incident between Selby and Kitty happened in Farewell to Kindness, where the heroine is Kitty’s sister, Anne. Alex, who appears in the excerpt below, is the hero of A Raging Madness, next in the series. Both books are discounted for the rest of May, to celebrate the publication of the third novel in the series, The Realm of Silence, which is already available on my bookshop and comes out everywhere else tomorrow.

Clink on the links for blurbs and buy buttons.

Farewell to Kindness is currently discounted to 99c wherever it is sold as an ebook.

A Raging Madness is available with a discount of $2.75 off the list price of $3.99 on my bookshop only (the Buy from Jude Knight button). Use the discount code KWMS6GNW at checkout.

Excerpt from Farewell to Kindness

“And is Miss Kitty with Miss Meg?” John asked.

“No, indeed. She went off to bed a good ten minutes ago. You go too, Price.”

With a sense of alarm out of all proportion to the circumstances, John left. He had no reason, beyond Jonno’s concerns and a stirring uneasiness, to run down the eastern stairs instead of up the servant stairs to his own room in the attic. But run he did.

On the floor below, he stopped. The ladies’ bedchambers, including Miss Kitty’s, were mostly to the left. Acting on instinct, he turned right, to pass the room where Miss Ruth had slept.

He stopped as he came level with the closed door. Something moved inside. A struggle? Thumping and muffled cries. He tried the handle. Locked. Shouting himself in his alarm, he hurled himself against the door. Once, twice. The third time it burst open, and he fell through the doorway, catching himself with his hands before he crashed to the floor.

As he picked himself up, the Earl of Selby cast him a fierce look.

“Get out,” Selby ordered. The dirty swine held Miss Kitty pinned to the bed with his upper body, one hand muffling her cries while the other fumbled at the buttons of his breeches. “Get the hell out, man. This is none of your business.”

John grabbed the bastard by the shoulder, swung him around and planted a fist straight into his superior nose, sending him lurching backwards.

Miss Kitty slithered quickly off the bed, and ran to the door, where Miss Mia—who must have been woken by the shouting—wrapped an arm around her.

John put himself between Lord Selby and the doorway.

“You hit me!” Lord Selby said, incredulous. “You broke my nose!”

John figured he probably had. Certainly if the pain in his hand was anything to go by, he must have caused considerable damage to the bastard’s face.

“I’ll see you swing for this,” Selby hissed. “Striking a peer is a capital offence. You’ll swing for this.”

“Rubbish,” Miss Mia said, from the doorway. “You were drunk and you bumped into the bedpost. We all saw it.”

From below came a stentorian bellowing. “What’s going on up there? Jonno, get up those stairs and report, man.”

“Mrs Redepenning, this man attacked me.”

Miss Mia thrust out her chin. “Lord Selby, the Earl of Chirbury’s trusted friend protected a guest in his Lord’s house.”

Selby tried to dodge past John, who blocked him. Jonno came running along the hall and skidded to a stop behind Miss Kitty and Miss Mia. “Major wants to know what’s happening.”

“This man attacked me!” Selby roared. “I want him arrested!”

“This so-called gentleman attacked Miss Haverstock,” Miss Mia interrupted, “and Price came to her rescue.”

“Stop saying that,” Selby commanded. “I intend to marry the girl. There’s no need for all this fuss.”

The two women looked at him, shocked. “Marry?” Miss Kitty said.

Selby smiled, looking smug even with the blood dripping from his nose. “I’ll wager you didn’t think to catch a peer, did you?”

Her eyes flashing, Miss Kitty took a step away from Miss Mia’s protective arms. “Marry? Me? Marry you?”

Selby looked even more smug. “Of course you’re surprised, a village girl becoming a Countess, especially one with such a questionable past. But yes, I’ll marry you. What do you think of that? That changes things, doesn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man in England,” Kitty hissed. “You slimy, disgusting slug, you.”

“Here now!” The smug look gone, Selby frowned. “You have to marry me. I’ve compromised you.”

“I don’t see any compromise,” Miss Mia argued. “Kitty has been with me the whole time.”

“But I have witnesses,” Selby looked at John, and at Jonno.

“I didn’t see nowt,” John said. “Did you Jonno?”

Jonno, a grin burgeoning, shook his head.

“Jonno, a hand here!” The peremptory command came from the stair landing. Jonno glanced in that direction, then ran toward it.

Miss Mia, looking after him, said, “Alex, how did you get up the stairs?”

“On my behind,” the Major replying, hobbling into view, leaning heavily on Jonno. “What’s all the noise?”

“Thank God you’re here,” Selby said, importantly. “You can sort this out.”

Major Alex let Jonno help him to a chair. Miss Mia led Miss Kitty into the room, her arm still protectively around her, keeping as far away from Selby as they could.

“All right,” Major Alex said, “what’s going on?”

Several voices started at once, and he roared, “Quiet! Selby. You first.”

“I want this man arrested. He hit me,” Selby commanded.

“A good one, too,” Major Alex observed. “I take it he deserved it, John?”

“He was trying to rape Miss Haverstock, sir,” John replied quietly.

“I’ve already said I’ll marry the girl,” Selby interrupted, impatiently. “He hit me, do you hear? He hit a peer. That’s a hanging offence.”

“Do you have witnesses to that, Selby?”

“Well, yes, Mrs Redepenning, and Miss Haverstock. They both saw him.”

The two ladies shook their heads. “I wasn’t even here,” Miss Kitty said, smiling at Miss Mia. “Mia and I were in her room, playing chess.” Miss Mia nodded. “Price wasn’t here, either, Alex. Lord Selby imagined the whole thing after he walked into the bedpost.”

Major Alex nodded. “Fair enough.”

Selby spluttered. “What do you mean, fair enough? It’s all lies. I’ve compromised the girl and I have to marry her! She has to marry me.”

“She doesn’t want to, Selby.”

“But… I’m an Earl. She would be a Countess.”

“You’re a slug,” Mia commented. “A slimy, disgusting slug, just as Kitty said.”

Major Alex’s eyes lit with appreciation. “That would seem to be a clear no, Selby,” he told the fuming Earl. “Jonno, John, the Earl appears to be shaky after his accident. Take him to his room and lock him in. Bexley’s valet has been doing for him, hasn’t he? Tell the man to pack the Earl’s effects. He will be leaving first thing in the morning.”

Spotlight on <i>Seductive Surrender</i>

Spotlight on Seductive Surrender

Today’s guest on Spotlight on Sunday is USA Today bestselling author Collette Cameron, with the sixth in the Highland Heather Romancing a Scot series.

Settle down and read about Seductive Surrender.

SEDUCTIVE SURRENDER

Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series #6

Dalliances, flirtations, liaisons? Aye. But marriage? Nae. Spies dinna wed

Betrothed four times.

Gwendolyn McClintock has resolutely slammed the door on romance and marriage. Intent on beginning a new life, she sells her beloved familial home in America and totes her orphaned niece and nephew to Scotland’s Highlands. But the grand adventure she promised becomes a tangled muddle when her coach accidentally runs down a powerful laird’s much-too-attractive, far-too-brawny brother.

A covert agent.

A confirmed, carefree rogue, Dugall Ferguson comes perilously close to being trampled beneath horses’ hooves. And the remorseful, deliciously tempting woman responsible for nearly killing him isn’t even aware of the peril awaiting her at her new home. Gwendolyn desperately needs protection, and though he’s on the cusp of realizing his life-long dream, Dugall rashly offers to aid the fiery lass.

Their futures collide.

Forced together in order to oust a would-be killer, irresistible passion erupts between Gwendolyn and Dugall. Dare she trust her traitorous heart one last time, especially to a known rake? How can he choose between his love for Gwendolyn and his desire to be a spy?

Read the sixth installment of the Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series for a suspenseful Scottish historical romance awash with intrigue, seduction, and passion you won’t want to put down.  

EXCERPT

Seductive Surrender

“She should have more care,” Gwendolyn muttered as she trailed her forefinger down his bicep. The flesh bunched in delicious anticipation as she traced his arm. “She told me she needs her position. I still might kick a mud hole in her hind end and stomp it dry.”

“Pardon?” he managed around the grin splitting his face.

“Send her packing for her untoward behavior.”

Daring to draw Gwendolyn indecently nearer, Dugall flattened one palm against the small of her back and cradled her jaw in the other. Feathering a series of short kisses from her delicate ear, across her soft cheek, and to her sweet mouth, he breathed, “Are ye jealous, Gwenny?”

She stiffened, all outraged femininity, then sagged against him, and nodded, her hair brushing his chest.

“Yes.”

“Ye needn’t be, leannan. The only lass I have any interest in kissin’ is in my arms.

BUY LINK

Amazon: https://books2read.com/SSURcc

https://amazon.com/dp/B07B6S36Q7

Meet the author

A USA Today bestselling, award-winning author, COLLETTE CAMERON pens Scottish and Regency historicals featuring rogues, rapscallions, rakes, and the intelligent, intrepid damsels who reform them.

Blessed with fantastic fans, and a compulsive, over-active, and witty Muse who won’t stop whispering new romantic romps in her ear, she still lives in Oregon with her mini-dachshunds, though she dreams of living in Scotland part-time.

Admitting to a quirky sense of humor, Collette enjoys inspiring quotes, adores castles and anything cobalt blue, and is a self-confessed Cadbury chocoholic. You’ll always find dogs, birds, occasionally naughty humor, and a dash of inspiration in her sweet-to-spicy timeless romances.

Connect with Collette

Get a FREE Starter Library! Join my VIP Reader Club: http://bit.ly/TheRegencyRose

Website: http://collettecameron.com

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Meet the villain on WIP Wednesday

Or villainess, of course. I have a fondness for female antagonists. An author has a lot of scope when introducing a villain. We might know straight away that he or she is the bad guy, or it might dawn on us over time, as we watch things go wrong for the hero and heroine.

I’d love to see an excerpt from your work-in-progress showing the antagonist’s first appearance in the book. Mine is from my contemporary novella, Beached. My heroine and her friend are having morning tea at a table on the footpath (sidewalk, you Americans) outside a cafe.

“Nicola Watson! Thought you’d have headed back to the bright lights of Noo York by now.” The speaker grabbed a chair from one of the other tables, and turned it back on to Nikki’s and Becky’s table before straddling it. “Checking out the old home town, eh? Quite a bit bigger than when you were here last.”

Pencil Kenworth. Sunglasses hid his eyes, and a cloth sunhat masked his bald patch, but if she hadn’t seen him at the funeral, she still would have recognised the raspy voice which hadn’t changed since he’d done his best to make her life miserable in high school.

Thank goodness for dear friends, who had turned tables on him. When she’d refused him a date, he’d told the whole school that she’d been abandoned by her mother and didn’t know her father. She’d laughed that off, but only until she heard his outrageous claim that he’d dated her back in Valentine Bay, had sex with her, and then dropped her because she cheated on him with anyone who would pay her fee. That story was around the school before she heard it.

Becky and Dave took the lead in the revenge. Becky came up with some creative storytelling about the origin of Pencil’s nickname, linking it to the size and function of an appendage most male teenagers don’t want to have questioned. Dave, the captain of the first XV rugby team, enlisted his team mates to spread the tale in a whisper there and a snigger here. Since Kenworth was not much liked, people were happy to spread the tale, and soon convinced that he’d lied about Nikki in order to cover his own inability to perform.

By the end of the school year, she almost felt sorry for him, and she was relieved when he did not return the following year. He’d joined his father’s real estate firm, and their paths didn’t cross again. Though she heard that he’d put considerable effort into finding females who would allow him to demonstrate the falsity of the rumours about him.

Thirteen years later, he headed the firm, since his father had retired to focus on his duties as a district councillor, so Nikki was not surprised when he said, “I guess you need to sell the old house before you leave. Put it in my hands, and I’ll get you a good price, for old times sake. Of course, it needs a lot of work, but I’m sure I can find someone in the market for a fixer upper.”

“Thank you for the offer,” Nikki told him, “but I doubt if I will sell.”

“Keeping it for a rental, are you?” Pencil nodded, pursing his lips, his eyes narrowed as he considered this. “Not a bad idea. Paradise Bay is on the move, and the new hotel is going to put it on the map. You’ll need to do some work before it’s fit to live in, even if the rent’s cheap. Here, take my card. We manage property rentals. No need to worry your pretty little head about the place while we’re looking after it. In fact, I have some builders you can use — much cheaper than the Mastertons.”

Becky enquired sweetly, “Cheap like the apartments in Brayden Street?”

Pencil ignored her, continuing to address himself to Nikki. “You just give me a ring, Nicola. Or drop me an email.” He dropped his voice and leant towards her across the back of the chair. “I’m happy to make myself available to you at any time.” He waggled his eyebrows to underline the suggestive nature of the offer.

Thirteen years had not improved the man. It had, however, taught Nikki the futility of arguing with people like him. “I haven’t made a decision, Mr Kenworth. But thank you for the card. Good day to you.”

“Mr Kenworth? No need for such formality between old friends.” Pencil went to pat Nikki’s arm, caught her glare, and changed his mind. “Call me Pencil, like you used to.”

Margaret emerged from the shop with their tea on a tray: a teapot under a knitted cosy, two cups on saucers, a small jug of milk, and a bowl of sugar.

Pencil sneered. “You won’t appeal to the young crowd with that old fashioned stuff, Maggie. You need decent sized mugs and a good barista. Yes, and a coat of paint to brighten the place up. If you’d accept my offer—”

“Thank you, Margaret,” Becky interrupted. “That’s perfect.”

Pencil tapped Margaret on the arm. “You might as well fetch me a cup.”

Nikki decided to be firm. “I am sorry, Pencil. Becky and I were having a private conversation, and we’d like to continue it. Thank you for stopping by.”

Reluctantly, the man accepted his dismissal, cancelled his order for tea, and strolled off down the footpath, hitching the belt that curved under his belly as he went.

“The apartments in Brayden Street?” Nikki prompted as she watched him walk away.

“Pencil’s investment and a builder from xxx. They cut corners from the first. Designed to use minimum materials, used the cheapest materials, breached code when they could get away with it. Within two years they were being sued by purchasers.”

“Serves them right,” Nikki said. “I suppose they walked away with a slap on the wrist with a wet bus ticket.”

Becky shrugged, her focus seemingly on the tea she was pouring, only the grim set of her jaw indicating her irritation. “The builder went bankrupt and started up again under another name. Pencil managed to slither out from under — convinced a judge that his only role was funding the project, and that he was as much a victim as any of the house owners.”

Nikki accepted the cup Becky passed. “Slippery as ever. What is he still doing in Paradise Bay? You’d think somewhere like Auckland or Wellington would offer him more scope. Or over the ditch in Sydney or Brisbane.”

“He spent several years across the Tasman,” Becky confirmed. “The story is he came home because his father needed him. There are other stories, but let’s not waste a perfectly nice day thinking about Pencil Kenworth. Are you really thinking about staying? And what do you plan to do with the house? It isn’t as bad as Pencil says, but it does need work.”

“Dave is sending over the luscious lodger to take a look,” Nikki said. “I’ll have a better idea once I know what needs to be done, and how much it might cost.”

Bookshop now live

If you take a look at any of the book pages for my published books, you’ll see a new button: ‘Buy from Jude Knight’. That takes you to my book shop, where I plan to have my new releases up a week before anywhere else, to offer discount codes from time to time so you can get my books on special, and to put bonus content, such as deleted scenes and background pieces, into the books (a project I haven’t had time for yet, but it is on the list).

The Realm of Silence is due out on 22 May, but is available from the book shop now. And if you buy any of the books before I add the bonus content, I’ll send you a free update once I get the new version finished.

Tea with readers

Join Jude Knight, the Duchess of Haverford, and an assortment of Jude’s heroines on FaceBook, to celebrate the opening of Jude’s new bookshop.

We’ll be on Jude Knight’s Regency World during Saturday New Zealand time, which is Friday afternoon and evening US time.

Come with your questions for Jude, the Duchess, or any of Jude’s female characters (the men will have their turn another time). Or comments. Or anything you wish.

We’ll have stories and discussions and games. Would love to see you here.

Art imitates life

 

Some of you may have noticed that many of my stories feature characters with disabilities. This is a topic close to my heart. I have lived most of my life with chronic illness, and have a brother who is blind, several relatives either permanent or temporary wheelchair users, a son with brain damage and various family members challenged by mental illness of one kind or another.

The idea for the hero in my latest newsletter subscriber story came out of my day job. I’m a consultant for a firm of plain English writers and trainers, and we did a field trip to the laboratory of a new client — a medical research organisation. Their mission is to solve unsolvable medical problems. The first of these, so the founder told us, was non-invasive treatment of strawberry birthmarks. These are disfiguring vascular tumours that mostly go away of their own accord,  but can sometimes grow in places that cause damage and can even threaten the child’s life. The treatment used to be unpleasant, invasive, and costly. And now, thanks to this research group, it is non-invasive and cheap.

Which set me wondering how a Regency family whose child had a strawberry birthmark might have coped. Eric, or Wreck as his family called him, was the result. In my story, he was the third son of an aristocratic family, sent as a baby to a remote estate, and raised by a loving Nanny, with occasional visits from his mother who was horrified by him.

Then the second son died, and Wreck needed to be retrieved in case he might one day succeed to the title. The mother sent him to Italy for surgical treatment. My story begins when he comes home. Subscribe to my newsletter if you want to know what happens next. I’m sending the newsletter out this week.

Meet the heroine on WIP Wednesday

An elegant establishment for young ladies, by Francis Burney

Last week, we talked about the reader’s first encounter with our hero. This week, let’s spotlight the heroine. Put an excerpt in the comment that shows the first time your heroine appears in the book. Mine is a scene from The Realm of Silence — a scene less than a couple of weeks old, written in response to a request from my editor, who thought my first effort at a first meeting was a bit lame. (She put it far more politely than that.)

Susan Cunningham fumbled for the chair behind her, her legs suddenly too weak to keep her upright.

“Missing?” she repeated, frowning as she tried to make the word mean something else. Anything else. “But where? How?”

Mrs Fellowes, the proprietor and headmistress, took the chair behind the desk, her lips pinched and her nostrils flared. “The school has been much deceived, Mrs Cunningham. The girls clearly planned this escapade very carefully. We could not have discovered their absence any earlier.”

“I don’t understand…” Susan frowned, trying to think through the panic that howled and gibbered in her mind. “How can she be missing?” Slowly, as if working in thick mud, her mind pulled some more facts out of the headmistress’s complaint. “How long has she been gone? Who is she with?”

“We could not have known,” Mrs Fellowes insisted. “The girls sent a note saying they were going to the art exhibition with Miss Foster, Miss Grahame’s aunt, and that Miss Cunningham would stay with her friend for the remainder of the weekend. This is a common occurrence, Mrs Cunningham, and has your approval.”

That was true. Patrice Grahame was Amy’s dearest friend. Wait. The weekend? “This was yesterday?” she asked. Please let it be yesterday. Surely two sixteen-year-old girls could not travel far in one day?

Mrs Fellowes sniffed. “Not Sunday, no. The notes were sent on Saturday morning, Mrs Cunningham, and Miss Grahame and Miss Cunningham have not been seen since.”

She unbent a little, “I was in the process of writing you a letter when you arrived unexpectedly.” A slight edge to that last word. Mrs Fellowes did not approve of parents who arrived during term time, and without warning. But Susan had been passing on her way to London, with only a ten-mile detour between her and her daughter.

Not to the point. Susan reined in her skittering thoughts and pursued the question of why two girls could be absent from Saturday to Monday with no one the wiser.

“Did Miss Foster not report the girls missing?”

“She also received a note, in which the girls said Miss Grahame would be staying at the school with your daughter. I am very disappointed in them, Mrs Cunningham. They are not biddable girls, but I had not thought them liars.” She sniffed again, jerking her chin upward as she did so. “You will wish to speak to Miss Foster. You have her direction, I imagine.”

Susan was ushered firmly to the door before she could formulate a response and did not think to ask what measures had been taken to find the missing girls until she was halfway to Miss Foster’s townhouse. She continued on, as more and more questions crowded her mind. Perhaps Miss Foster knew the answers. If not, she would go back to the school and demand explanations. Later.

Tea with Gil

 

Her Grace of Haverford eyed the young man in her parlour with some amusement. Not, perhaps, as young as all that. The new Lord Rutledge must be approaching forty years, but he had the type of face that looks mature at twenty and ages changes little thereafter. In his eighties, he would still be a handsome man.

A lifetime of careful observation of those who surrounded any duchess allowed Her Grace to detect his discomfort, though he held himself like the cavalry officer he once was, and his face hinted at the reason for his nickname. Rock Ledge, they called him. The man who never showed emotion. The duchess saw the slight stiffness around his eyes and mouth, the nervous flick of his eyes towards the maid, rapidly schooled to refocus on his hostess, a thumb and forefinger pressed rigidly together. Rutledge clearly expected this experience to be unpleasant.

“Thank you, Milly. You may leave us,” the duchess said to the maid. The girl went obediently, closing the parlour door firmly about her.

Rutledge straightened still further, and his eyes widened.

To business, then, and to put the poor boy out of his misery. “Rutledge, I have called you here today to offer my support.”

He was wary, of course. “Your support, Your Grace?”

He had a reputation as a blunt man, refreshingly blunt, her friend Lord Henry had said. She would not beat around the bush, then. “Your brother was a wicked man, rightly shunned by Society. You are the opposite, I am told by those I trust. Society will not, however, change its mind about the Rutledges. Not without some direction.”

Rutledge blinked rapidly a couple of times, before saying, “Direction from Your Grace must always be successful.”

A most tactful way to express doubt. She allowed her amusement to show in a smile. “I have known one or two failures, my lad. But I do not anticipate difficulty in this case.”

“I am an unworthy cause, Your Grace. I have no wish to shine in Society.”

“You will bury yourself in the country, I have no doubt, and ignore us all. But that will not do for your wife and children.”

He looked down at his hands, which had formed fists before he could prevent them. She watched them slowly relax, waiting for his response, which came after a long moment. “You have been honest with me, Your Grace, and I will return the courtesy. I have no intention of perpetuating the Rutledge line.”

His intentions, if Henry was correct, were not the only ones to be considered. And Henry knew Rutledge nearly as well as he knew Susan, his own daughter.

No need to tell Rutledge that his days as a single man were numbered. “I see. Well then, we shall talk about something else.”

She passed him the cup of coffee she had prepared for him, and he took it with thanks, nearly spilling it at her next comment.

“I believe you have recently spent some time with my goddaughter, Susan Cunningham,” she said.

Gil Rutledge is the hero of The Realm of Silence, available from this site’s bookshop on 15 May, and from all other eretailers on 22 May.

Excerpt

Gil Rutledge sat in the small garden to the side of the Crown and Eagle, and frowned at the spread provided for his breakfast. Grilled trout with white butter sauce, soft-boiled eggs, grilled kidney, sausages, mashed potatoes, bacon, a beef pie, two different kinds of breads (one lightly toasted), bread rolls, a selection of preserves, and a dish of stewed peaches, all cooked to perfection and none of it appealing.

Two days with his sister, Madelina, had left old guilt sitting heavy in his stomach, choking his throat and souring his digestion. And the errand he faced had yet to face did not improve his appetite.

He cut the corner from a slice of toast and loaded it with bits of bacon and a spoonful of egg. He was too old a campaigner to allow loss of appetite to stop him from refuelling. He washed the mouthful down with a sip from his coffee. It was the one part of the breakfast Moffat had not trusted to the inn kitchen. His soldier-servant insisted on preparing it himself, since he knew how Gil like it.

No. Not his soldier-servant. Not anymore. His valet, butler, factotum. Manservant. Yes, his manservant.

Gil raised the cup to the shade of his despised older brother. “This is the worst trick you’ve played on me yet,” he muttered. The viscount’s death had landed the estranged exile with a title he never wanted, a bankrupt estate, a frail frightened sister-in-law and her two little daughtersleft to his guardianship but fled from his home—and an endless snarl of legal and financial problems. And then there were Gil’s mother and his younger sister. His mission in leaving Gloucestershire had been to avoid war with the first and make peace with the second.

With a sigh, he took another sip, and loaded his fork again. The sooner he managed to swallow some of this meal, the sooner he could be on the road.

Beyond the fence that bordered the garden, carriages collected their passengers from the front of the inn. Stamford was on the Great North Road, and a transport hub to half of England, with roads branching off in every direction. As Gil stoically soldiered his way through breakfast, he watched idly, amusing himself by imagining the errands and destinations of the travellers.

Until one glimpsed face made him sit forward with a start. Surely that was Amelia Cunningham, The Goddess’s eldest daughter? No. This girl was older, almost an adult, though still dressed as a schoolgirl.

He frowned, trying to work out how old little Amy must be by now. He had last seen her during his most recent posting to England, before he was sent overseas to Gibraltar then on to the Peninsular wars. At the beginning of 1808. He remembered, because that was when he parted with the best horse a man had ever owned. More than four years ago. The Goddess who held his heart had been a widow these past two years and Amy must be—what? Good Lord. She would be sixteen by now.

He craned his neck, trying to see under the spreading hat that shielded the girl’s face, but she climbed into a yellow post chaise with a companion—a tall stripling boy of about the same age. And the woman who followed them was definitely not The Goddess; not unless she had lost all her curves, shrunk a good six inches, dyed her golden hair black, and traded her fashionable attire for a governess’s dull and shapeless garb.

No. That was not Susan Cunningham. Amy would have a governess, presumably, but the boy was way too old to be Amy’s brother Michael. No. The girl could not have been Amy.

The door closed, the post boy mounted, the chaise headed north, and Gil went back to his breakfast.

Sunday Spotlight on Julie Johnstone’s <i>When a Scot Gives His Heart</i>

Sunday Spotlight on Julie Johnstone’s When a Scot Gives His Heart

Congratulations to today’s guest, Julie Johnstone, on the release of her seventh book in her Highlander Vows: Entangled Hearts series.

When a Scot Gives His Heart

Love touched them. Treachery divided them. One night of passion binds them.

Betrayed by her father, Marsaili Campbell risks her life to recover what he has stolen from her. But when she’s kidnapped and wagered away, she has no one to help her escape other than the very man she’s spent the past three years trying to forget—Highland warrior Callum Grant. She once gave her heart and her innocence to the handsome Scot, only to regret her naive decisions. Still, with more enemies than she can battle alone, she needs an ally, even if she must hide the truth of her circumstances from him.

Laird Callum Grant thrust his clan into war for the love of a woman, only to lose her forever. But when the woman he believed dead appears at his clan’s tourney in dire trouble, there’s no denying Marsaili has been alive all this time. With his clan weakened from the years of raids and battles, however, he cannot afford to do anything that would ruin the betrothal he’s made to secure his clan’s future. Yet he can’t turn away from the woman who once beguiled him body and soul.

As Callum and Marsaili embark on a dangerous journey, each touch, each look, each clash of wills reignites their desire in an all-consuming inferno. But the secret Marsaili keeps and the duty that shackles Callum are threatening to destroy them. That is, unless they can learn that love, once truly given, is unbreakable.

Excerpt

 “Marsaili?” The undeniable concern in Callum’s tone, almost undid Marsaili. “What is it, lass? What’s vexing ye? Are ye afraid? I’ll protect ye, dunnae fash yerself.”

The emotions she’d been holding within her roiled. “Stop!” she barked, his concern shredding the invisible binds that held her together. “I kinnae—” She gulped. “I kinnae take yer kindness. I dunnae—” She shook her head, choking on her words. Gulping again, she continued, tears now streaming down her cheeks. “I dunnae ken what to think or what to do. Or what is truly right. I’m alone, all alone in this. I have to be strong.” She pressed her lips together on saying more, on saying too much.

Suddenly, she was being turned around to face Callum. His hands felt like fire pokers on her skin. Or perhaps it was her? Was she feverish? Her heart pounded a desperate beat, and that same frenzied desperation sent her blood rushing through her veins to roar in her ears. Her stomach felt hollow, and as his gaze pierced her very soul, he said, “Let me help ye. Tell me what ye fear.”

The truth clawed its way up, and she worried she’d not be able to hold it in, so she did the only thing she could. She rose up on her tiptoes and kissed him. Her heart lurched as he stiffened. He was going to push her away! But a growl seemed to come from deep within him, and he delved his hands into her hair to cradle her head and slant his mouth over hers. The kiss tore through every defense she possessed. It was violent in its passion and blissful in the way it seared her from the inside out.

Her hands had been clenched at her sides, but as his tongue slid inside her mouth and his heat consumed her, she could not hold back. She ran her hands up his thick arms to his shoulders and dug her fingers into the muscle there. Their tongues met, swirled, and retreated, as he ravished her mouth and her senses. Every memory she had worked so hard to repress flooded her. Each touch they had shared. Each kiss. The moment they had become one. She whimpered, when his lips found her neck, and then he stilled and jerked away.

Buy Links

Amazon – https://goo.gl/Tw5i7q

B&N – https://goo.gl/kmWw1j

iBooks – https://goo.gl/9CX35L

Kobo – https://goo.gl/WfDhTf

Google Play – https://goo.gl/s1Jy8X

Meet Julie Johnston

As a little girl I loved to create fantasy worlds and then give all my friends roles to play. Of course, I was always the heroine! Books have always been an escape for me and brought me so much pleasure, but it didn’t occur to me that I could possibly be a writer for a living until I was in a career that was not my passion. One day, I decided I wanted to craft stories like the ones I loved, and with a great leap of faith I quit my day job and decided to try to make my dream come true. I discovered my passion, and I have never looked back. I feel incredibly blessed and fortunate that I have been able to make a career out of sharing the stories that are in my head! I write Scottish Medieval Romance, Regency Romance, and I have even written a Paranormal Romance book. And because I have the best readers in the world, I have hit the USA Today bestseller list several times.

You can download my Medieval Romance, Christmas in the Scot’s Arms, to try for FREE. Just visit my website and download your copy from the home page. www.juliejohnstoneauthor.com.

 

Meet the hero on WIP Wednesday

We set the scene for our book by the way we meet our main characters. Does the reader like them? Have we picked up their lives at an interesting or crucial moment? Are they showing a little of who they really are? Is there a hook that intrigues — perhaps something that tells us the nature of the coming conflict?

Sometimes, I start a story several times, looking for that right place in my characters’ lives to bring them onto the page. Sometimes, I start with a secondary character or even (in one case) one who kicked off the whole sequence of events for the heroine, but was dead before the rest of the story takes place. In today’s excerpt, I introduce the hero of The Realm of Silence, less than a fortnight away from publication on my website shop, and so only just a work-in-progress in the most technical of senses.

Please feel free to drop your own excerpts in the comments (just heroes, please. I’m saving villains and heroines for a later blog.)

Gil Rutledge sat in the small garden to the side of the Crown and Eagle, and frowned at the spread provided for his breakfast. Grilled trout with white butter sauce, soft-boiled eggs, grilled kidney, sausages, mashed potatoes, bacon, a beef pie, two different kinds of breads (one lightly toasted), bread rolls, a selection of preserves, and a dish of stewed peaches, all cooked to perfection and none of it appealing.

Two days with his sister, Madelina, had left old guilt sitting heavy in his stomach, choking his throat and souring his digestion. And the errand he faced had yet to face did not improve his appetite.

He cut the corner from a slice of toast and loaded it with bits of bacon and a spoonful of egg. He was too old a campaigner to allow loss of appetite to stop him from refuelling. He washed the mouthful down with a sip from his coffee. It was the one part of the breakfast Moffat had not trusted to the inn kitchen. His soldier-servant insisted on preparing it himself, since he knew how Gil like it.

No. Not his soldier-servant. Not anymore. His valet, butler, factotum. Manservant. Yes, his manservant.

Gil raised the cup to the shade of his despised older brother. “This is the worst trick you’ve played on me yet,” he muttered. The viscount’s death had landed the estranged exile with a title he never wanted, a bankrupt estate, a frail frightened sister-in-law and her two little daughters—left to his guardianship but fled from his home—and an endless snarl of legal and financial problems. And then there were Gil’s mother and his younger sister. His mission in leaving Gloucestershire had been to avoid war with the first and make peace with the second.

With a sigh, he took another sip, and loaded his fork again. The sooner he managed to swallow some of this meal, the sooner he could be on the road.