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Choices on WIP Wednesday

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The answer is still no,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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Tea with the grandchildren

WindsGate, 1824

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

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

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

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

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

How wonderful to have them all together.

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Backlist Spotlight on Lady Beast’s Bridegroom


(Book 1 of A Twist Upon a Regency Tale)

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

A reclusive bride. A reluctant fortune-hunter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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First dance together in WIP Wednesday

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

***

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

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Secrets of Success in Work-in-Progress Wednesday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Spotlight on The Fiercest Pirate in Surrey

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

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

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

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

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

Buy link:  https://a.co/d/j1mK6Hm

An Excerpt from The Fiercest Pirate in Surrey

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

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

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

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

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

“I have longer legs.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meet Anne Knight

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

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

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New friends on WIP Wednesday

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so, she did.

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

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

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

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

 

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Spotlight on A Twist Upon a Regency Tale

Given that the first Twist novel for 2025 came out last night, I think today’s a good time to do a recap on the series.

The concept of this series was to take inspiration from traditional fairy tales but reinterpret the elements into a Regency romance, with no magic, the fairy tale elements reinterpreted into natural happenstance, and the roles of hero and heroine reversed. As the series name says, A Twist Upon a Regency Tale.

The new book Jackie’s Climb is the 9th novel in the series, and I have 3 more planned this year. There’s also a novella, a short story in a collection and, in the Lyon’s Den series, another novella.

But first, 2023! The series started

Lady Beast’s Bridegroom (inspired by Beauty and the Beast)
Is the love of Beauty and his Lady Beast strong enough to overcome prejudice, hatred, and rejection?

One Perfect Dance (inspired by Cinderella)
For sixteen years, Ash has owed Regina a dance. His stepbrothers will do anything to keep him from the ball.

Snowy and the Seven Doves (inspired by Snow White and the Seven Doves)
The hero raised in a brothel. The heroine born to wealth and title. The villain who wants to destroy the first and own the second.

Perchance to Dream (Inspired by Sleeping Beauty)
Scarred by life, they have abandoned dreams of romance. Until love’s kiss awakens them.

And in 2024…

Weave Me a Rope (Inspired by Rapunzel)
He is imprisoned. She is cast out. But neither will give up on their love.

The Sincerest Flattery (Inspired by The Goose Girl)
Can an arranged marriage become a love match? Or will lies and misunderstandings tear Percy and Lia apart?

Inviting the Wild (Inspired by Little Red Riding Hood)
Is Ruadh the loving grandson? Or the wolf that prowls the streets of London? When Rose is in danger, he is glad he can call on the wild.

The Worth of an Earl (inspired by Aladin)
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.

Hold Me Fast (Inspired by the Ballad of Tam Lin)
Tamsyn has paid for her fame with her heart and her dreams. What must she pay for peace and love?

The Trials of Alaric (inspired by The Princess and the Pea)
To wed her he’ll do anything. Even lose his heart. But only the man who uncovers the Heart of Claddach can win Bea as his bride.

Plus my four Lyon’s Den stories have been A Twist Upon a Regency Tale stories

The Talons of a Lyon (inspired by the Frog Prince)
Lance promised Mrs Dove Lyon he would take Lady Frogmore from Pond Street into High Society. Her nasty relatives are determined he will fail.

Crossing the Lyon (in the collection Night of Lyons)
The golden tickets are a trap for two innocent maidens. But who will the trap catch?

Hook, Lyon, and Sinker (Part of the Lyon’s Den Connected World)
A desperate heiress. A lame fiddler. History must repeat itself and secrets be revealed before they can win their happy ending.

Thrown to the Lyon (Part of the Lyon’s Den Connected World)
The plan is set. A game of cards will decide the groom. Can Dorcas use the third token to change the odds? Anything can happen when a lady is thrown to a Lyon.

2025 in a Twist Upon a Regency Tale

So far this year, I’ve delivered three stories to Dragonblade Publishing—two novels and one Lyon’s Den novella. I have two more novels and a novella for a box set to go.

First, the novels:

  • Jackie’s Climb (inspired by Jack and the Beanstalk)
  • The Secret Word (inspired by Rumplestiltskin)
  • A Gift to the Heart (inspired by Tatterhood, a Scandinavian folk tale)
  • The Night Dancers (inspired by the Twelve Dancing Princesses)

The Lyon’s Den story is The Lyon’s Dilemma (inspired by The Dragon Prince and the Stepmother, and also other evil twin stories).
I haven’t decided on the box set story yet, though I’ll have to do so soon, since it is due by the middle of June.

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Brothers on WIP Wednesday


And here are my heroes from A Gift to the Heart – Drake and Bane.

“The wife is out,” said the blacksmith, when Bane poked his head into the kitchen to see if supper was ready. “It’s Misrule Night. Don’t know what they’re up to, and I’m not going to ask. Supper is on the table.”

Bread, cheese, and a big slab of plum cake. Good enough. Bane poured himself an ale and sat down, as did the blacksmith. They ate in silence—when the lady of the house was home, she chattered enough for all three of them, but the blacksmith was a man of few words, and Bane had been eating alone for most of his life.

Besides, his mind was not on the food or the company, but on his brother. Something about the whole situation didn’t sit right. Drake was popular with the ladies, but—as far as Bane knew—this was the first time he’d ever received an anonymous invitation. Not, in itself, suspicious, but Bane didn’t like the timing. He couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that on Misrule Night, women used their temporary freedom to seek revenge.

Revenge for what, though? Drake was, as Bane had cause to know, the kindest, most giving of men, with a positive talent for staying on pleasant terms with his amours both during and after their liaison.

He had almost finished his ale when a hullabaloo started from outside—the rata-tat-tat of drums, the shriek of whistles, clanging sounds that put him in mind of kitchens.

“Better check,” said the blacksmith, and got up to open the door, just in time for the parade to pass in front of the smithy and then the cottage alongside it.

The noise makers came first. The clanging, Bane noted, was made by various types of spoon against pot lids. The women all wore costumes and masks, like the group he’d seen earlier. Even their own mothers would not have known them.
More women, similarly garbed, followed the noise makers. They were oddly positioned, in long lines, and it took Bane a minute to realise they were pulling on ropes—at least half a dozen ropes, each with eight or nine women haulers. Others danced among them with lamps, lighting the whole scene.

As he craned his neck to see what they were dragging, he noticed that doors and windows were open up and down the village street. The men of the village were silent witnesses to whatever was happening.
“It is a shaming,” said the blacksmith. He sounded awed. “There hasn’t been one in Marblestead for seven years! I wonder who it is?”

A shaming. Bane had never seen one, but he had heard about the last one. The man had been a serial fornicator, seducing one girl after the other with meaningless promises. After being led through the whole village and around the major farms and manors all one Misrule Night, he had left town and had never returned.

The object at the end of the ropes was plodding into view. It was a donkey, stolidly ignoring the ropes, the noise, and the murmuring of the onlookers. That, Bane saw at a glance.

What took all of his attention was not the steed but the rider. He was male. Since he wore nothing but knee breeches and a head-concealing mask in the form of a goat’s head, his gender was beyond a doubt. So said the broad shoulders and the muscular torso, arms and thighs.

He sat backwards on the ass, bound to the saddle with rope, swaying slightly as if he was drunk. Bane knew that torso, those arms! He narrowed his eyes as the rider drew level, and was aided by one of the dancers, who lifted her lamp so that it shone on the rider’s elbow.

“It is Drake,” Bane said.

“Really?” asked the blacksmith. “What has Drake done to deserve a shaming?”

“Nothing,” Bane said, grimly, and took a step forward, but the blacksmith grabbed his arm. “If you go out there, you’ll be joining him.”

“I can’t leave him there,” Bane protested, but the blacksmith was right. He’d not get Drake free without using his brain instead of just reacting. “I need my horse,” he said. “And a good knife. I’ll grab him when they take him off the donkey to throw him into the pond.”

“They’ll overpower you,” the blacksmith warned. “There are what? Fifty of them? One of you.”

“I can’t fight them. Not women,” Bane admitted. “But I have to try. If I get dunked alongside Drake, so be it.”

The blacksmith pursed his lips. “Cut the goat’s head off,” he advised. “Let them see they’ve got the wrong man.”

That might work. Bane left for the barn, where he also stabled his horse.He wanted to merely bridle the horse and be off after his brother, but his common sense told him that he might need the stability of saddle and stirrups. It took several minutes, even with the blacksmith’s help, but at last he was in the saddle and galloping after the Misrule party.

They had reached the pond and were dragging Drake from the saddle, none too gently. Fortunately for Drake, only a few of the women—ten at most—were involved in the dismounting. The rest were not even watching. Rather, they waited on the edge of the pond for the next event in the night’s entertainment. Bane grinned. He would give them something to watch.

He set the horse at a gallop, straight at the cluster around Drake, pulling up only at the last minute. They had, as he’d hoped, leapt out of the way, and Bane reached down and grabbed the rope that bound Drake’s arms to his body. “Mount behind me,” he shouted, and heaved as Drake jumped and scrambled until he was seated behind Bane.

The horse danced and skittered, objecting to the noise, the load and the whole situation. That was a help, for the women who might have objected to losing their prisoner were keeping their distance.

“This is my brother Mandrake Sanderson,” Bane shouted. “He has done nothing worthy of a shaming.” He was pretending to be trying to control the horse, but his knees were encouraging its jittery behaviour.

A woman with the crown and staff of the Lady of Misrule stepped forward—an Amazon with dark curly hair. He could not see much of her face behind her half mask, but what he could see distracted him for a moment. She was stunning.
“Mandrake?” she asked. “Not Colin?”

Bane hoped it was her readiness to listen to reason that soothed his anger, and not his awareness of her as an attractive female. Or perhaps it was just that Colin probably deserved whatever the women cared to dish out. They had made a mistake, and Bane had rescued Drake before they could half drown him. Or all the way drown him, which old timers said had sometimes happened.

“Not Colin,” he replied. “I’ll show you.” Bane twisted in the saddle so that he could use his knife to cut the ropes, an act the horse made more difficult than it needed to be. “Drake, take the head off,” he said.

“I don’t feel too good,” said Drake, in a voice that quavered over the register, but he fumbled with the goat’s head and lifted it free. His eyes looked odd. They must have given him something.

As the horse calmed, the women had gathered closer.

“It is Drake,” said one of the women. Bane couldn’t be sure, but he thought he recognised the voice of the blacksmith’s wife.

“Mr Colin Sanderson is older,” explained another to the Lady of Misrule.