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Accepting the mission on WIP Wednesday

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In Hold Me Fast, my hero chooses to go looking for his childhood sweetheart:

“Tamsyn is back in England,” he said, more to himself than to his brother, testing the words out loud as if hearing them would make them truer. She was still seperated from him, as much by her chosen lifestyle as by three hundred and fifty miles and seven years. But she was, at least, in the same country.

“You should go to London,” Bran said. “Find out why she stopped writing. Find out why she didn’t come home.”

She stopped loving him. The thought cut the way it always did, lacerating his heart yet again. But what else could it be? She had a ticket she could have used at any time. The Earl of Coombe might have stopped franking her letters, but he did keep his promise to make her famous. She had just been on her second tour through Europe, for crying out loud. She must have money to burn, plenty to buy her own tickets, frank her own letters.

Her silence was her message to Jowan, and all the more fool him for the hope that lingered, somewhere in the remote corners of his mind and heart.

“I must assume she changed her mind,” and if his jaw was set and his foot tapped with the tension in his frame, his voice was commendably even.

“Or she thinks you did,” argued Bran. “Look, Jowan, the girl you told me about isn’t one who would cut you without a word.”

Why was Bran pressing this? Couldn’t he see how much it hurt? “She changed,” Jowan pointed out. “Or I was wrong.”

Bran shook his head. “You are not wrong about people. You recognised me right off. In any case, you haven’t let her go. If you’re right, this is your chance to dig out the last of your hope and start to heal. If I’m right, the lady might need to be rescued.”

Jowan was still thinking about the pain of losing all of his hope, and Bran’s last few words took a moment to make sense. “Rescued?”

“If she wants to come home and can’t? For whatever reason? Yes. Rescued.”

Jowan shook his head. “How can I leave? We haven’t finished the shearing and then it will be planting time. I’ve the plans to sign off for the new mine.” He shrugged. “You know the list as well as I.”

“And how to make it all happen,” Bran pointed out.

Jowan put his knife and fork down while he thought about that. Bran was right. He could stay here with Jowan’s authority, and do everything Jowan would do himself. “I could go to London,” he said, testing the words on his tongue.

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Tea with a proud Grandpapa

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

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

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

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

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

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Covers for A Twist Upon a Regency Tale, season 2 (plus a Lyon’s Den book set in the Twist universe)

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The day a lioness attacked the Royal Mail

A print of the oil painting that commemorates an unusual danger of the road.

If ever there was a time to change the timeline of a story so that I could include a little known snippet of truth is stranger than fiction, this was it. Researching for the journey to London that my hero and his brother make in Hold Me Tight, I came across a story about a danger that the coachmen of the Royal Mail could not have expected. They were prepared for highwaymen, storms, obstacles left deliberately or accidentally on the road, even attacks by dogs. They could not have expected what happened on 20 October 1816.

It was winter, a Sunday evening, and already dark when the mail coach pulled up outside the Winterslow Hut on the outskirts of Salisbury. Before the guard and coachman could deliver the mail, something large attacked one of the horses. The horses began kicking and plunging, and the passengers, alarmed, leapt out of the coach and raced into the inn, locking the door, leaving the driver, and the guard, Joseph Pike, shut outside.

In the dim lamplight, it took the two men a few minutes to figure out what was happening. A lioness had attacked Pomegranate, one of the lead horses, She was clinging to the horse’s throat with her claws dug in, and was raking the horse with her hind feet. Pike reached for his gun, but was stopped by the owner of a travelling menagerie, who begged them to let him and his men try to contain the beast. He sent his dog to draw the lion off. When the large dog attacked, she abandoned the horse to deal with this new threat.

The people from the menagerie managed to chase the lion into a granary and confine her there. A local paper at the time said:

Her owner and his assistants followed her upon their hands and knees, with lighted candles, and having placed a sack on the ground near her, they made her lie down upon it; they then tied her four legs and passed a cord round her mouth, which they secured; in this state they drew her out from under the granary, upon the sack, and then she was lifted and carried by six men into her den in the caravan.

The mail was delayed by a mere 45 minutes.

I’ve been delayed by wondering if I can move my story back three years without overcomplicating things. I didn’t want my hero and his brother (especially his brother) to be old enough to serve in the long war against Napoleon. Ah well. This snippet of history is not going to go away. I’m sure I can use it in another story.

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Ruined heroine on WIP Wednesday

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And when I say ruined, I mean ruined. Poor Tammie. She was Tamsyn Roskilly long ago, and in the first scene of the book her boyhood love is thinking about going to London to find her. I’ve just started her book, Hold Me Fast, which is inspired by the folk tales Tam Lin, Thomas the Rhymer, and a host of stories about the Fairy Queen stealing away a musician to play at her feasts.

Every so often, Tammie Lind was struck by a sudden moment of clarity—a step into reality, as it were. Moments when she saw the company she was with, and her own behaviour, through the eyes of Tamsyn Roskilly. It was a sort of haunting, for Tamsyn had been killed long ago, smothered under Guy’s manipulations and Tammie’s own weaknesses.

Today, Tamsyn gazed with scorn at the fellow denizens of the laughing gas party. Ether was the drug of choice today. Tammie herself was as high as a kite, floating high above such mundane concerns as tomorrow’s rehearsal and the foolish fellow pawing at her. He was a peer of some sort. A boy with pretensions to being a songwriter. Guy would own him within a few weeks, and Tammie was part of his bait.

The boy was far too drunk on ether to do more than squeeze and prod. Tamsyn was indignant on her behalf. Silly Tamsyn. Tammie had not owned her own body in more years than she could, at the moment, count. She tried it anyway, numbering the years on her fingers, but she became lost in the mystery of whether a thumb counted as a finger and forgot the question.

She was vaguely aware that Guy was free from Tamsyn’s scorn. Tamsyn avoided looking at him. Wise Tamsyn. As usual, Guy sat a little apart, the untouchable Lord of Coombe, amused at the havoc he had caused. He seldom indulged in more than a taste of the various substances he supplied to his sycophants and the people, like Tammie, that he owned.

Tamsyn despised them all, and she hated Guy. Reality was overrated. Tammie no longer bothered with such emotions. She lined up for another turn at the gas, to nail Tamsyn’s soul back in the coffin of her imagination, but Guy stopped her with a word to the attendant.

“No more for Miss Lind. She has a rehearsal tomorrow. Tammie, time for bed.”

Tammie wanted to whine and howl. Instead, she turned obediently towards the stairs, but the sudden movement set her off balance, and as she steadied herself, she saw Guy nod towards the boy, who followed her to her room.

Tamsyn had made a mistake seven years ago, and since then, Tammie had paid and paid and paid. The boy was making a mistake now. Tammie felt a distant pity for him, but in the end, she would do as Guy ordered.

She took his hand. At least tonight was only the seeming of the thing. He would sleep off the ether and by the time he woke, she would be at rehearsal. Everyone would believe he had been favoured by the Devon Songbird. Perhaps he would believe it himself.

Sooner or later it would be true. Guy had used her that way before and she knew how it went. Blackmail material or bribery or simply yet another way to soften the boy’s resistance and break his spirit until he was putty in Guy’s hands.

Tammie was desperately trying to claw her way back to the floating sensation, but the harder she tried, the further it receded. Perhaps a shot of the gin she had hidden in her room. Guy had taken the last of her secret laudunum.

The boy threw himself at her as soon as she closed her bedchamber door. He clawed at her gown, increasingly frantic as the buttons refused to open for him. “Patience, my lord,” she soothed. “Lie down on the bed, and I shall prepare myself for you.”

He blinked at her, swaying on his feet, his surge of energy draining away.

“Lie down on the bed, my lord,” she repeated. She would sleep in the dressing room tonight. It would not be the first time.

She found the gin where she had hidden it, in a bag concealed within the folds of the new gown Guy had chosen for her to wear for a command performance at one of Society’s balls. Thank whatever diety looked after harlots and drunkards for this season’s fuller gowns.

Just a couple of fingers. She would be watched more closely now that he had her booked for so many performances. This would have to last until she could bribe or blackmail someone into supplying her with another bottle.

Without it, she would be dependent on Guy for each dose. He knew she needed a small drink of laudanum before a performance—on stage or in a drawing room. Just enough to quiet the jitters. Then, afterwards, if he was pleased with her performance, there would be something more powerful as a reward.

Tamsyn had tried to give up the substances that Guy insisted Tammie needed. More times than Tammie could count. Twice, she refused until he forced it down her throat. Once, she managed to evade her minders and hide until the craving turned to cramps and nausea, then vomiting as pain seized her whole body, then bad dreams so bizarre that they exceeded anything that she’d experienced while under the influence.

In one of those, the monsters that invaded the refuge she’d found proved to be men sent by Guy. Or perhaps the monsters were unreal and the invaders retrieved her while she was unconscious.

Whichever it was, Tammie woke up in the house Guy was renting at the time, in the half-floating half-dreaming state that said he had already given her something.

Tammie never allowed Tamsyn to run away again. Giving up opium and alcohol was hard enough, but worse was being brought back when she thought she was free.

It hurt too much to think about it. Tammie poured another two fingers. “You have had more than enough today,” Tamsyn scolded. “You will pass out if you drink that, too.”

“Fair point,” Tammie conceded.

She slid open the door. The boy was sound asleep on the bed, flat on his back, snoring. Tammie moved him so that he lay on his side, with a pillow behind his back to keep him from rolling. There. If he vomited, it would go on the sheets instead of drowning him. She patted his cheek. “Run as fast as you can, my lord,” she whispered. “The Earl of Coombe is not your friend. He is not anyone’s friend.”

Even if he had heard, he would not listen. She returned to the dressing room, tossed down the gin, stretched out on the maid’s pallet, and waited for oblivion.

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Tea with Arial and a story

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

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

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

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

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Coming in 2024

 

This is very much the story so far. I’m already signed up for an anthology in July, as well. And all the stories on the top row are already written (except for an epilogue for Inviting the Wild, which I plan to finish before Wednesday), so I hope to have time for Concealed in Mist and an Unpitied Sacrifice. Mind you, by June I need to be started on my Roman Empire time travel series for 2025. So we’ll have to see how the year goes.

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Definitely not falling in love on WIP Wednesday

Ruadh had asked Lady Stancroft about their plans for the evening. He told himself that a social connection with the earl and his wife would be advantageous, but it was with the alluring sister that he imagined dancing. Indeed, with dancing in mind, he had asked his friend Nate, who had changed his bandages today, to add extra padding and bind the arm tightly so that bumping during vigorous exercise wasn’t likely to set it bleeding again.

And there she was, standing with the couple and a girl who might be a friend, or perhaps another sister. That girl doesn’t look like my Rose. He caught the mental slip. Not his Rose. He didn’t mean it in the sense of a deep connection. After all, he scarcely knew the lady. Lady Rosalind, he should have said.

His internal argument left him off-balance as he reached the family group, greeting Lady Stancroft first, then her lord, and lastly Lady Rosalind.

“Vivienne, may I present Major Douglas, the Master of Glencowan?” said Stancroft. “Douglas, another of my sisters, Lady Vivienne Ransome. My sister Pauline Turner is not here this evening.”

Lady Vivienne was a pretty girl in an ordinary sort of a way. The sort of girl he’d seen at every fashionable event in London to which he’d been enveigled by friends. Fair curls, pale skin, figure like a stick with only the smallest of bumps to indicate that she was female. He bowed politely. “I am delighted to meet you, Lady Vivienne. Lord Stancroft must be the envy of the gentlemen here to be the escort of three such lovely ladies.

Lady Stancroft wore yet another mask, this one ornamented with jewels that complemented those she wore at her wrist, her ears, and on her neck. Did she always wear the mask? He wondered what her story was.

But even as he answered Stancroft’s question about his reception at his grandfather’s house, his eyes kept sliding back to Lady Rosalind who was, in his opinion, the finest jewel in Stancroft’s collection. “I shall return tomorrow, and we shall see what happens,” he finished explaining.

Should he ask Lady Rosalind for a dance? He was certain she must have already given all of them away, and indeed, a man had just asked Lady Vivienne and been turned away with a charming disclaimer that she had no dances left.

When the man walked away without speaking to Lady Rosalind, his assumption was confirmed. Then the orchestra began to play, a man whisked Lady Vivienne off to the dance floor, and Lady Rosalind remained, chatting quietly with her sister-in-law.

“Lady Rosalind,” Ruadh said, hurriedly, before he could talk himself out of it, “would you honour me with this dance?” Now she would tell him that she did not dance tonight or some such claptrap.

But she didn’t. She smiled and said, “I would like that, Major Douglas.”

It was a quadrille, a dance performed by four couples, and they quickly found a group of three pairs lacking a fourth. She danced with grace and enthusiasm, her bountiful breasts performing an interesting jig of their own that made him grateful to be in a kilt, so his body’s response was concealed.

He mostly managed to keep his eyes on hers, rather than letting them slip below her neck, and was rewarded by her lovely eyes, which in the light of the candles danced with golden flames as she smiled at him.

The dance was vigorous, so they were unable to talk. The arm protested some of the movements, but not enough to inhibit him. As he walked the lady back to her brother’s side, he had just enough time to beg her for the supper dance. He was surprised when it was available. What was wrong with the gentlemen of London? He couldn’t understand why her every dance was not taken, as her sister said hers was.

Some remnant of his mother’s teaching remained with him enough that he did his duty by other young ladies while waiting for his next dance with Lady Rosalind. To come to the ball and dance with only one lady was to call attention to her, and to raise expectations with her, her family and the onlookers.

The idea didn’t panic him. He poked at it as if it was a tooth that had once been sore, waiting for the wince and the recoil. Was he seriously considering Lady Rosalind as a possible wife? He was too old and too broken. He didn’t know her well enough. She was too young for him—not young enough to be his daughter, but still much younger. She was English, and close to her family, but his wife would have to live in Galloway.

He was only here for a dance or two. That was all there could be.

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Tea with Rebeka and Arik

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Black, please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tinker?” Her Grace asked.

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

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

Rebeka nibbled on the biscuit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But, Rebeka—.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

How It All Began

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

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

Knight of Runes

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

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

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

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

Excerpt:

Prologue

England – May 1605

I should not have stayed away so long.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The remaining assailants fled headlong back into the forest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Arik joined the fight.