arranged marriage

by

A funeral and two weddings in WIP Wednesday



I’ve just sent The Lyon, the Lady and a Fine Pair of Boots to the publishers. It’s a book that starts with a funeral and ends with two weddings, and here’s the funeral.

***

A village in Oxfordshire, 1816

The old bag was really dead.

Katherine Fivepence had spent the last few days expecting Lady Miller to sit up, grab her favorite cane, and start laying about her while berating them all for actual and imagined deficiencies.

Even after the coffin lid went on. Even during the funeral service in the little church. It was just hard to believe that the menace who had overshadowed Kat’s life for so many years had finally gone the way of all humankind.

Now Kat stood in the graveyard, ignoring the drizzle and the small cluster of menservants and villagers, watching the first clods of earth going into the grave on top of the coffin. None of the other maids. Miss Miller had decreed that females did not attend funerals. She and her sisters were seated in the ladies’ parlor at home saying prayers, and the female servants had all been sent to the servants’ hall or their rooms to also pray for the soul of their dead mistress.

Kat wasn’t with the other maids because they scorned and envied Kat in equal measures. Envied, for Lady Ellen had taken her as her personal attendant. Scorned for several reasons, not least because she was an indentured orphan and because Lady Ellen was the unwanted daughter and sister of the house.

As for praying for Lady Miller’s soul, Kat figured her prayers would not make a blind scrap of difference to Lady Miller’s destination. In fact, if God was a just God, like the vicar always said, then Lady Miller was even now roasting away in the hottest pit of hell.

Anyway, Kat hadn’t wanted to miss the funeral and burial. To her, it was a celebration, and if English maids were permitted to dance on graves, she would have done so, as soon as the grave was filled, a mound of raw earth in the center of a neat row of cemetery plots, each with a carefully tended garden, rails or neat hedges to demarcate its borders, and a tombstone of praises for the dead or pious wishes for their eternity or both.

These were the former dignitaries of the village, whose descendants made it a point of pride to ensure their ancestors could compete with their neighbors in death, as they had in life. Elsewhere in the graveyard, other plots were also devotedly tended, but with less attention to impressing others, living and dead. And the entire graveyard was neat. The sexton made sure that even the graves of those whose descendants had long moved away to the village were regularly scythed, the tombstones weeded.

Kat had a favorite corner, where she lingered after church on Sunday, slipping away from under the housekeeper’s eye while the other maids chattered and flirted. A willow tree hung over a family grave, where six generations of Simpsons had been committed to their final rest—the last more than two centuries ago.

Kat, who had never had a family, enjoyed reading the tombstones and imaging their lives. Simpsons no longer lived in the village, and Kat sometimes indulged herself in speculations about where they might have gone.

But wait. The committal was over. The vicar was strolling off toward the vicarage, and the sexton was ordering the grave filled in. She had better hustle to return to the manor and join the other servants in the parlor. The solicitor, who was strolling alongside the vicar all dressed in black, was heading to the same destination, and when he arrived, he would be reading Lady Miller’s last will and testament.

Miss Miller had ordered the whole household to be present for that solemn event. Miss Clara Miller was cut from the same cloth as Lady Miller, though she had had limited scope as a dictator while that tyrant was alive. Even so, everyone in the household knew that crossing her was almost as stupid as angering her mother.

by

An Arranged Marriage on WIP Wednesday

 

In April, I have a story in the collection “Dukes in Spring“. Here’s an excerpt.

***

Mima’s sister Marge had locked herself in the tower and was refusing to come out. Papa said she would give up when she was hungry, but Mima asked the servants, and had discovered that Marge had given orders. All the cisterns were stocked with fresh spring water, the wine store replenished, and the larder fully stocked.

The artful woman had told the servants she was merely preparing against the possibility that the evil Townswells might break the marriage agreement and attack the Ruthermonds.

Of course, they believed it, for no one thought this proposed marriage was anything except a trick by the wicked inhabitants of Keldwood Cross. So, they had willingly provided the stores their lady could easily live on for months, if she did not mind an almost endless supply of preserved food.

No one had ever said that Lady Margherita Ruthermond was stupid. Spoiled, yes. Willful, certainly. And determined not to, as she put it, sacrifice her happiness on the altar of the family feud. As always, Mama sided with Marge, and when Papa growled that she and her daughter were both selfish termagants, she took to her bed.

After ranting for three days, Papa sent for Mima. “You shall have to go in Margherita’s place, Mima,” he decreed. “Someone has to marry the Townswell cub, or we have broken the agreement.” He shuddered.

“Would that be such a bad thing?” Mima asked. “After all, we have been ignoring the Townswells for three hundred years, except for a few broken bones here and there. We can go back to doing so again, can we not?”

Papa shook his head. “It’s more than a few broken bones, though, Mima, isn’t it? Wrecking the Lion and Harp, beating the Ruthermond steward until the doctor feared for his life, blowing up the bridge across Coombe Water.”

He held up both hands, palms out. “You are going to say that was all the Townswells, but for everything they did, our people did something as bad or worse. And if I find the fool who led the attack on a Royal Mail coach because they mistook it for a Ruthermond carriage, I shall have their guts.” He thumped a fist into a hand to emphasize his point.

Mima, who knew perfectly well that the idiots in question were her two youngest brothers, kept her mouth shut.

“The riot in Coombe was the last straw,” said Papa, with a sigh, “and you know as well as I do, it was as much our people’s fault as it was theirs.”

Two packs of young hotheads, both the worse for drink. But property had been damaged and a Coombe innkeeper who had tried to stop the violence had been knocked unconscious.

Even worse, the daughter of another neighbor, the Duke of Norcross, had been caught up in the riot. As far as Mima knew, the lady had not been physically hurt, but she had been shoved, and she had been scared. Since her father had powerful allies in both Houses of Parliament, and the ear of the Prince Regent besides, neither Papa nor Harwood had been able to brush the riot into oblivion.

“I am sorry, Mima,” Papa said. “But now that the Prince Regent is involved, and some of my fellow lords are talking about sending in an outside magistrate… I had no choice but to sign the agreement that his highness demanded. If I do not produce a bride for Harwood’s son, I will be foresworn. Even worse, the agreement says that, if one party defaults, he must pay a fine of ten thousand pounds and surrender the disputed lands in Coombe. Do you want to hand Harwood a win of that magnitude?”

So, Papa had bowed to pressure from the Crown and his peers and had put his pride on the line, Marge had thrown a tantrum, and Mima was to be the human sacrifice to save them all. That is, if Marge did not appear to do her duty.

by

Wedding day on WIP Wednesday

This is an excerpt from my novella for a Dragonblade anthology that will publish next year. My hero and heroine are substitutes for their older siblings in an arranged marriage. Here’s my bride.

When Mima woke on her wedding day, she was not miserable.

She had met her groom. Pel was someone she thought she might have liked, had their families not been at war, and had they met under different circumstances. Their marriage, she cautiously hoped, might not be as terrible as she feared.

Then her best friend Isabelle, one of her female cousins, arrived with the maid carrying the breakfast tray. “You are not getting married without me, Mimmie,” said Bella, “even if you are marrying an ogre.”

“He is not an ogre,” Mima protested, and found herself telling her friend about the night-time visit.

Bella took a predictably romantic view of the encounter. “Oh, I could swoon,” she declared. “He climbed to your balcony, Mimmie! How delicious! Is he handsome? Of course, he must be. It would be a travesty were he not, after he braved all those guards so he could meet you.”

“Do not tell the others,” Mima warned her, as giggles from outside of the door heralded the arrival of the rest of her cousins.

Moments later, she was engulfed in a feminine avalanche, and the next two hours were filled with pampering, primping, praise, and lots of laughter. Almost everything she wore, from the skin out, was new—most of it given by or borrowed from her cousins.

The cream silk gown had been intended for special occasions, and she supposed there were few occasions more special than one’s own wedding. Even so, Bella had declared it needed a little more, and had spent the past two days adding little embroidered flowers to the bodice and hem, each of them a tiny work of art, each chosen to express a suitable sentiment—asters, white carnations, and forget-me-nots for love, myrtle for luck, peonies for a happy life, violets for faithfulness.

One of the other cousins had taken scraps of the fabric and the lace that trimmed it, and made a bonnet to match, decorated with left-over ribbon from the gown and silk flowers that matched those Bella had embroidered.

A third cousin, nearly as deft with her needle as Bella, had embroidered matching slippers for Mima to wear on her feet, and others had searched through their drawers or the local drapery shops for stockings, garters, petticoats, and all the other items Mima needed to do the Ruthermonds proud at the wedding.

Even without her sister’s presence, Mima felt buoyed up on a tide of family love. In fact, if she were to be honest with herself, this way was better. She and Marge had never had more than a cordial relationship, and it had frequently been much less.

Marge seemed to believe Mima was her rival for everything—possessions, talents, parents’ affection and attention. What Marge had, she would not share. What Mima had, Marge wanted.

Marge was the older by three years. Marge was also—at least according to Mama and Marge—cleverer, prettier, and more talented. Mima had to concede the “prettier.” Marge was an English rose—a peaches and cream complexion, golden hair, blue eyes, a heart-shaped face, and a figure that displayed to advantage in everything she wore.

Mima had dark brown hair. Her blue eyes were closer to a faded grey. And she was undeniably… curvy, a charitable aunt put it. Plump, said Mama and Marge.

Today, though, as she examined herself in the mirror, she felt almost beautiful, and the compliments from her cousins lifted her confidence still further. Let Marge sulk in her tower while Mima married Lord Pelham Townswell! Never had Mima been happier to be the recipient of something—or in this case someone—rejected by Marge.

 

by

Family feuds and arranged marriages on WIP Wednesday

Or one of each, at least, from the story I’ve just started for a Dragonblade Publishing anthology that will be published next year. The theme is Romeo and Juliet! Of course, everyone will have their own take on it.

***

The people in the neighbourhood of Keldwood Cross hated the bride. Not that they had met her, of course, but village, manor, farm and hamlet were agreed. No female from Marshhold-Over-Water could possibly be anything but a villain, and it was a terrible thing that the Young Master was going to have to marry the daughter of Marshhold’s earl.

Or so they were saying in the tavern. Pelham Townwell sat so quietly in the corner that they must have forgotten he was there. On the other hand, perhaps they remembered, for they did not blame his father, their own earl.

Neither did Pel. Lord Harwood was in a difficult spot, and clearly his people realised that. The Prince Regent himself had taken an interest in the Marshhold-Keldwood feud, and the two earls had been commanded to make peace and to seal it with a marriage!

Since Lord Harwood had an unmarried heir, and Lord Ilton’s eldest daughter was also unwed, they were the obvious choices for the arrangement. Pel’s older brother was furious about it. Clay—Viscount Clayton was the Harwood courtesy title—Clay had been drinking for two solid weeks, and his prognostications for the marriage got gloomier by the day.

Pel wondered what the bride thought. Were the people of Marshhold as upset about the marriage as the people of Keldwood? Did Lady Margherita Ruthermond dread the marriage as much as Clay? Probably more. After all, Clay would have to live with Lady Margherita, but the lady would have to live with Clay, his family, the household, and an entire countryside who had already decided to hate her.

At least Ilton had shown some consciousness of the size of the problem. He had asked to have it written into the marriage agreement that his daughter must be treated well, and that—if she could show grounds for complaint—she could return to her family and the Earl of Harwood and his family would need to pay massive damages.

Father’s reaction to that clause had been to send his secretary with a letter to the Prince Regent, complaining that the clause was an insult, and showed Ilton’s ill intentions.

The Prince Regent had decreed that the clause was to stand, and Father had spent fifteen minutes breaking every vase, dish, cup and china statue in the library, where he had been when his secretary reported.

Clay and Pel had taken the secretary out for a drink, and then another, until they heard exactly what the Prince Regent had said. “Wise man, Ilton. Young Clayton had better behave himself and treat the Ruthermond girl well, or she will beggar the Townwells.”

When Father was over his tantrum, he had decreed that the new bride was to be given every courtesy, and pampered like princess, and Clay had begun drinking and had, so far, not stopped.

Pel was glad to be only an observer in the coming carriage wreck of the Harwood-Ilton marriage. Right up until the moment that Father realised that his eldest son was too drunk to send to the wedding, so he decided to send Pel, instead.

by

Spotlight on The Secret Word

What does the tale of “Rumplestiltskin” look like set during the Regency, and written without magic?

My answer is The Secret Word, which – once I started writing it – took on a life of its own. This book is published on September 6th.

The Secret Word

(Book 10 in A Twist Upon a Regency Tale)

When Christopher Satterthwaite rescues Clementine Wright from would-be kidnappers, he is offered an opportunity he can’t refuse. Clemmie’s father, a wealthy coal magnate, has been looking for a husband for his only child. Someone with aristocratic bloodlines and no family—someone who can give him the blue-blooded heir he craves, without the interference of noble relatives.

Chris figures he and Clemmie can work together to keep Wright from controlling their every move. As their partnership develops, they fall in love. Wright doesn’t stand a chance against them. Or does he?

And what about the other men who are showing an interest in the child who is soon on the way? Chris’s reprobate grandfather is hanging around like a bad smell, and clearly has a scheme in mind. Chris’s more respectable relatives have not disowned him after all, and are eager to show the as yet unborn child with every advantage—because they regret not helping Chris as a child? Or for purposes of their own?

And then there is Ramping Billy O’Hara, the most sinister of them all, and Chris’s patron.

Some are villains. Some are on the side of the couple and their child. Only time will tell which is which.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FM8R25VP

 

by

Tea with a scandalous woman

Eleanor, the Duchess of Winshire, was reserving judgement.

The Duke of Kempbury was coming to visit, and bringing with him his new duchess. Some were whispering, with approval, that he had finally wed the lady to whom he had been ten years ago. Others assured their friends that they’d had doubts about that betrothal at the time. A duke marrying the daughter of a mere gentleman? And not even the legitimate daughter, but the child of a long ago mistress, whom he and his wife had raised with their own daughter.

Eleanor had been sympathetic at the time. She firmly believed that a child should not be blamed for the sins of his or her parents, and Adaline Fairbanks had been raised as a lady.

Then came the scandal, ending the betrothal, justifying the critics and casting Miss Fairbanks into Society’s outer darkness. Those who had stirred the scandal broth at the time were doing so again now that Adaline was finally the Duchess of Kembury.

Hence Kempbury’s call on Eleanor yesterday, to assure her that the betrothal had been broken over a misunderstanding, that the scandalous encounter had been a plot against Adaline, and that his lady was innocent.

Eleanor had to wonder whether he had been duped. After all, credible witnesses placed Adaline Fairbanks in an intimate embrace with the Duke of Richport. However, Kempbury was no fool. He insisted that Eleanor would understand all if she only spoke to his wife.

So here she was. Waiting to have tea with a scandalous lady.

They would be here any moment. Eleanor resolved that, whatever had happened in the past, she would support Kempbury. And his duchess, too, if that lady could convince Eleanor that she was a fit mate for duke. Scandal could always be turned around, when a person knew how to manage it.

 

The Lyon’s Dilemma

Felix Seward, Duke of Kempbury, does not want to be at a house party. Any house party, particularly one attended by her. Adaline Beverley. His nemesis. His Achilles heel. The one woman put on God’s earth to lure him from his duty. But Kempbury’s purpose is strong. Nothing she can offer will tempt him from his chosen path.

Only 99c until July 30th.

 

 

by

Fated meetings on WIP Wednesday

 

I have a preorder link for A Lyon’s Dilemma! So I thought I’d share an excerpt, since it will stop counting as a Work-In-Progress in a little over three weeks, on July 30th.

***

The half-sisters had never been friends, though only a few months separated them in age, and they had been raised in the same nursery. Adaline supposed she could not blame her father’s wife for being resentful, but it was not Adaline’s fault her father kept a mistress, nor that he brought his love child into his own house after her mother died giving birth to Adaline.

Emmeline’s resentment was copied from her own mother, and had been given further force because Adaline and Emmeline resembled one another so much. Emmeline, even though she was the younger by four months, had held a childish belief that Adaline had copied Emmeline’s looks to spite her. According to Emmeline, that justified wearing Adaline’s clothes to play naughty tricks on the governess and other servants.

Adaline had suffered many punishments for things she hadn’t done, and for lying about her guilt. And then Emmeline was caught in the act, and Adaline was sent away to school. “For your own sake,” her father had said. Adaline had enjoyed school well enough. But it was an exile, nonetheless.

Her own childhood experiences made her all the more determined to ensure that Melody never had cause to doubt that she was loved. Sad to say, that goal had been aided by Richard Beverley’s death. He had been a poor choice as a husband, as it turned out, though better in the circumstances than none at all. He had been shaping up to be a miserable father, and none at all was definitely preferable.

“Are any of the gentlemen going to be my new father?” Melody asked. The schoolroom party was taking advantage of today’s fine weather to walk to the pond to feed the ducks, and Adaline had elected to join them. She looked around to see if anyone else had heard the question, but Melody and Adaline had dropped behind the rest.

“I do not think so, darling,” Adaline said. “But remember I told you I have seen a matchmaker who will be looking for a husband for me.” Not Kempbury. Damn Kempbury, for invading her mind and setting her pulse beating just for him, as it had once before, long ago.

Melody frowned, thoughtfully. “I do not think I would want someone else to choose me a husband,” she said.

Adaline had certainly not done very well on her own, but she kept that thought to herself.

Ah! Here was the pond. Oh dear. And here was Kempbury. He had obviously come here for some privacy and solitude. He had a propensity for going off on his own—Adaline remembered that about him. She almost giggled at the thought of his dismay when his refuge was invaded by ten children of assorted ages, four nursemaids, two governesses and Adaline.

He nodded to her with distant courtesy, and then turned his gaze on Melody. All thought of laughter fled. But no. He would not guess. Melody was only a child. And even if he wondered, he could not be certain.

Besides, what could he do? Melody was legally a Beverley, and Adaline was her mother.

He narrowed his green eyes, while Melody stared back at him, her head to one side, her own very similar green eyes alight with curiosity.

“Might you be Miss Beverley?” he asked.

“Melody, make your curtsey to the Duke of Kempbury,” Adaline prompted. Melody, her most winning smile to the fore, curtseyed. “I am Melody Beverley, sir,” she said, “and this is my Mama.”

His expression, which had warmed while observing her daughter, chilled again as he looked at Adaline. “Mrs. Beverley and I were acquainted a long time ago,” he said.

“A very long time ago,” Adaline agreed. “Before you were born, Melody. Look, Miss Winchard has bread for the ducks. Get in line for your share, my dearest.”

Melody bobbed another curtsey, briefer than the first and said, “It was a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace,” then rushed off before he could reply.

 

 

by

Deceit in a good cause on WIP Wednesday

Here’s the opening of my story for the August release Dukes All Night Long. It’s called With a Valet in a Wardrobe at Midnight.

***

“Tell me again why I am helping you do this, Garry” grumbled the Earl of Wolverton, as they rode up the carriage way to the home of the Earl of Congleton.

“Because I am the little brother you never had,” Gareth Viscount Versey cheerfully. “I say, Wolf. I’ve just had a thought. If this lady and I find we will suit, you and I might become brothers in truth.”

Wolf, as most of his friends called him, clapped a large hand over his face and sighed. “Doomed. I am doomed, I tell you. I should have drowned you when they gave you to me the day you started school.”

As a new pupil at Haddow, Garry had been assigned to Wolf—who was in his second to last year—to fetch his firewood, run his errands, and clean his boots, in return for Wolf’s protection and mentoring. They had hit it off, despite the six year age gap.

“And what if the Earl of Congleton finds out that my valet is the Duke of Dellborough’s grandson, and turfs us both out on our ear? And I lose Sabina?”

Garry shook his head. “No chance of that. The Earl wants the match between you and Lady Sabina as much as he apparently wants the one between me and Lady Jenna. Besides, Wolf, I’m not planning to be seen by the Earl or by his daughters. That’s why I’m pretending to be your valet.”

“I still don’t get it,” Wolf grumbled. “Surely you do not expect to actually meet Lady Jenna, let alone fall in love with her.”

Garry did not expect to fall in love at all, let alone in the week they would be here. Wolf had love on his mind, for he was head over heels for Lady Sabina, and his purpose in making this trip was to propose to his beloved, whom he had been courting for the entire Season. Garry’s purpose was quite different. “The idea is not to meet her but to watch how she interacts with her family, and how she behaves when only the servants are around. Wolf, you know how hard it is for people like us to find out what young ladies are really like. They are always acting. I want to know if I can like her, respect her.”

“Desire her,” Wolf offered.

“That, too, since I plan to be a faithful husband. Mama says love will come, if Lady Jenna and I are suited, and if we both enter the marriage determined to treat the other with affection and respect.” He shrugged. “I hope she is right, but once I meet the girl formally, I have lost all chance to figure out if I can even tolerate her.”

“What is the rush to get you married, infant?” Wolf asked. “You said the duke has ordered it, but you are only nineteen. Can you not tell him you want to wait?”

Was Wolf serious? He had met that force of nature currently wearing the coronet of Dellborough. What made him think anyone could argue with the man? “His Grace has decided his days are numbered.” Which was probably true, but not something the duke’s grandson wanted to think about. “He wants to see his great grandson before he dies.” If at all possible, His Grace had said, but a wish from the duke was a command.

Garry shrugged. “He has passed his eightieth year, Wolf. He is an old man.”

The indomitable and mighty duke of Garry’s childhood was a shrunken, hunched shadow of himself. He walked slowly, using a cane for stability. His speech was slower now, as if he needed more time to craft the still elegant, coherent, and frequently sardonic sentences that even yet moved the House of Lords and even royalty.

No, Garry could not tell the grandfather he loved and worshipped in equal measure that he wanted to wait. Not that he was being forced. Both Pater and Mama had said Garry could refuse the match and they would support him—which perhaps he would do if the girl was impossible.

But otherwise, Garry was marrying Lady Jenna Elliot, and doing so soon, so they could begin the great grandson project without delay.

Ah. Here was the house, coming into view around the curve of the drive. Another few minutes, and they would arrive, and then no more joking around with Wolf. Garry had to disappear into the persona of a valet.

Let the play begin.

by

Dukes don’t wait on WIP Wednesday

The Lyon’s Dilemma, my next Lyon’s Den Connected World book, has just gone back to the publisher after I went through the developmental edits. Have I mentioned that I love Cynthia, my editor? The Lyon’s Dilemma gives the Duke of Kempbury the happy ending the poor man needs. You may remember him from Thrown to the Lyon.

Dukes don’t wait. Dukes keep other people waiting, but they are never left kicking their heels in the absence of the person on whom they have condescended to call—after making an appointment, mind you.

Felix Seward, the Duke of Kempbury, was tempted to get up and leave, but coming here once was hard enough. Leaving and then returning was unthinkable. And nothing else he had tried had worked.

He sat on the uncomfortable chair to which he had been directed. It was at least, a private parlor, but he could not forget that the establishment was a gambling den, and one in which light-heeled ladies—or prostitutes, if one wished to avoid polite euphemisms—prosecuted their trade.

Felix had been here once before, and he had been at a disadvantage that time, too.

That previous time, it had been his own fault. Mrs. Dove Lyon, the proprietress of this gambling den, had been rightly protective of her guest, and rightly reluctant to allow him to see her.

He had been operating on false information—believing what he had been told about his half-brother’s widow by his other half-brother and step-mother. He should have known they were lying—he should have investigated for himself.

It had all turned out well. The widow had married nine months ago, becoming the Countess of Somerford. Felix saw the Somerfords often—her, her doting husband, and their delightful son Stephen, who was the son of her first husband, and therefore, his nephew and currently, his heir.

Indirectly, Dorcas Somerford and her son had sent him here. Stephen Seward was a delightful boy, and made him long for a son of his own. Dorcas and Ben had that rarest of things, a happy marriage, and Felix wanted one, too.

Which was why he had come to the Lyon’s Den, after weeks—no, months—of indecision. Mrs. Dove Lyon was a highly successful matchmaker. Dorcas and Ben had married as a result of her machinations, and Felix knew of at least twenty other marriages that, from his observations, were credits to her work.

The truth of the matter was he needed a matchmaker. Felix had had no success in finding a wife. A duchess? That would have been easy. Almost any woman in the ton would be delighted to take on the role. But wife? Felix didn’t know how to out a lady’s true character. Nor did he know how to make himself agreeable to a lady in a way that would lead her to look on him with favor. Him. Felix the man, rather than Kempbury, the duke. In his mind’s eye, he could see them, the women who slavered over him when he was forced to make an appearance at a social event. As they looked up to him with adoring eyes, they did not see the man at all. For them, he was simply his title, the words obscuring him entirely—words that were capitalized, perhaps in gilded letters and possibly shedding gold dust: The Duke. Gilded title or not, Felix wanted to be simply a man to his wife, if to nobody else.

 

 

by

Spotlight on Beguiled by the Highlander

Daughters of the Isle, Book 1

Pre-order – Release date 3rd June 2025

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

EXCERPT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How apt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her smile slipped. “What?”

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

Meet Christina Phillips

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