BOOK SPOTLIGHT!!! Beheld: Godiva's Story by Christopher M. Cevasco #LadyGodiva #AngloSaxons #HistoricalFiction @cevasco_m @maryanneyarde

 

Beheld: Godiva's Story

By Christopher M. Cevasco

A darkly twisted psychological thriller exploring the legend of Lady Godiva’s naked ride.

Having survived a grave illness to become one of 11th-century England’s wealthiest landown-ers, Godgyfu of Coventry (Lady Godiva) remains forever grateful to the town whose patron saint worked such miracles. She vows to rebuild Coventry’s abbey and better the lives of its townsfolk. But the wider kingdom is descending into political turmoil, and her husband, Earl Leofric, starts to break under the strain. Godgyfu finds her own plans unravelling the moment she meets Thomas, a Benedictine novice with perverse secret desires. Three lives become dan-gerously entangled in a shocking web of ambition, voyeuristic lust, and horrid obsession. Can Godgyfu escape the monk’s menacing wiles and Leofric’s betrayals to secure her future in a changing kingdom? Perhaps, but first she faces a dark test of wills leading her perilously closer to a legendary ride...

Trigger Warnings: Sexual situations, psychological abuse, violence, brief references to suicide.

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Christopher M. Cevasco was born in New Jersey and spent a memorable decade in Brooklyn, New York, but he feels most at home in medieval England, Normandy, Norway, and Green-land. A lifelong passion for history and fiction led him to earn degrees in Medieval Studies and English and later to embark upon a writing career that merges these two loves. 

Chris was the founding editor of the award-winning Paradox: The Magazine of Historical and Speculative Fiction from 2003 to 2009. His own short stories appear in such venues as Black Static, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Distant Echoes (Corazon Books, UK), and the Prime Books anthologies Shades of Blue and Gray: Ghosts of the Civil War and Zombies: Shambling Through the Ages. 

A long-time member of the Historical Novel Society, Chris currently serves on the society's North American conference board as registration chair for the upcoming 2023 conference in San Antonio, Texas. 

Chris lives with his wife and their two children in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.

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BOOK EXCERPT!!! The Douglas Bastard (A sequel to The Black Douglas Trilogy) by J R Tomlin #HistoricalFiction #Scotland #BlogTour #CoffeePotBookClub @JRTomlinAuthor @maryanneyarde

The Douglas Bastard 

(A sequel to The Black Douglas Trilogy)

By J R Tomlin

The Black Douglas is dead. With Scotland's greatest knight no more, the throne is up for grabs as enemies try to devour the kingdom.

An orphaned youth returning from exile, Archibald, the Black Douglas's bastard son, fights for a land being torn apart from within and without. If Archibald is to survive, he must learn to sleep with a claymore in his hand and one eye open because even his closest friend might be-tray him...

This is an adventure set in the bloody Second Scottish War of Independence when Scotland's very survival is in question.

Excerpt

Storm clouds boiled in the east, rolling over each other. Distant rumbles of thunder warned of what was to come.

William Fraser and Joachim Kinbuck had brought some of their men to add to Liddesdale’s. We were two hundred warriors, including Sir William and myself, although as a squire, they did not count me. All of us crouched, packed together, on the deck of William Curry’s cog, except for Simon Fraser and my cousin John. Disguised in shabby clothes as traders, they had entered Edinburgh on horseback. 

We all wore armor and carried weapons. My lord had made sure we wore dark cloaks that covered us from head to foot. A tall pile of bags of coal and oats along with kegs of ale was in the middle of the deck.

It was a dark, miserable day and the waves tossed the cog like a toy. There was a high crag ashore in the distance, and the clouds were low enough to graze the dark fortress at its top. The garrison on the north ramparts might even be able to make out the ship, but they would hardly suspect we were the enemy come to call if they could. 

It was nearly nightfall when Curry turned the cog toward shore. The crew threw lines to the two longboats that met us to tow the cog to the dock. When Sir William raised his eyebrows, Curry said, “They’re paid well to keep their mouths shut.”

On the quay, Bullock, John, and Fraser waited with a string of a score of sumpter horses. Once the cog was docked, Sir William and Bullock jumped ashore, not waiting for the gangplank. I followed on their heels, eager to leave the heaving vessel. 

“The castle porter swallowed the bait like a hungry trout,” Fraser said. “He agreed to allow us entrance to deliver the goods tomorrow.”

Sir William clapped his shoulder. “Braw news.”  

Bullock turned to the men filing off the ship, “Unload with yon goods! We need to go back through the Netherbow Port before it is shut for the night.”

The horses stamped and fidgeted, ears pricked. A fork of lightning crashed down into the brooding hulk of Castle Rock, and the crack of thunder made a horse kick, making Fraser jump out of range.

They rushed, loading the horses.

“We will meet you at Holyrood,” Bullock called to them as they were off. 

The dark clouds rolled in as we waited for full dark. A cold, soaking rain set in. Soon water was dripping down the back of my neck and from my hair. The darkness was absolute except for smears of light on the distant ramparts from the garrison’s fires.

“Hold on to the cloak of the man in front of you,” Sir William said, “and dinnae get separated. I will be going slowly. We have all night.”

My dagger hung from my belt, my only weapon so I would be treated as a noncombatant. All the others carried a spear and a sword hanging from their belt. Sir William led us away once it was utterly dark, and at first, the trek was easy enough. We worked our way south as the land slowly rose. The trees had been felled when the English rebuilt the castle, so we felt our way between the stumps, and I clung with one hand to Sir William's cloak. I kept the other out like a blind man because that was how I felt. Gorse and brambles covered the ground, snagging and scratching us as we went. 

A great bolt of lightning whipped across the sky and outlined the castle above me. I prayed that the men on the ramparts could not see us in the sudden, dazzling light. A deafening crash of thunder came a moment later. 

The slope grew steeper and under our feet was nothing but slick mud. My feet went out from under me, and I went down on my knees with a grunt. Sir William was sliding around like a drunken man. There was a low hill to our right, and the rain was sloughing off it to wash around our feet. But we slid and scrambled our way until Sir William cracked his spear against the city wall. 

“Bullock,” he said in an undertone, “you had better be right that there is a break in the wall.”

“We need to go to the right,” Bullock whispered. 

“We will wait a moment to be sure everyone has caught up.”

Far-off lightning flickered across the clouds, and I shivered. Then we inched our way to the right, scraping our hands against the rocks of the city wall and slipping in the sloppy muck underfoot. It seemed to take forever. Suddenly another splinter of lightning zigzagged across the sky, illuminating a narrow opening littered with fallen stones. Thunder rumbled like the end of the world as we scrambled through.

Another peal boomed, but the Sir William leaned against the wall and counted the men as they crouched and ran through the little opening. I strained my eyes to try to pick out anything through the pounding rain and the darkness, but everything was just darkness except that the looming castle rock was a deeper darkness. I tried to imagine being on those ramparts in the pounding rain and lightning. I shivered again. The damp seemed to have seeped all the way to my bones. Even my fingertips felt wrinkled.

Now we had to reach the abbey.

We groped along the dark houses. Their jutting upper stories at least cut off some of the rain. I could not understand how Sir William could tell what direction we were going in with no moon or stars to guide him, but he never paused in our creeping progress. It felt like an eternity until he tripped and fell to one knee. “Here,” he said. 

I reached out and felt the stones of a low wall. It took more blind searching to find the opening into the abbey's grounds. A small fire flickered beneath some trees, which he headed for much faster. 

Curry kicked out the fire, then we waited, huddling and shivering, under the dripping trees. Another rumble of thunder rolled farther to the south. The rain abated to a steady shower. I tucked my hands into my armpits and wondered how long it was until sunrise.

Peering through the trees, I strained to make out Edinburgh Castle at the top of that massive crag. A little fire flickered at the top, but the rest was just darkness. We were so cold and soaked through I wondered if we would be able to fight. Every possible disaster danced through my head.

The rain finally ceased altogether. In a while, gray light spread across the horizon above the Forth. A slash of red showed through the thinning clouds, and then it was a gloomy, murky daylight. Sir William threw off his cloak to expose a worn and faded tunic beneath it. He handed me his spear and swordbelt, leaving only a long dagger hanging from the leather belt and a hunting horn hanging from his shoulder. He squeezed my shoulder hard enough to hurt. “Your only task is to hurry those to me once I sound the horn.”

William Fraser, William Bullock, Joachim Kinbuck, William Curry, and half a score of their men were doing the same. 

Ramsay said, “We will be ready when we hear the signal.”

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J. R. Tomlin is the author of nineteen historical novels.

She has close ties with Scotland since her father was a native Scot, and she spent substantial time in Edinburgh while growing up. Her historical novels are set for the most part in Scotland. Her love of that nation is traced from the stories of Robert the Bruce and the Good Sir James her grandmother read to her when she was small, to hillwalking through the Cairngorms where the granite hills have a gorgeous red glow under the setting sun. Later, her writing was influ-enced by Alexander Dumas, Victor Hugo, Nigel Tranter, and Sir Walter Scott.

When JR isn't writing, she enjoys hiking, playing with her Westie, and killing monsters in computer games. In addition to spending time in Scotland, she has traveled in the US, Europe, and the Pacific Rim. She now lives in Oregon.

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BOOK EXCERPT!!! The Lake Pagoda by Ann Bennett #HistoricalFiction #HistoricalWomensFiction #BlogTour #CoffeePotBookClub @annbennett71 @maryanneyarde

The Lake Pagoda

By Ann Bennett

Indochina 1945: Arielle, who is half-French, half-Vietnamese, is working as a secretary for the French colonial government when the Japanese storm Hanoi. Although her Asian blood spares her from imprisonment, she is forced to work for the occupiers. The Viet Minh threaten to re-veal dark secrets from her past if she won’t pass them information from her new masters.

Drawn ever deeper into the rebels’ dangerous world, will Arielle ever escape the torment of her past? Or will she find love amidst the turmoil of war? 

A novel of love, loss, war, and survival against all odds. 

Trigger Warnings:

Violence

Excerpt

Arielle lost track of time and had no idea of how long she’d sat there, tears streaming down her face, but eventually it dawned on her that the guards were still on the door for a reason. Did it mean that the rest of the soldiers were intending to return? Suddenly, she realised that she should try to get home before they appeared. Later, she would try to find out where Papa and the others had been taken. Once she’d resolved to make a move, she wanted to be out of the building as quickly as she could. She scrambled to her feet, and, keeping her eyes averted from Pierre’s body, made her way between the desks to the double doors where the guards stood. Her heart was hammering as she drew closer. She could already see the staircase beyond, only a few steps to freedom. 

One of the guards put out a hand to stop her as she tried to pass. 

‘Where you go?’ he asked sternly.

‘I need to get home,’ she said without looking into his eyes. Her voice was tremulous with fear.

‘You cannot go,’ the soldier said pushing her back into the room. 

‘But why? I am Annamese, not French. I am surely free to leave here?’

He shook his head. ‘You are not free,’ he said, and she wondered what he meant.

‘Please,’ she began, a sob catching in her voice. ‘There is no reason for me to stay…’ but even as she said that she heard the sound of an engine outside, footsteps on the front steps and the doors to the building being torn open violently, slamming against the walls. Then came the sound of boots on the stairs. Several Japanese soldiers appeared at once, and she sensed from the swaggering way they walked, by the fact that they were followed by a retinue and by the way the guards on the door stiffened and stood to attention, that these were important men.

She stood aside as they swept into the room. The man at the front was stony-faced and held a rigid, commanding air. He wore a peaked cap and elaborate uniform, decorated with many coloured medals. The two others were half a step behind him, followed by four ordinary soldiers in khaki uniforms and simple caps, their rifles drawn. 

The three officers stopped in the middle of the room and conferred briefly, then one of them turned and shouted at the guards on the door, pointing to Pierre’s body. The guards sprang into action, hurried to where the body was, picked him up by his hands and feet and dragged him unceremoniously out of the room. The commanding officer wandered around the room briefly, running his hand over typewriters, over papers left on desks, occasionally picking something up and peering at it closely. Finally, he settled himself behind the biggest desk in the room and swept everything off the surface. Papers, pens, ink pots, paper clips, photographs, all tumbled to the floor. He barked some orders to the soldiers who immediately rushed over and dropped to the floor to remove the clutter. The other two officers also found themselves desks in the room. Arielle watched, pressed against the wall, her heart beating fast, dreading the moment when they would notice her standing there. 

It came when the commanding officer lifted his eyes from the desk and looked around the room. They widened as he caught sight of Arielle. 

‘Come here, girl,’ he said in broken French. Slowly, shaking from head to foot, she walked towards him. ‘Vite, vite,’ he said and she sped up, stumbling over an upturned chair.

‘Who are you?’ he asked, and she knew that it would be fatal to give her proper name, which would give away the fact that she was half French.

‘My name is Tuyen, sir,’ she said thinking quickly, ‘Tuyen Nguyen.’ She gave her mother’s name, saying a hasty prayer to her long dead mother, asking her to understand.

‘What do you do here?’

‘I am a secretary, sir. I type letters mainly, and I file papers.’

‘I need a secretary,’ he said. ‘One who can speak both French and Annamese. You can do that, I assume?’

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This novel is available to read with #KindleUnlimited subscription.

Ann Bennett was born in Pury End, a small village in Northamptonshire, UK and now lives in Surrey. Her first book, A Daughter's Quest, originally published as Bamboo Heart, was in-spired by her father’s experience as a prisoner of war on the Thai-Burma Railway. The Plant-er's Wife (originally Bamboo Island) a Daughter's Promise and The Homecoming, (formerly Bamboo Road), The Tea Panter's Club and The Amulet are also about the war in South East Asia, all six making up the Echoes of Empire Collection.

Ann is also author of The Runaway Sisters ,The Orphan House, and The Child Without a Home, published by Bookouture.

The Lake Pavilion and The Lake Palace are both set in British India in the 1930s and 40s. Her latest book, The Lake Pagoda, set in French Indochina in the 30s and 40s, will be published in April 2022.

Ann is married with three grown up sons and a granddaughter and works as a lawyer. For more details please visit www.bambooheart.co.uk

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BOOK SPOTLIGHT! A Ha’penny Will Do by Alison Huntingford #HistoricalFiction #BlogTour #CoffeePotBookClub @ahuntingford9 @maryanneyarde

 

Love, dreams and destitution.

Three members of one family are linked by their struggle to survive poverty and war at the turn of the century.  

Kate, a homesick, lonely Irish immigrant, dreams of being a writer.  After difficult times in Liverpool she comes to London looking for a better life.  Hoping to escape from a life of domestic service into marriage and motherhood, she meets charming rogue William Duffield.  Despite her worries about his uncertain temperament, she becomes involved with him. Will it be an escape or a prison? 

Fred is a restless elder son, devoted to his mother yet locked in a tempestuous relationship with his father.  War intervenes and he secretly signs up to serve abroad.  Is his bad reputation deserved?  What will become of him?

Joe, too young to sign up for WW1, is left to endure the hardships of war on the home front and deal with his own guilt at not being able to serve.  He starts an innocent friendship with his sister-in-law which sustains him through hard times.  Will he survive the bombs, the riots, the rationing and find true love in the end?

These are their intertwined and interlocking stories recreated through the medium of diaries, letters and personal recollections, based on the author’s family history covering the period of 1879 – 1920. The truth is never plain and rarely simple. 

This novel is a fresh and compelling look at life for the working-class poor in England at the end of the Victorian era.  Covering issues such as the struggle for home rule in Ireland, the hardships of domestic service, marital strife, the suffragettes and the horrors of World War 1 on the home front and abroad, this is a realistic and gripping tale which keeps the reader involved in their human plight all the way.

If you would like to read this novel you can find it at the follow bookstores:

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Alison Huntingford has a degree in humanities with literature, and has always enjoyed reading, especially, the great writers of the 19th century. 

She is an only child of two only children and so has always felt a distinct lack of family. This has inspired her to research her family history and most of her writing is based on this. Her debut novel, The Glass Bulldog, was published in 2019, and was nominated for the Walter Scott Prize for historical fiction. This is her second full length novel, although, she has also written several short stories. 

In her spare time, she enjoys spending time with her husband and their pets, listening to music, going to the cinema, and gardening.  She lives in Devon, on the edge of Dartmoor.

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BOOK EXCERPT!!! The Professor’s Lady (The Thompsons of Locust Street, Book 3) by Holly Bush #BlogTour #CoffeePotBookClub @hollybushbooks @maryanneyarde

 

The Professor’s Lady
(The Thompsons of Locust Street, Book 3)
By Holly Bush

Meet the Thompsons of Locust Street, an unconventional family taking Philadelphia high society by storm…

1870 Kirsty Thompson is determined to begin her own business bringing beloved Scottish fabrics and yarns to Philadelphia but first she must meet the men and women who weave the plaids and spin the wool. How will she ever escape her protective older siblings and sail to Scotland?

Albert Watson is a medical doctor focusing on research, especially that of Joseph Lister and his sterilization techniques. He speaks at universities in America and in England while visiting his London relatives. As he prepares to sail for just such an engagement, Kirsty Thompson boards his ship to beg him to take her with him. What’s a gentleman to do? Albert cancels his trip across the ocean to escort Miss Thompson back to Philadelphia and finds there is danger afoot for her and her family.

Soon he comes to realize there is also danger for his heart, even for a man who rarely pulls his nose from a medical journal. He finds himself unable to put Miss Kirsty Thompson out of his thoughts, where they belonged, because certainly a beautiful, ambitious, and charming young woman could have no interest in him. Or could she?

EXCERPT

Muireall Thompson woke with a start from where she’d been dozing in the parlor of the Thompson home at 75 Locust Street, Philadelphia. “Has anything happened?”

“Nothing,” James said. His wife, Lucinda, was upstairs in one of the beds trying to sleep, although he doubted she would. Nothing had happened as of yet, he thought, but James was sick with fear that the men after their family, especially after his younger brother, had taken Kirsty just like they’d taken Elspeth two years ago to hold her for ransom. There but by the grace of God she’d been rescued before anyone had harmed her more than could be healed. And in the end, Elspeth, always quiet and seemingly fragile, had killed a man with a knife as he beat her with his fists. He glanced at her as she came through the door. 

“Mrs. McClintok is making some sweet rolls for us, and I’ve got tea,” Elspeth said as she carried the tea tray awkwardly on her swollen belly. Her husband, Alexander, jumped to his feet. 

“Let me carry that,” he said. “You should be off of your feet.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks. “I can’t, Alexander! I can’t sit still for one more minute worrying about Kirsty. I have to do something!” 

“It’s after four in the morning, Elspeth,” James said. “We don’t need tea.”

“I’ll have tea,” Muireall said. “Where is Payden?”

“In the kitchen with Mrs. McClintok and Robbie, sound asleep on his arms at the table. I tried to get him to go to his room, but he will not listen to me,” Elspeth said as her lip trembled.

“Elspeth, darling,” Alexander led her to the settee, “please sit. You are upsetting yourself.”

She looked at him and wobbled a smile. “I am being silly, am I not? But I just can’t help myself.”

“Is this what I have to look forward to?” James asked.

Muireall arched a brow, and their great-aunt Murdoch’s eyes flew open. “What are you saying, boy?”

He shook his head and returned to peering out between the curtains to the street. “Someone is coming.”

Alexander jumped to his feet and followed James to the front door. “Could you see who it was?” he asked. 

“It looked like one of those telegram messengers,” James said. 

The brass door knocker clattered, and James pulled the door open quickly, yanked the man inside, and shoved him against the wall.

“Hey,” the man yelled, losing his cap. “Whatcha doing? Leave me be!”

“Where is she?” James growled and tightened his hold on the man’s neck.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about! Just delivering a message to 75 Locust Street!”

“Let him talk, James,” Alexander said and held up the cap he’d picked up from the floor. “It says ‘Bernardo’s Messenger Service’ on this card on his hat.”

James released the man and stepped back. “What are you doing here? Who sent you?”

The man grabbed his cap from Alexander. “I’m here because my boss paid me extra to deliver the message in my satchel in the middle of the night. Special delivery from New York City.” He looked up with wide eyes at Alexander, who was aiming a pistol at him. 

“Slowly,” Alexander said. “Pull out that message slowly.”

“Here,” the man said and handed over the recognizable telegram envelope to James. 

“He might be telling the truth.” Alexander lowered his weapon. Muireall slipped into the entranceway, coins in her hand. 

“Here is a tip for your trouble.”

“Don’t want no money, ma’am. Just want to get out of here.”

James opened the door, and the man ran down the steps, glancing over his shoulder as he did. He handed Muireall the letter. “It’s addressed to you.”

Muireall took the telegram and went into the parlor. She slit the envelope and pulled out two pieces of paper. She unfolded one and plopped down on the seat behind her, her hand over her mouth. 

“What is it?” Elspeth asked. “Tell us!”

“She’s fine.”

Elspeth burst into tears, and James dropped down to his haunches in front of Aunt Murdoch. “Where is she?” he asked.

Muireall scanned the letter. “In New York. At a hotel. With Albert Watson.”

“Albert? What is she doing with Albert?” Alexander asked. 

Muireall began to read: 

Couldn’t get off the boat. I am fine, with Mr. Watson in NYC hotel, someone tried to kill me, be home soon.

“A New York hotel? I’m going to kill her,” James said. “I’m going to f—”

“James,” Lucinda said from the doorway. 

“And then I’m going to kill Watson!” James said. 

Muireall held up her hand:

Miss Thompson safe but not out of danger. Escorting her home on the 16th. 

“He is the one that took her into dinner on the night of your party, isn’t he, Alexander?” Muireall asked. 

“He is, and although this is highly unusual, Albert is to be trusted. He’ll guard Kirsty with his life if necessary.”

“What could possibly be the reason she got on a boat?” Elspeth asked. 

Lucinda walked into the room and sat down on the arm of Aunt Murdoch’s chair. “I believe I know. She told me she wants to visit Scotland to meet the people she’s been corresponding with about importing wool. She knows that Mr. Watson travels back and forth to England because he still has family there and for his work in medical research. She was going to ask him to escort her and a companion on a voyage to Scotland since he would be traveling there anyway.”

“That is absurd! Albert would never agree to escort her,” Alexander said. 

“But it does sound so much like our dear Kirsty,” Elspeth said and patted her eyes.

“How did she know what ship he would be on?” Muireall asked.

“That is my fault,” Lucinda said. “My aunt’s stepson has been meeting with Mr. Watson and getting help from him with some advanced studies. Kirsty was at our house the day Geoffrey told us of Mr. Watson’s plans to sail on the Maybelle on the fourteenth.”

“Good God, that girl will be the death of me,” Aunt Murdoch said. “And she’s going to have to marry this Watson person after this escapade.”

“We must not jump to conclusions, Aunt,” Muireall said. 

“Be realistic, Muireall. Kirsty, our Kirsty, sleeping in a room alone with a handsome man—and I think he was, if I remember correctly. She’d be . . . energetic,” Aunt said. 

Alexander looked away, and James gritted his teeth. 

“If he has touched her, I’ll kill him, regardless of how energetic she was,” James growled. 

“I fear this is my fault.” Lucinda turned to Muireall. “Of course, I discouraged her plans before that day with Geoffrey, but I never in my wildest dreams thought she would board the Maybelle.”

“Kirsty can be . . . unpredictable, Lucinda. You could not have prevented this.”

“Also, energetic,” James said and shook his head. “I’m going to kill her.”

Payden McTavish Thompson, the Tenth Earl of Taviston, moved from the door where he’d been standing, listening to the telegrams Muireall read. “But more than any of it, they are back. Plowman is back, and we must be on our guard.”

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Holly Bush writes historical romance set in the U.S.in the late 1800’s, in Victorian England, and an occasional Women’s Fiction title. Her books are described as emotional, with heartfelt, sexy romance. She makes her home with her husband in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.

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#NewRelease - Embrace the Choice (The Choice Series, Book 2) by Ellie Yarde #YoungAdult #ContemporaryRomance @readingalnight

 

Embrace the Choice

(The Choice Series, Book 2)

By Ellie Yarde

How do you deal with choices when you don’t know how?

Lena has always been a quiet and private person, who only talks to people she knows and doesn’t stray outside of her comfort zone. She refuses to admit to anyone but herself that she has a crush on Tyler, the roommate of a friend’s boyfriend.

When Tyler starts making excuses to spend time with her, she can’t help but like the attention, however awkward she may find social interaction. The problem is, Lena knows next to nothing about dating. Everything she knows has come from a romance book, and she is too socially inept to be able to act like the women in her books. Will she be able to summon the courage in order to go on the date she so desperately desires?

A quick read filled with friendship, love, and trashy romance books.

ONLY 0.99 ON #KINDLE FOR A LIMITED TIME

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Grab BOOK ONE FOR FREE ON #KINDLE

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This novel is available to read with #KindleUnlimited subscription.

Ellie Yarde is primarily a reader and blogger. She writes short stories, which are published on her blog, Reading All Night, where she also shares her reviews.

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BOOK EXCERPT!!! Shake Loose the Border (Thunder on the Moor, Book 3) by Andrea Matthews HistoricalRomance #TimeTravelRomance #CoffeePotBookClub @AMatthewsAuthor @maryanneyarde

Shake Loose the Border 

(Thunder on the Moor, Book 3)

By Andrea Matthews

With Will and Maggie’s wedding just a week away, the last thing they need to stumble upon is Johnnie Hetherington’s dead body tied to a tree, especially one that’s so close to their cottage. Recognizing it as a sure sign that Johnnie has betrayed the family once too often, Sergeant Richie Carnaby gathers Will and his family together for questioning, though it seems obvious only a fool would kill a man on his own land. Then who did murder the rogue, and why?

Feeling confident it wasn’t any of the Fosters, Richie allows Will and Maggie’s wedding to proceed, but the couple has barely exchanged vows when the Armstrongs attack in force. Geordie is determined to rescue his niece from the clutches of Will Foster, whether she wants to go or not. And if he happens to make her a widow in the process, so be it. Will senses the danger and implores Dylan to get Maggie away to safety, no matter where — or when — that may be.

Though Maggie protests, Will assures her he will follow as soon as he is able. Yet how can that be possible when Dylan whisks her back to the twentieth century? Sharing her fears about Will, and unable to forget his own love, Annie, Dylan attempts to return to the past one last time despite his growing concerns over the disintegrating amulet stone. But will he make it in time to rescue Will, or will the villainous Ian Rutherford, who has already killed in cold blood once, win the ultimate battle and see Will and Maggie separated forever?

Excerpt

The hall was full of Will’s family and friends, but as the day progressed, a heaviness settled on Maggie’s heart. Only Dylan was there for her. How she wished her kin could have been there as well, especially Connie or her Uncle Andy. Even Geordie would have been a welcome sight. She imagined what it would have been like if there had been no feud, if her father and Uncle Eddie were still alive. It truly would have been one big, happy family. The kind she’d dreamed of as a child.  

Will was busy serving his guests and the musicians had started a lively reel, so Maggie slipped outside into the cooling evening air. She breathed in deeply, the earthy scent of falling leaves underlined with the subtle aroma of pine bringing with it the memory of her father, and an overwhelming sense of loss engulfed her. 

Scurrying down the steps, she stole around the side of the peel, prepared to have a quiet cry for herself, when out of the corner of her eye she spotted her cousin Connie slipping amongst the shadows of the barmekin. At first, Maggie thought it was a mirage of some sort, brought on by her current state of melancholy, but then she caught another glimpse of the girl, ducking behind the stables. 

Maggie’s heart leapt at the thought of seeing her cousin again. After shooting a quick glance up the peel tower forestairs to make sure no one was watching, she darted across the barmekin yard but stopped short when a sobering thought occurred to her. What if her family had indeed come, not to celebrate her nuptials, but to take her back to Scotand . . . and Ian.  

A chill ran down her spine, her heart pounding against the tight-fitting bodice of her gown. Scanning the yard for any unusual movement, she inched her way back to the safety of the peel. If she screamed, would anybody even hear her? She was just passing Graham’s cottage when she heard a faint whisper and Connie poked her head out of the shadows. 

“Maggie, ’tis me, yer cousin, I’ve come to wish ye well.” 

Maggie peered into the darkness, listening carefully for the sound of shuffling feet or the clink of cold, hard steel, but all she could see was her cousin’s terrified expression. 

Reaching out, she took the girl’s hands.  

“Connie, come inside, please. I’m so glad you came.” 

“Nae, Maggie,” Connie said, her voice infused with a deep sadness, “I canna.” 

“But why?” Maggie said. “No one will harm you. I’ll make sure of that. Besides, Will’s family doesn’t blame you for what your kin did.” 

“They were yer kin once too, Cousin.” 

“And they chose to sentence an innocent man to death on the word of another.” 

“Has yer love for that scoundrel blinded ye so ye canna see the truth?” 

“And what truth is that?” 

“Will killed yer father, during a foray, ’tis true, but still the guilt is nae less his.” 

Maggie rolled her eyes. “Why won’t anyone believe me? It was Ian who killed my father . . . in cold blood.” 

“Nae, Maggie! Those are Bonnie Will’s words, and his kiss has poisoned yer heart.” 

Maggie’s temper flared. “No! Those are Ian’s words!” 

A look of annoyance crossed Connie’s face. “Ye already told me what Ian said, and while his words werena kind, they were hardly an admission of guilt.” 

Though Maggie longed to say he had confessed just that, she couldn’t lie to her cousin. “Well, no, not exactly, but that’s what he meant.” 

“What he meant?” Connie shook her head, a look of pity in her eyes. “Or what ye wanted him to mean, Cousin? Oh, Maggie, come home and beg me father’s forgiveness. Me uncle’s outside waiting for me. He’ll understand. Will’s a dandy all right, and he bewitched ye with his smile. Ye didna ken what it was ye were doing. Deliver Will to their hands, and all will be forgiven.” 

“Will is my husband,” Maggie said, her tone turning cold, “and I would no more betray him than I would myself.” 

“Ach, it winna matter a whit anyway. Da’s sent word to the bishop to have it all annulled.” 

“He what!” Maggie clenched her fists, trying not to take her anger out on her cousin. “On what grounds?” 

Connie reached out, touching Maggie’s arm. “’Tis for the best, Cousin. That priest ye had wed ye was defrocked, and Will has nae proof ye made any other vows. He didna even give ye a wed.” 

Maggie cursed herself for not paying more attention when her father talked archaeology. “What’s a wed?” 

“A token of sorts to show the vows were made in earnest, usually a ring or such.” 

“But he did.” She held out her hand to reveal her grandmother’s ring. 

Connie gave a tut and shook her head. “D’ye think me a fool? Will didna give ye that. ’Tis our granddame’s ring. We all ken she gave it ye, so it proves noucht.” 

“Well, it doesn’t matter. As I’m already carrying Will’s child, there’ll be no doubt that our union was consummated.” 

“D’ye mean to bring shame upon yerself and the bairn?” Connie scowled at her. “Ye’re fortunate Ian is willing to claim it as his own, and since ye were already betrothed to Ian, no one will be the wiser or care two pence about yer handfast to Will.”  

Maggie fought to keep her voice low. “I was never betrothed to Ian. Nothing had been agreed to, no pledges made. But Will and I did exchange marital vows on the church steps this morning, before a fully ordained priest and with plenty of witnesses this time, wed and all.” She gave a nod to punctuate her triumphant revelation. 

“This morn! But the wedding’s not to take place till the Sunday.” 

Maggie shrugged. “Father Michael has to be in Bewcastle tomorrow, so we got married today instead. Why does that matter?”  

Someone whistled from outside the wall, and both girls looked toward the sound before Connie spoke again. “I have to go, Maggie. I just came to wish ye well and to give ye these few things. I hoped to give them to ye afore the wedding, but . . .” She opened a small sack and took out some money wrapped in a linen handkerchief as well as a delicately embroidered tablecloth and what looked like matching napkins. 

“Uncle Andy says this money was yer da’s, and as such ’tis rightfully yers. Besides, he winna see a niece of his marrit without a proper dowry.” 

Maggie took the money, a tear trickling down her cheek, but when Connie handed her the tablecloth, it turned into a flood of emotion that neither girl could control. 

“Me mother helped Auntie Marion and I finish it just last night. We want ye to have it, Maggie, to mind us by.” 

“I’ll never forget you, Connie . . . or Uncle Andy. Won’t he come to talk to me, just for a moment?” 

“He’s risking enough already, Cousin, coming to ye like this. If me father ever kent he gave ye that money . . . As far as most of the family’s concerned, ye dinna deserve a pence of it. Ye forfeited it when ye betrayed yer surname. Me uncle could be hangit himself just for bringing me here.” 

“I know.” Maggie sobbed softly. “Tell my uncle I bear him no malice, for in him I learned the true meaning of honor.” 

“And he bears ye none, but his heart’s breaking all the same. Ye were like a daughter to him.” 

“Then twice I’ve lost a father.” 

Connie wiped away the tears, her lips curving into a warm, understanding smile. “Aye, ye have that, Cousin, but I must go now. God bless ye and keep ye, Maggie 

Armstrong, for I fear our paths winna cross again.” 

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Andrea Matthews is the pseudonym for Inez Foster, a historian and librarian who loves to read and write and search around for her roots, genealogical speaking. She has a BA in History and an MLS in Library Science, and enjoys the research almost as much as she does writing the story. In fact, many of her ideas come to her while doing casual research or digging into her family history. She is the author of the Thunder on the Moor series set on the 16th century Anglo-Scottish Border, and the Cross of Ciaran series, where a fifteen hundred year old Celt finds himself in the twentieth century. Andrea is a member of the Romance Writers of America, Long Island Romance Writers, and the Historical Novel Society.

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