Author: Guest author Page 28 of 35

Gossip on Olympus

On February 8, 2017

Sam Clemens found an ancient scroll tucked in a vase he bought from a scruffy man at Covent Garden. The man said the vase was from a temple to Venus. Probably a cheap job lot made in Wapping. But then, where did the scroll come from? It couldn’t be true, surely? Still. It will make a good article for the Tattler.

Surely everyone’s heard by now. Psyche, once said to be even more beautiful than Venus, Goddess of Love and Beauty has raised the goddess’s ire once again! As told by the Three Graces.

“Did you see her?” Splendor asked her sisters.

Cheer and Mirth had just returned from the servants’ hall of the goddess’s palace. There among the pink marble and silken couches, they had spied Venus’s prisoner Psyche.

“I can’t believe that mortal was once said to be more beautiful than Venus herself!” Mirth laughed.

“I can see though,” Cheer whispered. “Maybe, before her trials and her heartbreak. But when Cupid’s lead arrow strikes…well, it is enough to frighten a god.”

“Angering Venus is enough to anger a god,” Splendor said. “I would not risk it, sister.”

“No, of course not.” Cheer said, glancing up at the ceiling for invisible spies. “No mortal could ever rival Venus in beauty.”

“But the mortal is brave,” Mirth said. “Foolish, but brave. I heard she already succeeded in fulfilling two of Venus’s tasks. The first was impossible, the second was meant to kill her.” She lowered her voice. “I think the gods are helping her.”

Cheer laughed at this and Splendor covered her smile with a delicate hand.

“She was once a princess,” Cheer said. “I didn’t expect such fight.”

“But what does she fight for?” Splendor asked.

“Love!” Mirth laughed. “She argues with the Goddess of Love and Beauty over love! Sorrow told me even after they whipped her, she continued to say her love would endure. Venus even offered to make her a princess again and send her back to her father.”

“But the foolish mortal insisted that she could win back her love,” Cheer interrupted. “She begged for another task if only the goddess would allow her to see her love again.”

Splendor shook her head in sorrow, yet delight shone in her eyes. Love was mysterious, fickle and demanding. No one asked explanations of love.

“What did Venus do?” Splendor asked.

“Well, Sorrow said the goddess almost killed the girl with pleasure. Apparently, she’s very sensitive to our essence.” Mirth smiled. “It would be fun to go play with her. You could make her feel splendid, sister. Cheer could lighten her pain, and I could make her find enjoyment in her torment!”

“But she is Venus’s toy, not ours. What will the goddess do to her next?”

Mirth grinned. “She’s sending the little vixen to the Underworld!”

Splendor gasped. “Do you mean the goddess is going to kill her?”

“No. she’s sending her to the Underworld alive to ask the Queen of the Dead for a boon. Can you believe it?”

“Splendid,” Splendor said.

“If she survives,” Cheer said, “she will have done the impossible. If she dies, she will make a great plaything for the King and Queen of the Dead. Either way, it will make a very good tale.”

Psyche Unbound

The celebrated beauty of Roman princess Psyche has enraged Venus, the Goddess of Love and Beauty. As punishment, Psyche is left naked on the beach to be sacrificed to a monster.

When Cupid, the God of Love, swoops her up and flies her to the monster’s palace, Psyche mistakenly wraps her legs around his waist, looks into his eyes, and falls in love. Blindfolded and tied to a bed, Psyche awaits the monster, vowing to be brave as she faces death. Yet when the monster arrives, he marries her on the condition she never see his face.

As she grows to love her shadow husband, she can’t stop thinking about the God of Love. Consumed by curiosity, Psyche breaks her promise by lighting a lamp. Awaking in a rage, and furious with her betrayal, her husband banishes her from the palace.

Psyche begs Venus for another chance at love. Unmoved, Venus demands Psyche perform three impossible tasks. If Psyche succeeds, her husband will return. If she fails, she will be condemned to death. Can Psyche satisfy Venus and win back her true love?

Buy on Amazon * See other buy links and an excerpt at Tule Publishing

Meet the author

Zenobia Neil was named after an ancient warrior queen who fought against the Romans. A lifelong lover of Greco-Roman mythology, she writes about the ancient world and Greek god erotica. An English teacher by day, Zenobia spends her time imagining interesting people and putting them in terrible situations. She lives with her husband, two children, and dog in an overpriced hipster neighborhood of Los Angeles. Psyche Unbound is her first book. Zenobia would love to hear what your favorite Greek myth is. Visit her at ZenobiaNeil.com

Where Has That Woman Been?

By Guest author

On February 1, 2017

In Guest author, Teatime Tattler

Dear Mr. Clemens,

Thank you for letting me chime in with my addition for your wonderful chronicle.

Finding people who have the knack for irreverent curiosity, digging out the juiciest of tidbits and passing them along to you, is a favorite past time of mine.

Today my guest has the most fascinating story regarding a young woman who has been the talk of the town most recently, Arose Du Mouchelle.

A more ill-fated heiress you would be hard-pressed to find. She is the daughter of François Du Mouchelle. A widower. Until Lady Katherine Abbott, formerly of Gloucester, caught wind of his prosperity. Her ladyship came in lock stock and barrel with her two daughters and six cats. She skillfully set off to be me the next Mrs. Du Mouchelle.

The girl, after living with her new mother for only a few months, disappeared! We were told the child, being of gifted circumstance, had been sent abroad for ‘lessons’.

After many years already having seen over twenty summers, she returned home. When Lady Katherine’s eldest married, rumor has it Arose ran off with the notorious pirate, Captain St. James. Her whereabouts are still unknown.

My dear readers this is the most scandalous story of the year!

This brings me to the guest I entertained today.

Through delightful happenstance, during a meeting that purely coincidental, I am now in the confidence of a Miss Beatrice Cleary. I have discovered she had a front row seat to what transpired only days before the young lady’s quick exodus from Le Mason Du Mouchelle, based in Montego Bay.

I have invited Miss Cleary here for tea to discuss, before you my friendly tattlers…what exactly happened that day.

With my Shih-Tzu puppies Molly and Sophie yapping at the housekeepers heels, Miss Beatrice enters my home. Since having sent a note around inviting her to tea I am, as always, in hopes that she imports herself with more manners then her decade old hat and muddy shoes insinuate.

“Please come in Miss Cleary have a seat by the window. Have a teacake.” I say with earnest.

Afternoon genialities were saw to and after which I got down to the matter at hand.

“Miss Beatrice,” I ask, “What did you see Thursday last of Miss Arose? Inquiring minds simply must know.”

“Well, I sees Arose walking down the center of the street you see.” Beatrice’s bustle squeaked as she shifted in her seat. She continued, “I then spots those no account Murphy boys hawking about. I just knew they was in for some trouble. I sees them glaring at her in her fine frock.”

Miss Beatrice shoved another teacake into her mouth and said, “I runs up to her and tells her –‘that’s Shaw, Faolan and Liam. They ruined more than one ladies good name they has’.”

“My goodness, did she heed your warning?” I asked her divinely concerned.

“Well, you think she would have walked off, but she didn’t. Next thing you know, quick as a wink Missy herself lays out the biggest one, Shaw, on the street. Blood splattered everywhere, but not a drop on her ladyship’s jumper. She bows her head and walks off. Cool as a cucumber that one.”

There you have it gentle readers! A first account witness to what has taken Saint Anne’s Parish by storm. Where has Arose Du Mouchelle been and what has she been learning? Maybe this will give us some clues as to why she left and why with a notorious pirate. More to come next time…ta-ta for now.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Tellula Gossifer
______________________________________________________

About the Book

In a time and place where women are bred to be lambs, Arose has the soul of a tigress.

It is 1693 on the isle of Jamaica, and twenty-one-year-old, Arose Du Mouchelle, is the mixed-race heir to a sprawling sugar plantation. From an old gypsy, she receives a matriarchal heirloom: the Gem of the Red Spirit. She spends years in exile, learning its secrets and mysteries, the most important of which is the ability to enter the Astral Plane. In exchange for her powers, Arose must act as the sentry between this dimension and her world, forcing back the creatures held captive there.

Morel, a voodoo Priestess, covets the Gem. Taking hostage Arose’s family and the port town, she attempts to force Arose to give up the powerful amulet. Morel’s plan is to rule over the evil creatures imprisoned in the Astral Plane, unleashing them upon the rest of humanity.

While evading Morel’s henchmen Arose collides with Captain St. James a notorious pirate, whom she has already met in a vision. Leary of him at first, he gains her trust after he aids in her escape. She is knocked unconscious and wakes to find she has been had – both he and the opal gone. However, even if she recovers the opal she’ll have a bigger decision to make: keep the opal and doom her family, or give it to Morel and let the world fall into a demonic wasteland.

~excerpt~

She crouched on the ledge of a dune. The dying sun’s embers lit the sky just before the night arose.

The previous hours of her day were difficult and tiresome. She wasn’t sure if her queasy stomach came from her boiling blood or the fact she hadn’t eaten since morning. The day’s close did give her some relief from the evil Voodoo and treachery, which followed her since that afternoon. Still her troubles would not simply end because the day did. In the guise of her alter ego, Evan, she could fool anyone. She had perfected a manly swagger. But, no matter how drunk she got in the pub, her troubles would remain. “He” would be on the hunt for her, ready to pounce, like a feral animal on his prey.

Arose held a polished dagger up to the sunlight, to inspect the blade’s oily sheen. A jewel-encrusted fleur-delis adorned the pommel, glinted in the late evening sun. The same symbol of French royal heraldry decorated her family’s coat of arms.

With a flick of her wrist, the perfectly balanced blade spun from her hand, flipped once, and pierced the sand between her feet. She retrieved the dagger and pursed her lips. Specks of sand flew from the swirling calligraphy of the monogram engraved on the shaft: NDM—Nessarose Du Mouchelle. The “N” made her shake her head. She preferred instead the name “Arose,” as her father called her, or even “Rosie” reserved for those who knew her well enough. Her youth had consisted of tussles with those who played on her name, giving her cruel nicknames like “Nessy” or “Pesty.” She’d grown to hate it.

She traced the monogram with the tip of her finger and clucked her tongue when she saw the smudges left behind. Her breath came out as a steamy puff on the cold steel. Arose wiped off the droplets with her sleeve and checked the razor-fine edge for nicks.

With a gentle whoosh, she slipped the blade back into its sheath built into her thigh-high leather boot. Swollen eyes from earlier tears prickled, tempting her fingers to rub them until their yearning was happily satisfied. She would be much happier staying in her room with a cool cloth rinsed in lavender water, but the entity invading her home made it impossible.

She had to search for the man who could help her save her family and the dragon who taught her everything. Never having met the man, seeing him only in a vision, she would know him by his aura and his scent, consisting of iron, cedar and citrus fruit and she knew his name: St. James, Captain St. James.

She crouched on the ledge of a dune. The dying sun’s embers lit the sky just before the night arose.

About the Author

My name is Andrea. I have been spinning yarns since I was old enough to string two words together to make a sentence. I hope you enjoy reading about my debut novel Nights Arose. I loved writing it! I hope you love reading it.

www.Facebook/NightsArose
www.twitter.com/Rose121562
www.andrearoachauthor.blogspot.com

Conversation Heard on the Street

By Guest author

On January 25, 2017

In Guest author, Teatime Tattler

Lobster Cove, Maine, September 20, 1851

Well, you asked if there’s anything interesting going on in our little town of Lobster Cove, so I’ll just share a tidbit I heard the other day. I don’t normally gossip. You know me—Bertha Mayer’s a respectable woman. But I don’t feel I have the right to keep something so scandalous to myself.

It’s about that Lisbeth O’Shea—widowed barely a year, her husband lost at sea and his body never found. There was plenty of talk about him before he died. Said he took up with other women including that barmaid over at the Hogshead, the one who already has an illegitimate son. But I always thought Lisbeth a respectable woman. A respectable widow, if you know what I mean. Now she’s gone and given widowhood a bad name.

What’s she done? Only moved in with that handsome blacksmith, Rab Sinclair—the one with the thick Scottish accent and those fine blue eyes—moved right into his bachelor quarters behind the forge, she has. Shameless! Such things just aren’t done in our quiet town. Of course, Rab claims he hasn’t been staying there nights. He says he’s been sleeping down the street at the livery stable. As if anyone believes that.

You know, half the women in Lobster Cove have been chasing him for years but he’s barely looked at any of them. Makes me wonder now. Did Rab have an eye for Lisbeth even back when her husband was still alive? Just what did happen to Declan O’Shea anyhow, when his boat wrecked? People do funny things, especially when the heart’s involved.

But I have to say, just between you and me…if a woman, even a respectable widow, were to throw caution to the winds it just might be for the sake of a man like Rab Sinclair. Now, promise you won’t repeat that to anyone!

About the Book

When the trawler White Gull was lost in a storm off the coast of Lobster Cove, Lisbeth O’Shea’s husband, Declan, was lost along with it. At least that’s what Lisbeth believes until, a year later, she hears Declan’s voice in the night and sees him haunting the shore near their tiny cottage. Then she wonders… Has grief affected her mind? Or is someone playing a cruel trick?

Town blacksmith Rab Sinclair has loved Lisbeth ever since he arrived in Lobster Cove. Lisbeth has never had eyes for anyone other than the charming, feckless Declan O’Shea, but Rab knows Declan was not faithful to Lisbeth. How can he convince the grieving widow she’s pinned her heart on the wrong man? And when dangerous secrets come to light, how can Rab protect the woman who means more to him than his own life?

Buy link for The White Gull: http://amzn.to/2jdpyLm

~Excerpt~

Lightning flashed once more, flooding her eyes with brightness. In the doorway of the bedroom stood a figure wearing dripping oilskins with only the sou’wester missing from his bare head.

Declan.

In the sudden darkness that followed the lightning she moaned his name and then shouted it.

“Declan? Declan, Declan!” She heard movement, the scrape of a boot on the floorboards, the flap of his coat as he turned and left the doorway. With a sob, she followed. Hands stretched before her like a blind woman, she felt for him, stubbed her bare toe on the leg of the bedstead and faltered. She blundered from the room in his wake.

The cottage boasted but three rooms: this bedroom they had shared, another smaller bedroom she’d dreamed of someday using as a nursery for her children and the main room which combined parlor and kitchen. The darkness of the main room enfolded Lisbeth like black velvet. She had but a glimpse of paler darkness as the front door opened and closed again.

“Declan!”

She followed after him, her heart torn between gladness and pain. He was here! But if he truly were here, returned by some miracle from the same sea that had stolen him, why would he go from her? She reached the door, tore it open and stared out into the storm. Waves and salt spray poured over the stones in front of the cottage. Static filled the air and lightning arced overhead, the thunder competing for dominance with the crash of the rain. Wearing only her nightgown, Lisbeth was immediately soaked to the skin. The wind tore at her hair as she strained to catch sight of the figure she had glimpsed in the doorway.

From the cottage, as well she knew, a path led either north to a narrow strip of shingle or south towards Lobster Cove. Which way might he have gone? She could see nothing but storm, the raging elements that matched the furor now in her heart. Would he head down to the sea? Most this coast consisted of sheer rock but the O’Sheas possessed that stony beach where they had hauled up their boats and readied their lobster traps.

The boats were all gone; the White Gull lay in pieces. Why would Declan go there? Having come home to her, why would he leave at all?

She walked barefoot to a break in the rocks where the sea poured in like a gray beast, alive and wild. No one but a madman would be down on that strip of shingle now.

She turned her head toward the track but saw nothing. The thought came to her: maybe I imagined it. But she had heard the scrape of his boots on the floor. She had seen his hair ruffled by the force of the storm.

A dream, then. She’d had them before, yes, but never, never so real. She returned to the cottage where she shut the door and hurried to the fireplace. With clumsy hands, she searched for matches and the stub of a candle. Her fingers shook so violently it took her three attempts to put flame to the wick.

The light took hold slowly and seemed pitifully inadequate. Thrusting it aloft, Lisbeth retraced her steps to the door of her room, careful to keep her now-sodden garments swept back, her eyes on the floor.

A trail of wet led its way to the bedroom door and culminated on the threshold.

The very place where he had stood.

The candle tumbled from her suddenly numb fingers and the flame went out.

About the Author

Award-winning author Laura Strickland delights in time traveling to the past and searching out settings for her books, be they Historical Romance, Steampunk or something in between. Born and raised in Western New York, she’s pursued lifelong interests in lore, legend, magic and music, all reflected in her writing. Though she’s made pilgrimages to both Newfoundland and Scotland in the company of her daughter, she’s usually happiest at home not far from Lake Ontario with her husband and her “fur” child, a rescue dog.

Author Web Site: http://www.laurastricklandbooks.com

Uncovering a Card Cheat

By Guest author

On January 18, 2017

In Guest author, Teatime Tattler

Them o’ us in service at th’ Hare and Hound know well that loose talk happens when drinks flow and folks forget there be listening ears. T’other week we overheard a lady bent on getting answers out o’ a gent something fierce. When we ferreted out that he were the king’s man, Connor Grant, we knew Tattler readers would ha’ interest. The lady claims to be Ariana Fitzroy. Imagine when we heard she’s a card cheat!

The Lady: How long have you been training the fallen women of King James’ court to be spies? Is it as long as you’ve been working as his personal assassin?

Connor: *glances around with obvious discomfort* I dinna think I shouldna discuss that here.

The Lady *laughs at her own folly*: Right. Well, then – what did you think when you saw me for the first time?

A Card Game by Gabriel Metsu

The Gent: I couldna believe ye were cheating at cards right in front of everyone and no one was any the wiser. It was bold.

The Lady *gives the gent a coy look*: Did you think I was beautiful?

The Gent: Of course. All the girls I train are bonny. But I’ve always made it a point never to have an interest in the girls I trained.

The Lady: But you did with me. What was so different about me?

The Gent *regards the lady with an endearing consideration*: Ye were unassuming. Ye were such a scrawny wee thing when ye came to Scotland, I feared ye might be blown away by a strong wind. But then ye were so determined. And despite that drive to constantly do better, ye were kind — always putting others before yerself. Ye earned my admiration and ye stole my heart as sure as ye slipped cards.

The Lady *blushes and tries to keep a serious face despite her growing smile*: Did you think I would accept your offer to become a spy for King James?

The Gent: I knew ye would, or I wouldna have asked.

The Lady: Did I surprise you with how quickly I learned?

The Gent: Nay, I knew you would. Ye were too confident at that card table, too smooth in yer actions. I knew ye were smart and I knew ye had skill long before even yer first lesson. It was yer determination which surprised and impressed me.

The Lady: I learned a lot from you during my training. Did you learn anything from me?

The Gent: Aye, I learned a lot from ye, lass. But those listening in on this interview will need to read our book to find out just how much. *gives a shameless wink to the crowd in the Hare and Hound*

The Lady *smiles*: I’m glad you feel you learned so much from me. Can you share your favorite thing you learned from me?

The Gent *grinning*: How to play at cards when it’s no’ coins ye’re gambling with.

The Lady *flushes bright red and speaks quickly*: Well, that’s all the time we have. *flashes a final grin and slips away with The Gent*

About the Book: Highland Spy (Mercenary Maidens Book 1)

Ariana Fitzroy has lost her family and her fortune. The fight for survival leads her to the shadowed card games of court where she discovers she has quite a talent for slipping cards into her favor. While the winnings are enough to sustain her at present, they will not last forever…

Connor Grant, trainer of the fallen women from the English court and personal assassin to the king, is just as broken as the women he trains. After losing his own land and all his people in a brutal attack from a trusted friend, he has no choice but to rebuild any way he sees possible – even if it means going against everything he’s ever believed in.

After catching Ariana cheating at cards, Connor has a new trainee to instruct at one of the king’s many confiscated castles. In the dilapidated ruins, he discovers Ariana is more than she appears and falls in love with her incredibly tenacity and dedication – a love that is challenged by Connor’s chance at reclaiming the inheritance he once lost and has sought so desperately to regain.

This story is one of second chances, of realizing a strength where only hopelessness once resided – a story of rising above the bad hand one has been dealt into a life of accomplishment and love.

~Excerpt~

Ariana Fitzroy had been too greedy.

She gave a charming smile to the men at the table and pulled a pile of coins toward herself. They clinked against one another, the merry tinkling rising above the din of laughter and conversation.

How she’d come to love the sound of her winnings.

Tonight though, she’d taken it a mite too far.

She’d gone beyond what she needed for the merchant’s bills, the servants’ pay, and the rent on her meager lodgings.

The coins were cool against the warmth of her palm.

Winning always gave her such a heady rush, a wash of heat spreading from her cheeks to her chest and all the way down to her satin-slippered toes.

A discomfiting sensation settled on Ariana, one of which she’d always been especially wary.

The weight of being watched.

Praise For Highland Spy

“The first of Martin’s Mercenary Maidens will intrigue readers seeking a story filled with a large cast of characters, plenty of adventure and heated love scenes. Martin showcases her talent for storytelling as this fast-paced tale moves from one adventure to another at lightning speed. . . . readers longing for a good old-fashioned adventure with empowered women will find much to enjoy.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Appealing. . . a solid thread of teamwork and family, provided by the strong supporting cast of Ariana’s fellow spies underlies the romance between Ariana and Connor, creating a community that will surely thrive as the series continues.”

—Publishers Weekly

Buy Links

Amazon: http://amzn.to/2eghTt2
Barnes&Noble: http://bit.ly/2dvO88K
Kobo: http://bit.ly/2dIPyem
iTunes: http://apple.co/2ew37Nr
Target: http://www.target.com/p/highland-spy-paperback-madeline-martin/-/A-51545451

About the Author

Madeline Martin is a USA TODAY Bestselling author of Scottish set historical romance novels. She lives in Jacksonville, Florida with her two daughters (AKA OldestMinion and YoungestMinion) along with Mr. Awesome. All shenanigans are detailed regularly on Twitter and on Facebook.

Her hobbies include rock climbing, running, doing crazy races (like Mud Runs and Color Runs) and just about anything exciting she can do without getting nauseous. She’s also a history fan after having lived in Europe for over a decade, and enjoys traveling overseas whenever she can. Her favorite place to visit thus far: Scotland.

Madeline’s contact info:

Author website: www.MadelineMartin.com
Author Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/MadelineMartinAuthor
Author Twitter: @MadelineMMartin

Author Amazon Profile page: http://www.amazon.com/Madeline-Martin/e/B00R8OGFN2/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

An Irish Wake

By Guest author

On January 11, 2017

In Guest author, Teatime Tattler

Peggy McDermott studied the tray of soda bread sandwiches and tarts. “I’m hoping this is the last of them, Prudie. I didn’t expect to serve up so many.”

The kitchen maid wiped her sweaty face with a corner of her apron and grinned. “Who would expect it? An O’Brien wake at Meirliun turning the whole of County Clare into respectful mourners.”

Peggy snorted. “Respectful mourners hoping to get a taste of whiskey skin tea and a bite of lunch, maybe?”

“Well, it’s a grand salute to Mistress Margaret.” Quickly, Prudie crossed herself. “She looks like an angel, in that white shroud with her hands bound forever in prayer by her rosary, and the bell hooked over her thumbs.”

“You dressed her, then?”

“Aye, Sarah and I washed and dressed her before we laid her in the bier. Livy was useless, wailing in the arms of the master long after her mum passed.”

“Ah, the poor little thing. Her mum was taken too young for an heiress, and that one so near to coming out. Is she doing her duty upstairs?”

“Last tray I took up, she was sitting beside the coffin, looking like a caged raven in her chair—her ginger hair covered in black and pale as the corpse she was, taking condolences with grace and more gravity than even her da.”

“The master grieves in his own way, Pru. Clay pipes and tobacco are laid out in the library for the male tenants and staff. Angus is minding the liquor cabinet. Every puff and toast will protect the mistress’s soul in the hereafter, or so he says.”

“Did Sarah open the parlor window to allow her spirit to escape?”

“Aye, the housekeeper stopped the clocks, covered the mirrors and set the candles at the head and foot of the bier. Her Robbie and my Lewy are dressed as footmen, ushering guests, and standing watch at each end til burial on the morrow.”

Prudie sucked in her grin. The two gloved lads in green coats with white gloves? Both had unusual run of the manor for sons of servants, but the master always took a liking to them. Chinwag at Meirliun claimed he even charged them to look after Livy when she tagged after the boys when she was younger. The mistress was said to be mortified, knowing her little heiress was hanging with low boys. But Livy was willful and even sending her to a Dublin finishing school couldn’t smooth the wrinkles in the highborn lass.

Peggy smirked when she heard the clatter on the steps. “That’ll be me own dear footman. Lewy’s come for the tray.”

Tall and tanned, with his collar askew and no gloves, Lewy snatched one of the sandwiches and popped it into his mouth before his mother could slap his hand. When he kissed her after a swallowed gulp, she baffled the air with her hand. “Tell me you weren’t samplin’ the master’s jug, now.”

“Da gave me a go, Mum. Standing watch like a statue surrounded by death and roses works on the throat.”

“Is Robbie partaking as well?”

“Not with his mum supervising, but he looks like he needs a swill. He’s stunned as Livy watching the bell in her mother’s hands.”

“Tis an old custom, favoring hope of life by the sound of a ringing bell, but I think the mistress is gone for good.” Crossing herself, she wiped a tear from her eye with the back of her hand. “Even St. Patrick himself could not heal the break in her heart.”

Lewy wondered if his mother knew—the common chinwag he had heard . . .about Robbie and Livy.

About the Book

He was lost in time…found by love.

Jessica Brewster is being watched…and things go missing from the remote Wyoming home she shares with her toddler. In a freak accident, she shoots the grizzled thief stalking her before she recognizes the mesmerizing green eyes that belong to the only man she ever loved. Has Mitch bridged time to find her? In a race to save his life and change hers forever, she takes him into her home and heart. But his memory loss and puzzling clues curry doubt and danger.

Is he truly her son’s father or an irresistible stranger in her arms?’

Amazon
Wild Rose Press
B & N
Kobo
Bookstrand

~Excerpt~

I screamed as the gun exploded in my hand and fell to the ground. The bear moving toward Scout dropped, and I raced to scoop up my son before he toppled into the icy stream. Cradling my whimpering child, I ventured closer and could see at once that it was no bear I shot. A man in a bearskin poncho lay on his side. A mass of dark matted hair covered the side of his face that wasn’t blooming with blood,
running down his cheek, pooling in his ear and staining his thick beard.

“Is he, is he dead?” I whispered.

Chuck fumbled for a pulse and we all started when the man groaned and his eyes fluttered open.

Green! His eyes were green. The fear in them registered with me as he searched our faces. When his eyes met mine, his jaw twitched. A flash of memories washed over me and my heart began to thump wildly. I set Scout down when my knees began to buckle and I thought I was going to be sick as I reached out to staunch the blood.

So red against the white snow. His eyes, so…green. Every shade in a spectrum of emotion raced through me. I knew only one man who owned those eyes. Had he come back to me?

Did I shoot the only man I ever loved?

About the Author

Born and raised in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, CJ Fosdick has freelanced for over 30 years, writing stories and articles for local and national publications, including the Post Bulletin and Rochester Women. Stories are published in three anthologies, including Minnesota’s Blossoms & Blizzards and a Prentice-Hall H.S. Literature Textbook. Her novel series debuted in 2015 with The Accidental Wife, voted a Golden Quill finalist for Best First Novel and a top 10 finisher for Best Author and Best Romance in the 2015 Preditors & Editors Poll. She pursues her novel dreams on a wooded country hilltop in Rochester, MN, with husband, family, and a menagerie of well-fed wild and domestic animals.

Publisher Website: www.thewildrosepress.com
Author Website: www.cjfosdick.com

Author Twitter: Falorac13
Author Facebook: www.facebook.com/cjfosdick
Author email: Falorac@gmail.com