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Dispatch From the Gold Fields

Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory

Dear Mr. Clemens,

Wyoming Gold Fields Western RomanceHere is the report you requested. Of late, I’ve been exploring the rumors of gold to be found in the Wyoming territory of the former colonies. While the rumors are true, the location of the gold fields is on lands belonging to the Sioux nation. Relations are hostile between these aborigines and the somewhat more civilized government of the United States of America. In addition, the area of the gold fields, known as the Black Hills, is exceedingly difficult to access. Thus, few white men and fewer white women have traveled through the place. I have determined to do so, myself. Not for greed of gold, but for greed of experience. I have never denied my eagerness to see what is around the next corner, tree, rock, or river bend. Be that as it may, I am currently in the boomtown of Cheyenne seeking a guide of good reputation to shepherd my little party [Yes, despite her megrims, my maid Analisa is still with me, but more of her peccadillos at another time.]

To continue, I have interviewed a number of guides only one of whom has proven suitable. The first was a shifty-eyed drunk whom I would not allow within my chambers. The second, a Mr. J. Bridger, is a quite famous mountain man. He was sober and very entertaining, but his English is so poor I could scarcely understand him. Heavens, the man could not even read. Nor was his hygiene acceptable.

The third man, Mr. W. Hickock is also quite famous. He is very colorful wearing pistols holstered on each hip and having long, locks of hair, which were kept scrupulously clean, unlike Mr. Bridger. I had almost agreed to accept Mr. Hickock’s services despite his exorbitant fees when the most unruly and oddly dressed female I had ever seen burst into the room and drew her pistol, holding me and Mr. Hickock at gunpoint.

“Y’ ain’t a goin’nowheres without me Bill,” the woman stated. “And I ain’t a lettin’ y’ dilly dally with some hoity toity female foreigner. ‘Til I sez otherwise, I’m the onliest woman whose skirts y’ kin lift.

Did I mention that this creature wore men’s pants and a fur covering that looked as if it had once been part of a bear? I bristled at being called hoity toity by anyone of such obviously low stamp, to say nothing of the idea that I might ‘lift my skirts’ for any strange man. Before I could issue the set down this woman deserved. Mr. Hickock was on his feet, nobly placing his body between me and the pistol’s line of fire.

“Now Jane,” he said in a tone used to sooth wild animals. “You know I wouldn’t try to two-time you or any woman to whom I commit myself.”

“I know nothin’ of the sort, and won’t ‘til y’ agree t’ marry me.”

“I’m already married, Jane, as you are well aware.”

“Don’t keep you from cattin’ around with saloon dancers and squaws.”

Mr. Hickock cast a glance at me and could see I was less that pleased over what I’d heard and seen. I shook my head at him. He sighed and picked up his hat, then took Jane by the arm and escorted her from the room.

I have discovered that very few words are needed in this part of the world to convey significant information. Mr. Hickock perceived correctly that I would not be needing his services in any capacity. Yet he was kind enough to send another guide for me to interview.

This character, one Skinner Jones, I might have rejected instantly. Jones personal hygiene looked and smelled no better than Mr. Bridger’s. However, the educated speech that came from Jones’s mouth roused my interest, so I invited my guest to share tea with me as we discussed the possibility of escort from Cheyenne to the Black Hills.

Jones, despite all appearances and scents, was surprisingly erudite. Our conversation ranged from the Souix and their situation, to life on the Wyoming trails, and from there to the exigencies of my own travels. We discussed Dickens, Milton, and Shakespeare. I was introduced to new authors such as Poe, Melville, and Clemens. (Hence my communication started with that last author as a result of reading some very entertaining tales written under the pen name of Mark Twain.)

Not only was Jones an educated, well-spoken, and entertaining conversationalist, the guide exhibited a startling degree of comfort with proper conduct during a tea service. When I probed for more of Jones’s background, the guide became evasive and skillfully re-directed my questions. In another person, say of Mr. Bridger’s ilk, I might have become wary enough to decline that person’s escort. However, the combination of Jones’s manners, obvious erudition, and skillful handling of the most probing questions sparked my curiosity.

By the time we had finished our tea and conversation began to lag, I had made up my mind. I offered Jones the job. The guide would accept only if I chose to avoid the Black Hills and would be willing to travel to other safer locations in the territory. Jones guaranteed me I would not be disappointed. A description of Lake Yellowstone, the Wind River, and an area called Smoke Valley intrigued me so much that I was eager to dispense with any plans to visit the black Hills. There was one other item which decided my cooperation with Jones’s plans. Throughout our conversation, I observed that Jones behaved more like a female—the handling of cups and saucers, a certain delicacy of conduct when eating the cakes and drinking the tea, and a number of very subtle mannerisms that, in this wild western environment, perhaps only another delicately raised woman might recognize. What in the world was such a woman doing masquerading as a teamster? How had she come by the skills to, as is said in the west, ‘skin mules’ and earn the regard of men such as Mr. Hickock?

I had to know the answers to these questions and more. When I do, I shall write them down and if I obtain Jones’s permission will seek to publish the Legend of Skinner Jones. In the interim, I will be able to continue sending to the Tattler small tidbits detailing my adventures in Wyoming in the company of Skinner Jones.

Western Romance WyomingAbout the Book

One Night’s Desire, Historical Western Romance (1870 Wyoming)

A WOMAN ON THE RUN ~ Rustlers, claim jumpers and fire, nothing will stop Kiera Alden from reuniting her family. But an accusation of murder threatens her dreams and sets Marshall Evrett Quinn on her trail. She may be able to escape prison bars and eventually prove her innocence, but she can’t escape Quinn’s love.

A LAWMAN IN HOT PURSUIT ~ Marshall Evrett Quinn is relentless in pursuit of law-breakers, and pretty Kiera Alden is no exception. Clever and courageous, she evades him until chance encounter turns the tables. Finally, he has this elusive desperado under arrest, but success is bittersweet when she captures his heart.

Buy Links for One Night’s Desire:

Amazon–http://www.amazon.com/Nights-Desire-Crimson-Romance-ebook/dp/B00DL3ALFC/
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Crimson Romance–http://www.crimsonromance.com/historical-romance-novels/one-nights-desire/
Kobo–http://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/ebook/one-night-s-desire

Excerpt

You can read an excerpt of One Night’s Desire here http://rueallyn.com/2c2ONDexcerpt.html.

Rue Allyn About the Author

Rue Allyn is the award-winning author of Historical, Contemporary and erotic Romance. When not writing, Rue travels the world and surfs the internet in search of background material and inspiration for her next heart melting romance. She loves to hear from readers, and you may contact her at  contact@RueAllyn.com. She can’t wait to hear from you.

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I had a terrific time today providing some of my research on my current work in progress, tentatively titled The Legend of Skinner Jones. This book tells the story of Boyd Alavarez and Elise Van Demer, two secondary characters from One Night’s Desire ~ Wildfire Love Book 2. The action of the Skinner Jones story takes place a few years after that of One Night’s Desire. Here’s a little more information about that book.

Visions of what could be…

Kenna, the healer for Clan MacLaren, pushed her cart of herbs towards the lists where the Knights of Berwyck were training. They had not yet called for her aid but she knew from the vision she had this morn they would have need of her skills. The men would be training far into the night if their master was not pleased with their performance this day. ’Twould not be the first time such a happening occurred, nor would it be the last.

Once reaching the outer baily, she continued onward through the postern gate and gazed out to the wide field where the lists could be found. She saw her liege lord sitting upon his black steed inspecting his men. He was a formidable foe and known as the Devil’s Dragon of Berwyck. Not many could best this man on a field of honor nor upon the battlefield, or so the stories went.

Her own eyes scanned the men ’til she found the one her heart continuously sought. Geoffrey… even thinking his name brought a smile to her lips and when he saw that she neared, he gave her that lopsided grin she had come to cherish. He was a cocky one and knew what he did to her with just one look in her direction, the rogue!

Geoffrey continued to occupy her thoughts as she pushed her cart up near the wall of the castle. She had barely gotten the wagon in place when she felt herself slipping into another vision. A mist rolled over the mountains whilst she watched the images swiftly pass afore her eyes. Berwyck Castle and war, a red haired woman who played with fire, women who were not of this world coming to the castle gates, along with seeing far into the future of what the world would someday become. 

“Kenna…”

Her name being called brought her out of trance-like state. She rubbed at her eyes ’til she was at last able to see Geoffrey leaning over her.

“What happened?” she asked, although she already knew her answer especially since she was propped up against the wall.

“Kenna, you gave me such a fright,” Geoffrey murmured with green eyes filled with concern. “Can you stand?’

Kenna clutched at his sleeve. “You must needs prepare yourself for war, Geoffrey,” she warned.

His chuckle rumbled inside his chest. “War? We have secured Berwyck in the name of our king. There will be no war.”

“Said every man too sure of themselves and their ability,” she returned with crossed brows.

He laughed again causing her frown to deepen. “We are the Devil’s Dragon’s men and remain victorious. Have you not heard that no man or beast can defeat us?”

“You make light of a situation when you should be heeding my words instead,” she replied but could not hide the smile that turned up the corners of her lips. He was just too handsome for her to resist his charms.

He leaned closer to whisper in her ear. “You care for me, admit it,” he crooned softly.

Laughter bubbled forth from Kenna’s lips. “Never!” she cried out playfully. “You are already too sure of yourself. I shall not be the cause of your ego growing any larger, good sir. However would I deal with you then?”

“I am certain we could think of something, my lady,” he said afore placing a quick kiss to her cheek. He held out his hand for her to take but she hesitated knowing what could possibly happen if they were to touch.

Too late, he reached out to grasp her hand and vision’s once more swam afore her eyes with images of her and Geoffrey naked and kissing by a pond in a secluded cove. Just as quickly, she returned to the present. Her face flamed scarlet wondering if what she had just witnessed would come to pass. Afore she could make any attempt at speech, Geoffrey helped her gain her feet and placed a kiss above her knuckles.

“I must needs return to my training. You will sup with me this eve,” he stated, apparently sure of himself that he already knew her answer.

Kenna nodded and watched Geoffrey leave her side to return to the field. She was glad she had not mentioned the women from the future who would one day come to Berwyck to claim the hearts of the very knights who trained afore her. Geoffrey would surely think she was daft and, considering what she had just seen, she would not want him to think ill of her. Change was in the air and Kenna would look forward to what the future had in store for her and, of course, Geoffrey.

This is an original piece with Kenna and Geoffrey who are secondary characters in Sherry Ewing’s debut medieval romance, If My Heart Could See You available in audio book, eBook, and paperback.

When you’re enemies, does love have a fighting chance?

For Amiria of Berwyck, defeat does not come easily as she watches her home and clan being ripped asunder. When the very enemy who has laid siege to her home demands her fealty, she will do whatever it takes to protect her people including a hastily concocted ruse that quickly begins to unravel. All too soon, she starts to question whether she can forgive herself for betraying those she has sworn to protect.

Dristan of Blackmore, champion knight of King Henry II, has a reputation to uphold as the Devil’s Dragon. After his invading army conquers Berwyck castle, he sets out to manage the newly claimed estate by training its knights in the art of proper defense. At first, everything appears as it should be, or is it? Betrayed by those he believed he could trust, he must first set aside his anger before he can make room in his heart for love.

Together they are tied by an unspoken bond. As they begin to rebuild the land and unite their people, forces beyond their control attempt to tear apart their fragile truce and only time will tell if love will forever bring them together.

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Sherry Ewing is one of the Bluestocking Belles. You can learn more about her on the tab above or on the following social media outlets:

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A peer’s ceremonial robes

Peers wearing their robes and waving their coronets celebrate the coronation of the king

Good day, everyone.  Lady Eleanor Pringle from the London Penny Post coming to you today with a very interesting and captivating interview.  I had been in town recently gathering information for an upcoming article regarding the pomp and ceremony of parliament when I ran into a special someone at Ede and Ravenscroft.  It was none other than Dane Redford Lambourne,  Earl of Huntsbridge.  He had been visiting the shop to have his family’s ceremonial robes cleaned, having been just recently given the title of Earl due to the untimely passing of his brother, when we got to chatting about everything noble and peer-like.

E: What a pleasure it is to run into you, Lord Huntsbridge,  I thank you for allowing me to speak to you so candidly about all of this.

H: The pleasure is mine, Lady Eleanor.  It is lovely to meet you.

E:  First, I wish to offer my sincerest condolences on the loss of your brother, the third Earl of Hunstbridge.  I’m sure his passing was quite a shock.

H:  It was.  My family and I had just discussed the fact that he was always the one who was healthy while the rest of us battled colds and fevers throughout childhood.  That a fever should bring him low, well, yes… quite the shock.

E: And your having to carry the new title was probably a shock as well.

H:  Yes, and equally daunting,  It was never a task I’d aspired to, and never thought on much, being the second son.  I had thought Thomas would have carried the title until my father passed and then his titles would go to his son.  It was unfortunate that he never had that chance to see either come to fruition.

E: It is quite the pity.  But now that the title falls to you, how are you getting on?

H:  It has its advantages and disadvantages.  Aside from the change in status, I have my brother’s tasks to take over, mainly handling my family’s many estates.    I am lucky in that I have a dedicated staff, and my younger brothers are also helping with some of the work until I get the routine down, but it is a lot of responsibility.  And of course, I am not used to the new moniker and the gesturing that comes with it, so it has been awkward to say the very least.

E:  Oh, I don’t know, I would think having people show respect in bows and nods would be rather flattering.

H:  I am so used to gesturing to others that I never once thought about people doing it to me.  It was very bizarre initially.

E:  And I see you are visiting Ede and Ravenscroft.  What is the occasion?

H:  Once I moved into Lambourne House, I had the staff clean some things out and I came across the family robes and coronets.  Several of each, as it were.  Many of them are my fathers and grandfathers before him, so they had seen better days.  Eventually they will be mine as my father, Lord Coventry, has taken a step back from his duties in Lords due to his health and I felt I should have them cleaned and repaired where needed as they had been stuffed in storage for so many years.

E: The robe, though strongly scented of mothballs, is rather lovely.  Can you tell me about it?

H: Indeed.  It is a parliamentary robe that was made for my grandfather, who was the first Marquess Coventry.  I am told Master Arlo put it together for him in the late 1700s.  The body is made of scarlet wool and it’s trimmed in the white ermine fur with the requisite three and a half bars of gold brocade suited to his title.  On the ceremonial robe, which is rarely worn, it has three and a half rows of the ermine tail, you can see the black bits here,  and there are also gold clasps, inlaid with mother of pearl, that were a gift from a French diplomat.

E: I believe your family has origins in France, am I correct?

H: Oh yes, though it was years back before my grandfather.  Our family name is French.

E: And the coronet you have with you?

H:  It is so heavy.  I cannot imagine how men wear these awful contraptions.

*Lord Huntsbridge handed it to me and it was, indeed, very heavy.  Perhaps a half stone or more.

E: Oh my!  Ones neck much pain them for days after having to don it.  As someone who does not own and will never have occasion to wear a coronet, when do you wear such a thing?  And the robes?

H: It is another thing I shall never understand. Look at the fine detail of the coronet.  The artistry of the design.  All the small details.  And it must have cost a small fortune to produce.  These are real pearls.  All this cost and work put into something worn maybe once in one’s lifetime, and then its stuffed in a box and forgotten.

E: That’s tragic.  You would think something so lovely would be displayed.

H:  You know, you are right. I should devise a way to display these items.  Perhaps set up a small type of cabinet in the foyer at Lambourne House.  Otherwise, it is quite the shame, and a huge waste of money to let them mold in a box somewhere.

E;  That’s a wonderful idea,Lord Huntsbridge.  And perhaps like the country homes, you could open your foyer to visitors to view them.

H:  Another fabulous idea.  Though I am sure my family would disparage having strangers wandering in and out of the house in town while they are trying to get on with their day.  I could do with having them set up at Leighsham Park though.   That is my mother’s estate in Grantham.  There’s a lovely corner to the entrance that would lend itself to being a sort of display area.

E:  I am glad to have given you ideas to work with.  They are truly too lovely to hide away.  But getting back to my question, when do you wear such things?

H: I do beg pardon, I did not mean to let my thoughts wander.  The robes are worn more often than the coronets, to be sure.  The robe here is for Parliament.  They are worn during the opening ceremonies each term.  I also have this ceremonial robe, which is more richly crafted with the velvet and ermine trimmings.  The coronets are only worn at royal coronations, when a sovereign is crowned.  It’s all very lovely but personally, I think it’s a waste of money.  I mean, it’s a beautiful piece to have on hand, and the closest I shall ever come to feeling like I have a crown on my head, but to wear it?  I don’t see the point.  It’s heavy and uncomfortable, and when we do put it on, it’s rather pompous, don’t you think?

E:  I think it’s all rather regal actually.  So very noble.

H:  I suppose if you do not have one or have no chance to get one, it’s a different story.  Very much the grass being greener, as it were.

E: I would say so, yes.  So you say this was all in storage.  Do they have special boxes?

H: The robes, yes.  They are boxed in tissue and kept on a shelf in our safe out of the damp to avoid mildew.  The coronets, well…  this one, the oldest article in our family, once came in a box, but that box is now long gone.  I am sure it dissolved over time.  The rest were all just shelved in the safe with the robes.  No special boxes.  Someone had stuffed them each with tissue to keep their shape, but they are all so old.  That is why I’ve brought them in, to be cleaned.

E: And perhaps you shall be wearing them yourself soon enough.

H:  As I mentioned, my father has not been in the public eye of late because of his health, so I suppose it’s fair to say I am just preparing for the inevitable.

E:  I know you say they are only worn for coronation ceremonies, but have you ever tried them on in private?

H:  A gentleman never tells…

And with a wink, Lord Hunstbridge excused himself to deal with the clerk who was taking in his items to be cleaned and refurbished. 

What a charming young man, and so handsome!  I could easily see him wearing those robes.  And a coronet on that brow of his would only make him seem more noble than he already is.  He was very kind in speaking to me and offered that I stop by for tea so that I may meet the rest of the household.  Such a generous offer from the new Earl.  Hold onto your bonnets, ladies.  This one is a real charmer.

Earl of my Heart

Dane Redford Lambourne, now Earl of Huntsbridge, never thought to live a responsible, noble existence. Spending his nights as a privileged gentleman, carousing and enjoying the company of friends was the only life he ever aspired to until the sudden death of his brother thrust him into a world he never wanted and was not prepared to face.

Lady Nichola Crawford could care less if the fabric of her new evening dress matched her shoes or if any of the men at the upcoming ball even looked in her direction. She would sooner stay in the country and scour her father’s library than place herself on the marriage block to be picked at and prodded by the scant handful of ill-deserving men in London.

But a chance meeting at a local confectioner shop is all it takes to set off sparks between the man who vowed no woman would ever get under his skin and the woman who would do anything to deny the love she felt for the Earl of her heart.

Buy Link: http://smarturl.it/EOMH

Meet Victoria Oliveri

History has always fascinated me.  From an early age, I recall asking my grandparents and great-grandparents about their pasts, what it was like in other countries, and found myself enthralled with the old customs they adhered to.

As I grew older, I became a genealogist for my family and traveled abroad to see where my roots started.  Pouring over old pictures and documents was like a treasure hunt, keeping my attention down to the finest detail.  How events came to pass based on the actions of a few excited me to uncover, and what I found always opened paths to new information.

I also became involved in reenactment groups and found that immersing myself in living history was both intriguing and intrinsic to my love of telling stories of the past.  Details are fleshed out for my readers because I know how things feel, how they smell, and how they taste.  As if I had been there, through some amazing portal, and have come back to share what I have learned.

My love of world travel also helps round out my stories in ways I cannot imagine.  I have had in-depth conversations with conservators about ramparts at an abandoned Irish castle I found, and have felt the stone beneath my fingertips.  I have walked down the streets of Mayfair, imagining my characters strolling there beside me, and I have sat in King Henry’s kitchen at Hampton Court joyfully smelling the meat cooking on the hearth.  With each separate occasion, I learn more about history.  Being hands-on has made me see beyond what any book could tell me, and all of those moments to come will only help me to write stories that will intrigue and entice you.

A Flower of Scotland in Flight

The Forfar Inn

Forfar, Angus, Scotland

Roslyn Grant pulled her cloak tighter around her as she watched the coach pull away from the inn, her thin shoulders shivering in the cold air. What to do now? The coach fare to Forfar had cost every last penny of her small savings, and what had it gained her but a mere forty miles from her villainous stepbrother?

“Kin I help ye wit’ yer bag, miss?”

A boy about twelve in a torn jacket and brown wool cap pointed at the small valise at her feet.

Roslyn blinked and bent down to pick it up herself. “Thank you, but no, I can manage it myself.” No doubt he was wanting to earn a coin or two, not knowing that her pockets were as bare as his. In any case, the bag was light enough, as she’d had time only to stuff inside a spare gown, stockings and undergarments, and her nightrail.

The boy stared at her curiously and she realized she must appear a strange sight, standing immobile in the middle of an inn yard with a cold wind whirling about her.

“I’d best go inside,” she said hesitantly.

“There’s a first-rate fire goin’ in the public room,” he offered.

She nodded. “Yes, of course.” The worst they could do was throw her out again. So she took brave steps to the door and made her way inside.

Two men sitting at the bar eyed her with interest, but she walked past them with practiced ease toward the fireplace, where she put down her bag and stretched her hands out toward the fire.

“Kin I git ye somethin’, miss?” A weary-looking woman carrying a jug approached her.

She yearned for a cup of tea, but without coin to pay for it, she shook her head. “No, thank you.”

The door opened again, letting in a gust of icy air and about a half-dozen rough-looking men, cursing and behaving raucously. Roslyn ignored them, leaning closer to the fire, but the harassed serving maid could not.

“Liz-zie! Git yerself over ‘n wait on the new folk! I ain’t payin’ ye to stand there ‘n flap yer tongue!”

Lizzie reddened. “Ye don’t pay me to do the work o’ two,” she said under her breath. “When I see that Ellen girl agin, I’ll give her a piece ‘o my mind, ‘n that’s a fact.”

Roslyn perked up. “Are you short of staff then? I-I might be able to help.”

Lizzie looked her up and down. “Needin’ some o’ the ready, are ye?”

Roslyn nodded. “I-I’m looking for a position, yes.”

“Ye sure ye kin handle rough folk like these ‘uns?” She waved her hand toward the newcomers.

Roslyn set her shoulders back, untied her cloak, and hung it across a chair before making long confident steps toward the table of hooligans.

“Can I get ye some ale, gentlemen? Or is it food yer wantin’ We’ve some fine stew this evenin’,” she said with a look at Lizzie, who appeared to be stifling laughter.

“That so?” said one man, taller and bigger than the rest. “Ole Jack’s stew’s never bin called ‘fine’ afore. Jack git a new cook?”

“He did,” she fibbed. “Me. I cooked up the stew tonight.”

The innkeeper, ‘Ole Jack,’ stared at her incredulously from the kitchen door.

“In that case,” said the big red-headed fellow, “we’ll each have a bowl o’ the pretty gel’s stew. Won’t we, mates?”

They all roared their agreement, and Roslyn hustled toward the kitchen, shrugging sheepishly at the innkeeper. “Yer hired,” he said. “Fer tonight. Wot’s yer name?”

“Ros-er-Rachel,” she lied, using the alias she’d invented previously, in an attempt to cover her tracks.

“Rachel,” he said with a conspiratorial wink. “Git in the kitchen ‘n serve up the stew. Mebbe fancy it up a little. Lizzie! Git ’em some ale!”

Roslyn tied an apron around her waist and went to work on the stew, first siphoning the fat from the top and then adding in some finely chopped onion and thickening it with a little flour. The men, when they tasted it, declared it was the best stew they’d ever had. Roslyn brushed off their improper advances with such practiced good humor that their ringleader declared his intention to return the next night to wear down her resolve.

“Ye say ye need a job?” inquired the innkeeper. “Ye kin have Ellen’s. A lazier lass I never saw. Comes in late more ‘n half the time ‘n sometimes not atall.”

“I wouldn’t want to take Ellen’s position,” Roslyn said. “But I don’t mind helping out for a day or two, until I can find something permanent. In return for food and a place to sleep,” she added.

It would be too easy for Teryn to find her at the Forfar Inn, whatever name she used. Her most pressing need, however, was food and lodging. Once that was satisfied, she could work on devising a longer-term solution.

Roslyn Grant is fleeing the stepbrother who stole her inheritance and sold her to a brothel. Without money and facing the perilous Scottish winter weather, she has only her wits to keep her safe.

In search of one of the Flowers of Scotland, Quinn Murray finds her at his estranged uncle’s home, employed as a housekeeper. Slaying her dragons for her might not be enough, however. Can there be a happy ending for this earl’s heir and a long-lost descendent of Robert the Bruce?

This story will be coming out in the spring with the rest of the stories in the Flowers of Scotland series.

About The Flowers of Scotland series

Only The Marriage Maker can pull flowers from the ashes…

Few men are legends in their own time, great fame more often coming years, even centuries later, and by the pens of scribes who rely on long-told tales rather than fact. Even so, now and again, larger-than-life heroes appear, the sheer force of their personalities raising them above all others. These are the fabled ones, flesh and blood men whose lights blaze so bright they eclipse all who’ve gone before them, as well as those who follow.

In the early years of the thirteen century, when medieval Scotland was entrenched in the treachery and chaos of the Wars of Independence, one such man emerged from the tall shadow of the great William Wallace. This man went on to lead Scotland in a fierce fight for freedom that culminated with his 1306 crowning as King of Scots and then, in 1314, with his stunning victory against Edward II of England at the Battle of Bannockburn.

This man was Robert the Bruce, Scotland’s greatest hero king. Even after his triumph at Bannockburn, he railed against England for another fourteen years, finally securing full Scottish independence in 1328, one year before his death.

Extraordinarily beloved by his men, Robert Bruce was also known for his good looks and charm. Yes, he loved the ladies, and they flocked to him. Such adoration from beautiful women is hard for any man to ignore, especially a warrior king always on the move, long away from hearth and home. The Bruce was married twice and is known to have especially loved his second wife. Yet, medieval wars were brutal and it proved too great a temptation to decline the feminine comfort offered him at every turn.

In short, he succumbed. The hero king who came to be known as the Flower of Scotland for his chivalry, sired many bastards and, great-hearted as he was, he ensured that each one lacked for nothing.

But time rolls on, and after but a few centuries, glory-seekers claimed descent from Scotland’s most revered king. Fortunes turned, and some of his true descendants fell from favor. Eventually, no one remembered that their blood carried the richness of such a great and heroic man.

Of course, no one forgot Robert Bruce. His fame burns as brightly as ever. Some historians are obsessed with him, delving deep into history to uncover every nuance of his life and deeds, including the amorous tales.

When one such historian discovers four young women whose lineages trace directly to the Bruce, this man is deeply troubled. The Flowers of Scotland, as he views these Bruce descendants, should not suffer lives of hardship and obscurity as these women do.

Sir Stirling James

Something must be done and he knows just the man to help them; Sir Stirling James, The Marriage Maker. Sir James is a regular at the Inverness pub run by the hobby historian, an establishment named The Melrose for the final resting place of Robert the Bruce’s heart; Melrose Abbey.

Sir James, a true patriot, and history buff himself, agrees that the four young women deserve triumphs of their own. He knows just the four men worthy of them—men who, like the Bruce, possess charm, rank and standing. These heroes can sweep the lassies off their feet and into a world of happiness and love they never dreamed possible.

About the Author

Susana Ellis has always had stories in her head waiting to come out, especially when she learned to read and her imagination began to soar.

A former teacher, Susana lives in Toledo, Ohio in the summer and Florida in the winter. She is a member of the Central Florida Romance Writers and the Beau Monde chapters of RWA, Maumee Valley Romance Inc., and the (in)famous Bluestocking Belles.

Website: http://www.SusanaEllis.com

Blog: https://susanaellisauthor.wordpress.com

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Lady M Comes to Tea

You pour, dear; my hands are far too aquiver with the latest news. I would spill tea all over that lovely dress. What color would you say it is? Parma? Yes, very fetching.

Oh, but I haven’t the time to talk clothing. Except, did you see what Miss J— wore to… No, no, I’ve more important news to impart. We can talk about her later.

Now, you knew that Viscount Burbridge was engaged to Miss Archambault. Yes, the older daughter with the funny name, not the pretty little blonde one. It was quite sudden, you know, and we all thought there might be some reason for the rush, though as it turns out there’s no rush at all because the engagement has been broken! Yes! And while there’s been quite the hush about it, I have the inside story. Oh, is that seedcake? Just one, if you don’t mind. I must consider my figure. Gowns these days are not forgiving.

Where was I? Oh! Viscount Burbridge. The girl is unexceptional, but unexceptionable, so no worries there. But you know Burbridge’s younger brother, the Honorable G—? Well, it seems he’s the reason for scotching the engagement. Oh yes! What? No, no, nothing like… Wouldn’t that be something? But no, why go for the younger brother when you’ve got the son of an earl in the palm of your hand? The girl isn’t stupid. Odd, certainly, but there’s one of those every Season.

No, you see, the Honorable G— has been caught with his hands where they shouldn’t be! Indeed! They were setting him up as a match for Lady H.T. You know who I mean. And what does he do? Goes after her little sister instead! Lady E. And she encouraged it! Can you imagine? Not even out yet, that one, though I suppose close enough to. Even still, can’t condone it. Proves you can be a Lady and still not be a lady, if you understand my meaning.

Well, of course, the scandal. There’s no wonder Lord Averland put a stop to his daughter’s wedding plans. To connect to such a family, earldom or no. What a shame. Darley has always been a good name. I’m sure it will be again, but they’ll need to bury themselves in the country for a while.

Hm? Miss Archambault? Oh, I don’t know. I heard a neighbor offered for her. She could do worse, I suppose. She’s handsome enough, certainly, but all she ever wants to do is ride horses all day. I don’t know what kind of husband she’d be fit for, or what Viscount Burbridge possibly thought he was doing. Might be he’s had a lucky escape.

Yes, dear, just a little more, and some sugar, too, if you would.

Oh, but here’s another thing that’s happened. You’ve heard of Mr. Duncan Oliver? No? Well, he’s a nobody, really. I mean, a very nice young man, lost his parents fairly young. His servants practically raised him. Such an odd situation all around. But he’s disappeared. Yes! His friend George Fitzbert—of course you know George, everyone does—has been haring around asking questions, and even Oliver’s valet has been out looking. What’s stranger, the last people to visit Oliver were the Milne brothers. You know the Milnes. Well, no, not know them, but know of them. Quite the stir when they came to town. Last Milne to come to London was their father when he needed a wife, and no one’s been to Faebourne in I don’t know how long. The brothers weren’t here a week, and now they’ve gone and so has Mr. Duncan Oliver. No word of any kind. What do you make of that?

Thank you for the tea. I must go. That dress really is quite lovely. The color suits you, unlike that jonquil confection Miss J— was wearing. Looked like a walking dollop of lemon cream. Oh, but I haven’t the time to parse it. We’ll talk again soon. There’s always something exciting going on. I do so love London!

About Brynnde:

Brynnde Archambault’s father has given her an ultimatum: find a suitor during the London season or accept dull Mr. Dallweather’s offer. Brynnde believes she has found the answer to her problem in the form of the handsome and witty Viscount Burbridge, but then scandal strikes and scotches her plans.

Meanwhile, Brynnde has no trouble finding matches for her friends and even her own brother. But can she find love herself, or is she destined for spinsterhood?

About Lady M:

Lady M is a bluestocking of the worst kind but still a valued member of tea parties because she spins the best of tales. Read the full story of Brynnde now and look for Faebourne in the near future. http://pepperwords.com

On Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/M-Pepper-Langlinais/e/B008FBOSPE/

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