Mary Anne Yarde's Blog: The Coffee Pot Book Club , page 79

Welcome to Day #2 of the blog tour for The Promise #HistoricalRomance #WW2 #ThePromise @KathleenHarrym1

 

The Promise

By Kathleen Harryman and Lucy Marshall

How far would you go to keep a promise?
In the heat of battle, one man's promise to another will be tested.

September 1939

 

As Britain is gripped by the fear and uncertainty of war, Tom Armitage stands to gain the one thing that he never thought possible - his freedom.

Rosie Elliot sees her future crumbling to dust as Will Aarons leaves Whitby with Jimmy Chappell to fight in the war. As she begins work at The Turnstone Convalescent Home, Rosie finds something she thought she had lost. Friendship. But friendship soon turns to love. Can this new love replace Will?

This is not an ordinary love story.

It's a story of love, loss, courage, and honour.
Of promises that must be kept or risk losing everything you've ever held dear.

Today we are stopping over on Seduction, Scandal and Spies for a fabulous insight into the inspiration behind The Promise.

Click HERE!

Join #Romance author, Brenda Whiteside, as she explores the inspiration behind her fabulous book — Southwest of Love and Murder #WesternRomance @brendawhitesid2

An Author’s Inspiration

Inspiration of a Desert Rat

By Brenda Whiteside

 

 

Native Desert Rat. That’s how someone would’ve described me years ago. “You were born here?” The term might still be in use, but I haven’t heard it lately. Although born in Phoenix, in southern Arizona, I never really felt “at home” in the desert. After marriage, we lived all over the place from Germany to California, and I enjoyed the greener areas. But now, back in Arizona, I’ve discovered the central desert…and I love it.

Central and northern Arizona inspired my five-book series, Love and Murder. Setting is important to me. The first inspiration for my stories is either the characters that find me in any number of ways or the setting. Book one, The Art of Love and Murder started with a character. When I became aware of her, the setting was a natural—Flagstaff, Arizona. I went to college in this quaint town at the base of the snowcapped San Francisco Peaks.

For several years, we lived on the golden plains just north of Prescott, Arizona. I set book two in my Love and Murder Series, Southwest of Love and Murder, in Chino Valley. There are grassy flatlands and rocky hills with plenty of wide blue skies. It’s where the antelope roam and ranches spread for miles.

Phoebe, the heroine, leaves the city for a little R and R on the Meadowlark Ranch on the Chino Valley plains. Rancher Mason Meadowlark is more than happy to be the recreation part. But murder follows her. She’s a murder/mystery writer, and I found more than a little inspiration from myself for Phoebe. My characters are often inspired by people I know or have met. Could be one simple character trait or someone’s style. Phoebe comes the closest to me, but I’ll not confess how much of her. Let’s just say it’s more of the love part than the murder angle.

Speaking of murder, it’s beautiful country around central and northern Arizona, but not much water. My husband would’ve killed for a lake in Chino Valley. Since he’s an avid fisherman, we migrated eastward a couple of years ago to get closer to what little water you can find in this state.

 

Now, we live in the basin, only minutes from Roosevelt and Apache Lakes. It’s still the Sonoran Desert, the only desert where the Saguaro Cacti exist, but other native plants and trees are abundant. Springtime can be awe inspiring when everything blooms yellow, purple, orange, and hot pink.

 

I continue to be inspired by central Arizona. I’m currently writing a new series set in the Arizona Black Hills, not far from Chino Valley and the Love and Murder Series.

 

 

Southwest of Love and Murder

By Brenda Whiteside

Mystery writer, Phoebe Anderson, owes her success to killing her first husband on paper seventeen years earlier. Now, someone has actually done it. When she decides to take a few days away on the ranch of her best friend’s brother-in-law, she doesn’t expect romance to find her...or murder to follow her.

 

Mason Meadowlark is happy with his wild cowboy ways, avoiding love since the death of his baby and the end of his marriage twenty years ago. When Phoebe shows up, he fights to control his emotions, but soon wonders if she just might be worth the risk of opening his heart again.

 

With an obsessed fan close on her heels, Phoebe is thrown into her own murder mystery…and the next target on his list is Mason.

 

 

Pick up your copy of

Southwest of Love and Murder

For only 0.99 on #Kindle for a Limited Time

Amazon • Apple iBooks • Barnes and Noble

Audio Buy Links:

Amazon UK • Amazon US • iTunes Audio Books

Add Southwest of Love and Murder to your ‘to-read’ list on

Goodreads

 

 

You don’t have to read the five books in order, so now is a good time to dive in and come to central Arizona for a little love and murder. I’ll bet the setting and Phoebe will inspire you to try the rest of the series. If you’re partial to audiobooks, the first four are available right now and the fifth will release in a month. I’ve given away all of my US codes but I still have some UK codes for free listens. Leave a comment if you’d like a code.

 

Brenda Whiteside is the author of suspenseful, action-adventure romance. Mostly. After living in six states and two countries—so far—she and her husband have decided they are gypsies at heart, splitting their time between Northern Arizona and the RV life. They share their home with a rescue dog named Amigo. While FDW is fishing, Brenda writes stories of discovery and love entangled with suspense.

 

Connect with Brenda:

Website • Blog • Facebook • Twitter • Instagram • Amazon Author Page • Goodreads • BookBub.

 

 

 

Check out Grace Augustine's fabulous book — Second Chances #Romance #GreatReads @mallidalli

Second Chances

By Grace Augustine

Tucker Endicott married the beautiful Natalie Bronwyn, an aspiring Olympic skier. Complications drove Natalie and Tucker apart. Twenty-five years later, Tucker was still haunted by the beautiful woman who'd captured his heart. After his beloved Poppy Joe passed, Tucker moved to his hometown, renovated a house with the help of his best friend, and was a partner in the most prestigious architectural firm in the Pacific Northwest.

Sabrina Endicott, Tucker's daughter, is a self-made woman. Her mother walked out on her when she was a baby and the last time she remembered seeing her was when she was four years old. Sabrina grew up with the love of her father and his friends. She made a mistake in high school that resulted in a pregnancy her senior year. She gave birth to a beautiful little girl, graduated school, and continued her part-time job at Carlson Printing Company—eventually moving up the ladder.

One midnight phone call from a client, the dashing entrepreneur, Blair Dawson, requesting a change in their manual print specifications had Sabrina’s heart beating faster for the first time in a long while.

Nothing was easy for the Endicott's but they forged ahead. Will Tucker let go of the past and open his heart to love? Will Sabrina put her skeletons to rest, forgive those she's hated, and make room for a future filled with happiness?

 

 

Pick up your copy of

Second Chances

Amazon UK • Amazon US

Grace Augustine

Author and Editor, Grace Augustine, resides in Iowa with her older son and teenage cat, Bou. She enjoys acrylic painting on canvas, old movies and 70's music. Grace has written 21 books, to date, in multiple genres, including a self-help book about her journey with multiple sclerosis.

Connect with Grace: Website • Facebook • Twitter.

 

Check out Belle Ami's fabulous #NewRelease — The Girl Who Adored Rembrandt #HistoricalFiction #TimeTravel @BelleAmi5

The Girl Who Adored Rembrandt

By Belle Ami

One painting, two lifetimes, will her visions lead her to the truth?

A frightening premonition of the theft of a priceless Rembrandt family portrait pulls psychic art historian, Angela Renatus, on a hunt to uncover the truth about the masterpiece. Sensing a connection to the great master himself, Angela fears that another of her doomed past lives with her fiancé Alex Caine will reveal itself to her. And with that revelation comes the possible threat of losing Alex in this lifetime.

A former Navy SEAL turned private investigator of stolen art—Alex never backs down from a fight. When the FBI comes calling for Angela’s help to track down the powerful drug lord who masterminded the theft, Alex is determined to keep her safe. Angela is equally determined to unravel her visions about Rembrandt and the stolen painting—haunting visions about a long-buried secret in the Rembrandt family. A secret that could alter the course of her life…

 

Excerpt

PROLOGUE
Amsterdam, Netherlands

Rozengracht 184

October 12, 1662

 

“How dare those pompous ignoramuses return the painting! What do they know of art? Nothing!” 

Hendrickje Stoffels jumped as a plate flew past her ears, smashing against the wood cabinet. She ran to her daughter, Cornelia, and swept her up in her arms.

“Vader, no,” the weeping child pleaded.  

“It’s all right, Neeltje,” Hendrickje smoothed her daughter’s golden curls over her shoulder and kissed her cheek.

“The pandering vetzaks! Fat bags!” Rembrandt van Rijn raged, his voice shaking the rafters of the house. Neeltje clung to Hendrickje, her legs wrapped tight around her waist. Hendrickje prayed the painter’s venting would appease his temper and curb his assault on her good plates, or soon there would be nothing left to eat on.

She knew well it was better to let the bitter tirade run its course. What bothered her was seeing their eight-year-old daughter frightened to death by her father’s outburst. 

“Those Godverdomme zakkenwassers, their taste is in their klootzakken!”

“Rembrandt, enough! Think of Neeltje!” She covered the child’s ears. Referring to the governors of Amsterdam as goddamn pocket-washers and assholes was not appropriate language for a child, nor was it going to solve the problem. What if Neeltje repeated it in front of a patron? Mijn God, the trouble would certainly rain down on them.

Rembrandt’s mouth clamped shut into a thin line. His hands fisted on his hips, and he glared at her. Her gaze dropped to the floor, where a massive rolled canvas filled the length of the room.

“What has happened?” The realization beginning to dawn on her. 

“What has happened?” he repeated in a furious whisper. “What has happened is those idiots have returned The Oath-Swearing of Claudius Civilis, a painting, as you well know, I worked on for two years! It hung in the Town Hall for two weeks, and now they have sent it back without so much as a guilder for my trouble.”

Hendrickje covered her mouth to hold back the bile that rose in her throat. 

It was a disaster. 

They needed this commission—desperately. “What will you do?”

A red-faced Rembrandt stared at the bundle on the floor. “Damn them all. I’ll cut it into little pieces and stuff it down each one of their throats.” He ran up the stairs, his heavy footfalls thundering through the house—a minute later, he returned with a pair of large scissors in his hand. He pushed the furniture to the edges of the room and cut the jute that secured the rolled painting. He kicked the canvas until it lay flat on the floor. It was the largest history painting he’d ever done, and it took up every centimeter of space. He crouched, scissors poised, preparing to cut. 

“Vader, please, no!” Neeltje cried. “Don’t hurt the painting.” Her face was wet with tears, and she sniffled, her small hand wiping her nose. Hendrickje’ s heart broke for Neeltje, who worshipped her father.

Rembrandt looked up at Neeltje’s stricken face and dropped the scissors—they clattered to the floor. Standing, he walked to mother and daughter, his shoulders slumped. “Mijn parel, my pearl,” Rembrandt murmured the affectionate nickname he called his beloved daughter. “Forgive me, Dochter, your Vader did not mean to frighten you. Cease your tears, I will not destroy the painting.”

The storm had passed, and the calm aftermath allowed Hendrickje to think. She studied the painting of the fearsome barbarian, Civilis, with his lofty jeweled crown. The Batavian conqueror was seated at a table with a gathering of common drunks, their swords raised in sworn allegiance to the man who’d freed them from the Romans. A monumental work of art, the painting was modeled after Raphael’s School of Athens in size and grandeur. 

The burgemeesters of Amsterdam must have been stunned by the audacious interpretation of Tacitus’s text of what the Dutch considered a shining victory in their history. She could imagine the representatives of the city recoiling in horror at Rembrandt’s vision. Their pride was in the alliance of provinces of the Netherlands, governing themselves, not indentured to a sovereign like the rest of Europe. And here, Rembrandt had dared to paint their hero, as a king no less. Although Rembrandt’s immense talent had at most times swayed his naysayers—this time, it failed him.

It made her stomach turn, but she knew what must be done. 

Hendrickje cupped her hand on Rembrandt’s cheek. “I’m afraid we must cut it down to a reasonable size. It’s the only way to salvage it and sell it.”

Rembrandt trembled, but he nodded. He drew Hendrickje and Neeltje into his arms and hugged them, pressing his lips to Neeltje’s forehead. When he released them, he knelt to the floor, scissors in hand.

Hendrickje put Neeltje down, and they knelt beside Rembrandt holding the edges of the painting and pulling it taut. The first incision brought a sniffle from Neeltje.

“It will be fine, mijn lieverd, the painting will be smaller, but your vader is a genius, and the men who built the new Town Hall are fools who will one day regret their foolish acts.”

Rembrandt mumbled under his breath, “They call it the ‘eighth wonder of the world.’ I call it the azijnzeiker huis.”

Hendrickje covered her mouth, unable to stifle her giggle, and Rembrandt chuckled as well. Calling the majestic Town Hall, a vinegar piss house was too funny. Neeltje’s cheeks brightened, and her laughter tinkled around them. 

Laughter in the face of adversity had always stitched their love together, and it did so once again.

Rembrandt snipped away at the canvas, and Hendrickje did her best not to wince with each cut.

 

CHAPTER 1

San Francisco, California

Present day

January 12, 2:00 a.m.

 

It was a cold, rainy night in the City by the Bay. The kind of night when furnaces around the city were blasting, and foghorns moaned a warning. A thick milky soup shrouded The Golden Gate Bridge, creating an optical illusion as though it floated on a cloud. The bay was invisible, cloaked beneath a blanket of white. 

Anyone with half a brain was indoors on this inhospitable night.

A few miles away in Pacific Heights, five men jumped the fence of a Gothic-style mansion. Gloved, hooded, and wearing black thermal gear, they huddled together and checked their weapons. Before pulling his balaclava down over his face, their leader, Miguel Santiago, gave a series of hand signals, sending the men off in teams of two. Before they could break into the house, there was an armed guard they needed to subdue.

Miguel hid behind a clipped topiary hedge that resembled an upside-down ice-cream cone. Staring through night-vision goggles that turned the blackness of night to a green semblance of day, he waited for the security guard to make his circuit of the grounds. When the guard rounded the corner of the house, his flashlight beam danced across the lawn like Tinker Bell on steroids. In his other hand, he held the leash of a German Shepherd who froze with his snout in the air, sniffing. Call it his sixth sense, but Miguel could have sworn the guard looked directly at him. The dog strained on his leash, pulling his handler forward. Even if the guard hadn’t seen him, the dog had caught his scent.

Before the guard released the growling beast, Miguel aimed the rifle with its tranquilizer dart and fired. The guard staggered, grabbing for the dart in his neck. He was over six feet and muscled, but the drug was strong enough to bring down a bear. Before the stunned man’s hand could grasp the dart, he collapsed to the ground. When he fell, he let go of the leash, and the dog came charging toward Miguel. He reloaded and fired, cursing as the dog tumbled head over heels.

Miguel waved his hand to Fernando—his number two, ran forward, and swung a rubberized grappling hook and rope up to the roof eave. It caught with a dull thump, and the ninja-clad man grabbed the rope and scuttled up the side of the house with the agility of an acrobat. Miguel checked his watch and walked over to the dog. He knelt and laid his hand on its head and smiled, relieved as the animal’s chest rose and fell evenly.

While Fernando loaded gas into the ventilation system, Miguel crouched behind a tree and pulled his laptop out of his backpack. The gas wasn’t lethal, he’d been assured by his suppliers, but it would induce a deep comatose state when inhaled. Hours later, the victims would wake with a splitting headache and no memory of what had occurred. 

The house was secured with a sophisticated alarm system and cameras that linked to the security company, the fire department, and the police department. Infrared motion sensors triggered individual alarms over most of the valuables. Miguel had spent weeks breaking the code, testing over and over again his ability to hack into the mainframe of the elite security system. He’d perfected his skill, reducing the time until he’d nailed it to under two minutes. Once he hacked in and deactivated the code, the system would automatically recycle, discover the error, and generate a new code in sixty seconds. Miguel figured out how to trip the system to give them ten minutes. If they weren’t out of the mansion before it reset, all hell would break loose, police and security guards would swarm the estate in a matter of minutes.

Miguel’s fingers drummed the keyboard, counting down the ten minutes on his watch for the gas to permeate inside. Fernando silently bounced down the side of the house, giving a thumbs up. Satisfied, Miguel’s fingers flew over the keyboard—a series of numbers scrolled across the laptop’s screen at lightning speed. He hammered away until the code locked into place. With a few more strokes to the keyboard, a red alert flashed, announcing the system was down. He set the timer on his watch, and the countdown began.

He ran across the manicured lawn toward the kitchen entrance, switching out his goggles to a full-face gas mask. By the time he got to the door, Diego had already picked the lock and opened it. Julian covered the entrance, and Fernando and Diego followed Miguel inside. 

Miguel had only a vague idea of the downstairs plan, but based on the diagram of the security system, the painting would be above the fireplace in the living room on the first floor. The darkness and the gas mask made it difficult to see. The gas mask was a new model his agent had sold him—US SEAL Team Six had worn the exact masks when they offed Bin Laden. Military-grade or not, he should have had his men test it beforehand. Estúpido!

He stumbled in the entranceway losing his footing. Attempting to brace his fall, he knocked over a small table. He, the table, and whatever was on it crashed to the floor. He cursed as the shattering glass echoed throughout the entry. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement on the staircase.

“Madre di Dios!” He crossed himself and nearly fainted at the ghostly vision. A woman hovered over the stairwell, gazing down at him. Mesmerized, he couldn’t move. He sensed she could see through the mask right to his soul. All of his bodily functions staged a rebellion. His pulse surged, his heartbeat pounded, his lungs refused to expand, and his gut churned, filling his mouth with a noxious taste. And yet, somewhere in his tumultuous reaction, her beauty made an impact. He closed his eyes and swallowed the lump in his throat. When he opened his eyes, she was gone, but he would never forget her—long dark hair, almond-shaped eyes, and lips made for love.

 

Pre-order your copy of

The Girl Who Adored Rembrandt

Amazon

Released 1st September 2020

Add The Girl Who Adored Rembrandt to your ‘to-read’ list on

Goodreads

 

Belle Ami

 Belle Ami is a #1 Bestselling author of romantic suspense, romantic thrillers, and international mystery with a time-travel twist. Her first novel was a finalist for a major book award and launched her dynamic writing career. Belle’s book are the recipients of numerous awards, including The RAVEN Award, the RONE Award, the Reader’s Favorite Award, and the Book Excellence Awards. THE GIRL WHO LOVED CARAVAGGIO is the current Finalist for the 2020 RAVEN and RONE Awards, to be decided. The third book in her Out of Time series, THE GIRL WHO ADORED REMBRANDT will publish September 1, 2020.

When Belle isn't working on her next book, she's most likely in the kitchen whipping up something delicious for her family to enjoy. In addition to enjoying gourmet cooking, Belle is also an accomplished pianist, skier, and world traveler. She lives in Newbury Park, CA with her wonderful husband and two kids. She also lives with Cindy Crawford and Giorgio Armani (who just happen to be a horse and a chihuahua).

 

Connect with Belle:

Website • Facebook • Instagram • Twitter • BookBub • Goodreads.

 

 

 

Check out Linda Bennett Pennell's fabulous #NewRelease — All That Glitters #HistoricalFiction #GreatRead @LindaPennell

All That Glitters

By Linda Bennett Pennell

Sometimes we find our true purpose in the most unexpected places.

Becoming governess to a difficult child in a robber baron’s eerie mansion on the Georgia coast is not the life Sarah Anne had envisioned. The cultural clashes between her rural southern upbringing and that of the wealthy northern family send her reeling, but she is determined to be a success. She needs this job for all other doors have closed.  Complicating her position are two young men of the family who vie for her attention, engendering emotions that she fights but cannot quell.

With patience and kindness, Sarah Anne breaks through the emotional wall with which her student has surrounded herself. But as her understanding of the family dynamic grows, Sarah Anne comes to realize there may be very good reasons for the child’s troubling behavior. Something is not right within Ripon House. Is the child mentally unbalanced as the father claims or is the family determined to protect a sinister secret no matter the cost?

Excerpt

 

Chapter One

Is she dead? The flesh on her face feels cool to the touch. It would really be too bad if the whore is in fact no longer among the living. Killing is not a taste I have developed thus far. Much more satisfying to think of them permanently marked and remembering. Checking her throat is in order.

 

Ah, good. My method holds true. A strong pulse thumps beneath her surprisingly alluring flesh. If she were a lady instead of a whore, she might even tempt me into an actual relationship. As is, she will live, but with considerable bruising around her windpipe and an ugly scar near her hairline.

 

See how the moonlight brightens the blood trickling over her temple toward her ear. Perhaps I should deepen the rouge on her tawdry cheeks by smearing some of it on them. Yes. That’s better. She now looks exactly like what she is – a whore who will remember tonight for a very long time.

 

If she hadn’t resisted, I wouldn’t have hurt her. But then, they always force me to hurt them. All they have to do is submit, but the stupid trollops never catch on until it is too late.

 

Pick up your copy of

All That Glitters

Amazon UK • Amazon US

 

Linda Bennett Pennell

Take a sneak-peek between the covers of Nancy Northcott's fabulous book — The Herald of Day #AlternateHistory #TimeTravel #RichardIII @NancyNorthcott

The Boar King’s Honor Trilogy

By Nancy Northcott

 

A wizard’s fatal mistake

A king wrongly blamed for murder

A bloodline cursed until they clear the king’s name

 

Book 1: The Herald of Day

 

In 17th-century England, witchcraft is a hanging offense. Tavern maid Miranda Willoughby hides her magical gifts until terrifying visions compel her to seek the aid of a stranger, Richard Mainwaring, to interpret them. A powerful wizard, he sees her summons as a chance for redemption.  He bears a curse because an ancestor unwittingly helped murder the two royal children known as the Princes in the Tower, and her message uses symbols related to those murders.

 

Miranda’s visions reveal that someone has altered history, spreading famine, plague, and tyranny across the land. The quest to restore the timeline takes her and Richard from the glittering court of Charles II to a shadowy realm between life and death, where they must battle the most powerful wizard in generations with the fate of all England at stake.

 

Excerpt

 

Chapter 1

Dover, England

September 1674

    

Most of Dover’s folk turned out for the witch’s hanging. Merchants in fine silk and linen mingled with farmers and laborers in stained homespun. Shoulders hunched against the damp salt air, they chatted while they waited.

 

To see justice done. Or so they thought.

 

Miranda Willoughby knew better. Although she hid her own powers, they would alert her to anyone else’s gifts, and she’d never caught a whiff of magic around old Mistress Smith. But saying so wouldn’t save the woman. It would only win Miranda a hanging of her own.

 

“Black Bess, now,” said a short woman, “she danced like a hen on a hot slate b’fore she died.”

 

Her burly, male companion shook his head. “That don’t compare to Jack Dawes, the highwayman—took near half an hour dyin’.”

 

Their anticipation rasped across Miranda’s magical senses as harshly as rough surf scraped the shore. Standing by a small cart in the midst of the crowd, selling hot bread from the inn where she worked, she steeled herself against the callous talk.

 

She’d known how people would react and so had pushed to be the maid chosen for this duty. While her limited magical skills could do little to ease the doomed woman’s passing, Agnes Smith would at least have one person in the crowd who recognized the injustice of her death.

 

“I seen a double hangin’ in Canterbury,” the inn’s driver said from the cart seat. “Pair o’ thieves danced a merry jig.”

 

Standing by the front wheel, his friend nodded and grinned.

 

Miranda gritted her teeth. If only she could stop this. But Mother had died before she’d had the chance to teach Miranda more than summoning and glamours, and they were no use here.

 

She and the inn’s driver had arrived early to secure a spot near the hanging tree, a stout oak. The noose dangled from a thick limb above the crowd’s heads. Swaying in the moist ocean breeze, it taunted her with her lack of power.

 

To her right, a narrow, rutted dirt lane ran toward the town. The sheriff would bring the doomed woman that way.

 

The pie-seller’s stand to Miranda’s left did brisk business, and a juggler near the road collected coins in his upturned hat. Shrieking, laughing children chased each other through the fringes of the crowd.

 

A sturdy, blond man in rough woolen garb stopped beside her. “A hot cross bun, mistress.”

 

He barely glanced at her, which was no surprise. Men didn’t favor plain women, and she’d used her magic to become so. Her dark brown hair appeared thin and limp, her form scrawny, and her face pox-marked. In homeliness lay safety that was well worth its cost to her in other ways.

 

She uncovered one of the three pails in the back of the cart, where warm bricks kept the buns hot. A sweet, yeasty scent rose from the pail. Reaching in, she said, “That’ll be a farthing, if you please, sir.”

 

He passed her the coin and accepted his bread.

 

As he turned away, a shout rose from the crowd. They surged as one toward the road. Their bodies obscured her view of the approaching wagon, but its lone passenger, her aged face twisted with fear, stood high enough for Miranda to see.

 

People stooped, picking up rocks and dirt clods. Threw them at that helpless woman.

 

Miranda gripped the edge of her cart, the weather-worn wood biting into her palms. What use was power if you didn’t know enough about it to help someone in need?

 

The sheriff’s wagon rattled its way toward the tree. The crowd followed, gleeful over the woman’s helplessness. A stone flew through the air and hit her shoulder. With her hands tied behind her, she couldn’t deflect the missile. She cringed, turning into the path of a dirt clod that struck her temple.

 

Shuddering, Miranda swallowed against nausea. If she lost her breakfast, she’d draw attention she couldn’t afford.

 

The wagon stopped under the tree, and the sheriff’s men pulled the old woman out. They pushed her up onto a ladder below the noose and put the rope around her neck.

 

The sheriff stood in the wagon to read the sentence. The wind kept his words from carrying clearly, but Miranda caught some phrases. “For the crime of witchcraft...Squire Mason’s cows...”

 

Miranda frowned. Cows, hah! This had more to do with Squire Mason’s desire for the old woman’s land. Everyone knew he’d tried to buy her little plot at an absurdly low price, which the widow had resented. That resentment had opened the way for the witchcraft accusation. As had the old woman’s eccentric ways and homely, pox-scarred features.

 

Miranda’s hand rose to the pox scar illusions on her cheek. Her disguise could have liabilities she hadn’t expected.

 

“Hanged by the neck until dead,” the sheriff finished. He rolled his parchment with a flourish and jumped from the wagon.

 

“I’m innocent. I done nothing!”

 

The crowd’s derisive shouts drowned the old woman’s screech.

“Nothing anymore,” a man yelled, and everyone laughed.

 

Sickened by the cruelty, Miranda stepped on the hub of one of the cart’s wheels, boosting herself above everyone’s heads. Her eyes sought the condemned woman’s in the probably vain hope of making her last sight a kindly one.

 

“Now,” the sheriff yelled.

 

Someone kicked the ladder away. Mistress Smith’s body dropped, pulling the rope taut. She thrashed wildly in the air. In her reddening face, her eyes bulged. Her desperate, pleading gaze met Miranda’s.

 

Miranda’s stomach lurched, and she tasted bile. Swallowing frantically, she murmured, “Ease,” and tried to push power into the words. “Stop the pain. Stop.”

 

It wasn’t working. Desperately, she whispered, “Stop!”

 

Nothing changed. Oh, if only she could do something. Anything!

 

Wrenching pain lanced through her head, and the crowd vanished. Purple-gray mists swept around her, swallowing the shouting, hooting voices.

 

Beneath her feet lay solid shadow, and the nasty odor of rotten eggs pervaded the dank, foggy twilight. Her neck and arms tingled with magic. With cold foreboding.

 

The fog receded, revealing a white boar—with blue eyes, not small, black, piggy ones—lying on a carpet of deep blue bordered in mulberry. It struggled to rise, its eyes dark with pain and mute appeal that wrenched her heart.

 

Above it loomed a red dragon bugling in triumph. White and green striations shimmered on the undersides of its spread wings. Blood dripped from its talons and flowed from gouges in the boar’s side. She’d always loved tales of dragons, but this one’s joy stabbed into her with the certainty that the creature was evil.

 

Summon the boar’s knight, said a voice in her head.

 

Knight?

 

As she backed away from the gory tableau, the reeking fog closed around the images. A man’s face flashed into her mind, his strong, stern features framed by a knight’s helm. Clad in gleaming, silver armor, he galloped a black charger through the swirling vapors to confront the dragon.

 

On his left arm, he bore a shield emblazoned with twin stripes of mulberry and blue down the middle and a white rose backed by the rays of a sunburst in the center. Etched boars and sunburst roses covered his armor.

 

Beneath straight, dark brows, his blue eyes narrowed as he eyed the dragon and its prey.

 

If he opposed the dragon, did that mean he was a force for good? Her instincts said yes, but how could she know?

 

The dragon roared, a ground-shaking threat, and the knight’s expression hardened. He slammed his visor shut, drew his broadsword, and spurred his mount to charge. The dragon belched flame.

 

No! He’d be killed.

 

The fog closed over the scene, then cleared.

 

Miranda found herself sitting on the ground by the cart, surrounded by half a dozen anxious townsfolk and the inn’s driver. The vision, or whatever it was, was over. Gasping in relief, she clutched the arm supporting her.

 

Its owner was the last man who’d bought a bun. “Did you hit your head, mistress? Are y’all right?”

 

They were watching her—all looking at her face. Staring. Oh, no—were her glamours—? But she could feel her power still shrouding her, holding them in place.

 

Shaky with relief, she scrambled upright. “I’m quite well. I thank you. I must have lost my balance.”

 

Of course she had. That had felt like a true magical vision, as unexpected as it was disturbing. Until today, though, she hadn’t used her magic for anything other than her glamours in years. Not since coming to the inn. Why would such a vision come to her now?

 

And why would a man fight a dragon for a boar?

 

Pick up your copy of 

The Herald of Day

Amazon

Add The Herald of Day to your ‘to-read’ list on

 Goodreads

 

 

Nancy Northcott

 

Nancy Northcott’s childhood ambition was to grow up and become Wonder Woman.  Around fourth grade, she realized it was too late to acquire Amazon genes, but she still loved comic books, science fiction, fantasy, history, and romance.

 

Nancy earned her undergraduate degree in history. Her favorite part of her course work was a summer spent studying Tudor and Stuart England at the University of Oxford. She has given presentations on the Wars of the Roses and Richard III to university classes studying Shakespeare’s play about that king. In addition, she has taught college courses on science fiction, fantasy, and society.

 

The Boar King’s Honor historical fantasy trilogy combines Nancy’s love of history and magic with her interest in Richard III. She also writes traditional romantic suspense, romantic spy adventures, and two other speculative fiction series, the Light Mage Wars paranormal romances and, with Jeanne Adams, the Outcast Station space mystery series.

 

Reviewers have described her books as melding fantasy, romance, and suspense. Library Journal gave her debut novel, Renegade, a starred review, calling it “genre fiction at its best."

 

Connect with Nancy:

 

Website • Twitter • Facebook • Goodreads.

 

 

Check out Renny deGroot's fabulous book — Torn Asunder #HistoricalFiction #Ireland @renny_degroot

Torn AsunderBy Renny deGroot

He is an inspiring journalist, but Emmet Ryan has no idea that his words have the power to destroy those he loves the most. This is a story about a conflicted man, opening in Dublin, 1916 and set during one of Ireland’s most turbulent eras.

The Coffee Pot Book Club

★★★★★ 

Highly Recommended

Read the full review HERE!

Pick up your copy ofTorn AsunderAmazon UK • Amazon US


Renny DeGroot
I am a first generation Canadian of Dutch parents. I was born in Nova Scotia, Canada but grew up in Toronto, Canada. I studied English Literature at Trent University and creative writing at Ryerson University.I am a published poet, short-story author and an active member of SOCAN (Society of Composers, Authors and Music Publishers of Canada), having written the lyrics for a song which has now been recorded twice.
My debut novel, Family Business, was shortlisted for the Kobo Emerging Writer Prize, 2015.  My strong Dutch roots continue to influence me while the love of my Canadian homeland with its beauty and freedom, flavours all that I do.I live in rural Ontario with my Great Pyrenees and Chocolate Lab.

Connect with Renny: Website • Facebook • Twitter.

Welcome to Day #4 of the blog tour for The Last King #BlogTour #CoffeePotBookClub #TheLastKing @JudithArnopp @coloursofunison

The Last King: England: The First Viking Age

(The Ninth Century Book 1)

By M J Porter

They sent three hundred warriors to kill one man. It wasn’t enough.

Mercia lies broken but not beaten, her alliance with Wessex in tatters.

Coelwulf, a fierce and bloody warrior, hears whispers that Mercia has been betrayed from his home in the west. He fears no man, especially not the Vikings sent to hunt him down.

To discover the truth of the rumours he hears, Coelwulf must travel to the heart of Mercia, and what he finds there will determine the fate of Mercia, as well as his own.

  

Today we are stopping over at Judith Arnopp's fabulous blog for a sneak-peek between the covers of The Last King

Click HERE!

Join me in conversation with #HistoricalFiction author, Michael Ward #History #Stuarts @mikewardmedia

A Conversation with Historical Fiction author, Michael Ward

 

Please give a warm Coffee Pot welcome to Historical Fiction author, 

Michael Ward.

 

 

Mary Anne: A huge congratulations on your debut novel. Rags of Time is the first book in the Thomas Tallant series, could you tell us a little about your series and what inspired you to write it?  What drew you towards the Stuart era in which to set your book?

 

Michael Ward: ‘Rags of Time’ is my debut novel, so I thought long and hard about my choice of genre and subject. I chose to write historical fiction because I read a lot of it. My early inspirations were Patrick O’Brian, Bernard Cornwell and CJ Sansom. I love the creative potential of infusing a factual historical backdrop with a fictional story, using both real and imaginary characters.

 

My choice of period was quite deliberate. I felt some eras, such as the Tudors and Romans, were over populated. Too much competition! I needed a quiet corner where I could set up camp and build my world. I researched the Stuarts and within a couple of days, I had found my home. A number of novels had been written about both the English Civil War and the Restoration. But when I stepped back and considered the mid-Stuart period as a whole, I had my eureka moment. In just 25 years, England experienced a tumultuous series of events: civil war, regicide, a republic and restoration. 25 years – an adult lifespan back then. I had discovered a treasure trove of continuous historical drama, a wonderful backdrop for the development of my main characters through their adult lives. Add to this the hellish year of 1666 - the Fire of London and the Great Plague - and the stage was set for my book series, starting with 'Rags of Time'.

 

 

Mary Anne: What were the challenges you faced in researching this period of history and were there any unexpected surprises?

 

 

Michael Ward: I knew the turbulence of this period was driven by religious and political change. However, further research revealed it was also a time of major commercial and scientific development. I realised I had to embrace and interweave all four elements to truly immerse my reader in 17th century 

London.

Physician William Harvey demonstrates to Charles I his discovery of how blood circulates around the body.

The events of the day would provide more than enough opportunity to explore politics and religion, but I needed a counterpoint of my own making to introduce and feature commerce and science. And so my two main characters were born, spice merchant Thomas Tallant and the enigmatic polymath Elizabeth Seymour, whose love of astronomy and mathematics were only matched by her addiction to tobacco and gambling.

Profits soared for 17th century merchants through imports of spices such as nutmeg and mace.

 

I was working full time on my copywriting business while writing ‘Rags’, so only had time to use secondary sources which thankfully are plentiful (no shortage of factual histories of the period!). I also looked at academic journals to uncover detail on specific elements of the period. It took me eight months of research before I was ready to write a word but, as I was starting with a blank piece of paper, I was  examining the entire Stuart period, gaining knowledge that will help me throughout the series.

 

My most unexpected surprise was choosing a fictional location on the Thames for the Tallant family warehouse, only to discover later a map from the1660s that named the exact same spot ‘Ralph’s Quay’. Ralph is the name I had chosen for Tom Tallant’s father!       

 

 

Mary Anne: What do you think is the most challenging aspect of writing Historical Fiction?

 

 

Michael Ward: Clearly it’s critical to get the historical references spot on. That takes time and care which is a challenge, but a very enjoyable one. (However, I’m resigned to the likelihood that I’ve made a least one gaffe somewhere in Rags which will soon be discovered.) I use an etymology dictionary a lot and I’ve learned not to rule out a word or term without checking it first. It’s surprising how much of our language today has its roots in or before the 17th century.

 

I’ve also tried to integrate the historical information seamlessly within the plot and character development, so the reader’s immersion in the period is natural and continuous. I’m still working on this because the period I have chosen has a lot going on politically in different places at the same time. Nice problem to have though!

 

 

 

Mary Anne: What advice do you have for aspiring Historical Fiction authors?

 

 

Michael Ward: I feel it’s a little early for me to offer advice, but my years as a journalist did teach me the importance of getting something down on the page, something you can then work with, editing and reshaping. Don’t even try and make it perfect first time. You just need a first draft you can then start building from.

 

I find some of my most creative work is a result of editing. This applies on a larger scale as well. My first version of ‘Rags’ had a second chapter that I was very pleased with until I stepped back, looked at the book as a whole and realised it wasn’t working, so out it went.

 

My second suggestion is, if at all possible, find and join a local writers’ group. It’s very therapeutic to get away from your desk once every couple of weeks and share your work with other aspiring writers. You get good feedback and collegiate support. It’s also stimulating to read other people’s stuff and see how they are tackling plot, character development, etc.  I wasn’t sure if it was for me until I joined mine. I’m so glad I did.

                                                                                

 

Rags of Time

A Thomas Tallant Mystery

By Michael Ward

London, 1639.

Thomas Tallant, a young and ambitious Spice Merchant, returns from India to find his city in turmoil.

A bitter struggle is brewing between King Charles I and Parliament, as England slides into civil war. The capital is simmering with dissent. The conflict is ready to boil over.

But Thomas soon has other troubles to contend with. A wealthy merchant, Sir Joseph Venell, is savagely killed; then his partner Sir Hugh Swofford plunges to his death, in the Tallant household.

Suspicion falls on Thomas, who is sucked into a mire of treachery and rumour within the City of London. As the merchant struggles to clear his name, he becomes captivated by the enigmatic Elizabeth Seymour, whose passion for astronomy and mathematics is matched only by her addiction to the gaming tables.

Pursued by the authorities, Thomas races to unmask the real killer who claims a third victim to implicate him further, toying with his future in a deadly cat and mouse game.

In a desperate race against time, Elizabeth applies her powers of logic and deduction to unearth the clues that will point to the killer, but her way is barred by a secret message from the grave.

Can she crack its code before Thomas, now a wounded and exhausted fugitive, succumbs to the chase?

And, if she succeeds, has Thomas the strength to face his tormentor and win his life and reputation back?

 

Praise for Rags of Time

'A satisfying, brooding mystery set in Stuart England anticipating the coming Civil War.'

 

Paul Walker, author of State of Treason

 

'I loved it; a wickedly dark murder mystery set in Stuart London.'

 

Jemahl Evans, author of The Last Roundhead

                       Excerpt

PROLOGUE

                               21st October 1639

Kensington, London

As he strode across the lower meadow of his country home, Sir Joseph Venell considered his sin, and smiled.

He felt a surge of shameful joy as the late autumn sun bathed the village of Kensington, burnishing the leaves that rained from the tall beech trees surrounding the field. A warm breeze stirred the branches, releasing a further golden shower. 

He should not exult in making money, he knew it. Except it would be so much money! And it would fall at his feet like these leaves, each year without fail. A God-fearing man, Sir Joseph rebuked himself, but heard his voice laugh out loud as he calculated his future wealth.

He worked his way down the slope. The grass was lush for the time of year and his stockman had kept the sheep in the upper field. They would be moved to the meadow next week to gorge themselves on the fresh pasture.

Sir Joseph hummed a Gabrieli motet, breaking the tempo to match his bouncing steps as he let the slope take him down the hill. It had been his father's favourite piece of music. What would Papa think if he could see his son now, about to secure his place among London's leading merchants, and through the King's favour no less. Excitement coursed through Sir Joseph. Had life ever been better? The sun was shining, the air was clear and he was off to see his beloved bees. They had remained active during the extended summer but now it was time to make a final inspection of the hives before the cold weather arrived.

The sun cast lengthening shadows, picking out tiny black moths which flew from the grass, disturbed by his steps. This indeed was a heaven on earth, Sir Joseph mused. Even the infernal pigeons had stopped their incessant call: koor, koor, koorrrrr... koor, koor, koorrrrr... koor, koor! Gone! Strange - but most welcome.

 

The first blow to Sir Joseph's head threw him forward

violently. He staggered but remained upright. It came from behind and he had no time to recover before he was hit again, this time from the side.

  

In shock, he wheeled around to confront his attacker. Behind him, the pasture stretched up to the gate he had entered minutes ago. He could see the path he had made through the grass. There was no one in sight.

He turned quickly back the way he had been heading, breathing hard. Ahead lay his route to the hives. He looked right, up the slope to the tree line. No one there either. As he turned to the left to check the bottom of the field, he was pitched forward by another jarring blow to the back of his head, this time accompanied by a piercing pain in his scalp.

Sir Joseph fell to  his knees, hands out in front. The grass was cool between his fingers as he stared at the ground, his ears full of his ragged breathing and the beating of his heart. O Sweet Jesu. He is quick, this villain. I cannot see him! I must get help, somehow.

'I have no money on my person,' he shouted into the ground, hearing the rising panic in his voice. 'But I am not an unwealthy man. Let me live and I will be generous .'

As he spoke, a rivulet of blood dripped from his head onto his hand. The smell of the warm blood mingled with the scent of crushed grass beneath his knees. Sir Joseph's panic changed to rising anger. Who was this bastard toe rag to attack him on his own land?

'Yes, I will be generous...with the rope,' he muttered to himself, as he staggered to his feet. He carefully quartered the field, north, south, east and west. It was empty.

His anger was quickly doused by the chill of fear. Where was his attacker? He did not understand what was happening but he must get out of this damned meadow immediately. The quickest way was downhill. He ran towards the hives, and the shelter of the surrounding woods.

Four steps later, Sir Joseph was sprawling on the ground once more, hit by another sickening blow to his right temple. He stumbled to his feet and started running again, now gripped by mortal fear. In a moment, he had realised his fate. This was not a robbery. It was a lesson in humility. He had dared to believe he had created a heaven on earth and now was being taught by the Almighty that such arrogance required swift correction. He had been handed to the demons for punishment.

Pain seared his brain as he was hit again. Sir Joseph shouted to the skies, waving his arms in the air, as his steps became more uncertain. He stumbled up the slope, no longer sure of his direction.

'Oh God, forgive me. I am a mortal sinner.' Another crash as his words went unheeded. 'I dared to be filled with selfish pride. Oh Jesu, forgive me.'

Blood was running freely down his face, filling his eyes and mouth. Blinded, he staggered on, turning this way and that across the meadow, screaming.

 

'Forgive my greed. I will give my money to the poor. I will do anything if you will only spare ....'

Sir Joseph's pleas were silenced by another lacerating blow. Again he was pitched forward, but this time lay still on the ground. His eyes stared across the empty field as stalks of grass blew against his face. The sun was now lower in the sky and the air had turned cooler. Blood slowly spread across the ground under Sir Joseph's head. The buzz of gathering flies filled the air.

The breeze shifted direction and caught the tallest trees at the top of the pasture. More leaves fell and danced through the amber light before landing gently on Sir Joseph's prostrate body.

The sheep called to each other in the top meadow. Evening was approaching.

And from the trees a familiar sound returned: Koor, koor, koorrrrr... koor, koor, koorrrrr-koor, koor.

Pick up your copy of

Rags of Time

Amazon UK • Amazon US

Add Rags of Time to your ‘to-read’ list on

Goodreads

 

 

Michael Ward

 

Writing has been central to Michael Ward’s professional life. On graduating from university he became a journalist, working in newspapers and the BBC. He then taught and researched journalism practice before being appointed head of the UK’s prestigious Journalism School at UCLan. He now runs his own content creation and training company.

 

‘Rags of Time’ is Michael’s debut novel. Its sequel is due late in 2020.

 

Connect with Michael: Website • Twitter • LinkedIn

Check out Jim Adameit's fabulous book — The Definition of Experience (Dan Gamble, Book 1) #Thriller #GreatRead @JimAdameit

The Definition of Experience (Dan Gamble, Book 1)By Jim Adameit

One Man’s Stand Against the Corporate Machine
An edgy, racy, action-packed business / financial / technology thriller, about the global industry that manufactures and brings us all our smart phones, laptop computers, cloud servers – and virtually any other electronic products you can think of.
Think this is boring stuff?
In a US$500 billion global market – with careers and that much money at stake?
Think again…
A primer on an industry that most people don’t know exists…A cautionary tale for those people who do…

The Coffee Pot Book Club

★★★★★ 

Highly Recommended

Read the full review HERE!

Pick up your copy ofThe Definition of ExperienceAmazon UK • Amazon US • Smashwords

Jim Adameit Jim Adameit is the author of ‘The Definition of Experience’, his debut thriller novel in this series. Jim is a 30+ year seasoned veteran of the Contract Manufacturing / Electronic Manufacturing Services industry, in which he’s held various senior level global positions, including sales & marketing, contract administration, and project management.
Connect with Jim: Website • Facebook • Twitter.