Cecelia Mecca's Blog, page 9

Extended Excerpt of The Earl

“The barons and King John could scarcely have imagined when they stood in this meadow 800 years ago today that the words to which they agreed would launch the progression of the rule of law. In this field were born precepts that made possible the United States Constitution, the United Nation’s Universal Declaration of Human Rights, and the framework of justice in America, the United Kingdom, and much of the world.”

~ Atty. William C. Hubbard

Licheford Castle, England, 1215

“Nude becomes you, Lady Threston.”

Conrad, as always, told only the truth. She was quite handsomely formed for a woman of two and thirty or, more accurately, for a woman of any age.

“Jeanette,” the blonde widow corrected, not for the first time that evening. Or since they’d met the month before. It peeved her when he used her courtesy title. “Come back.” She bent one leg up slowly, giving him a view sure to entice most men.

But not him. Not now.

“I cannot.”

Conrad could have told her his steward awaited him. Or that he was so anxious for word from his friends and co-conspirators at Dromsley Castle that he felt the need to keep a near-constant lookout. He’d not heard from any of them in more than a fortnight. But taking her into his confidence in such a way would deepen their relationship, something he had no intention of doing. So instead he said nothing and continued to dress.

“I spoke with your guest, Lady Sabine, today.” Jeanette lowered her leg, though she did not attempt to cover herself, another attribute he quite liked. Her lack of modesty became her. “She speaks to me as she would any other widow of my station.”

“I’m glad for it.” Conrad finished wrapping the laces of his boots and stood.

Unfortunately, he seemed to have missed her point. Jeanette’s perfectly arched eyebrows turned downward, but she did not comment.

Conrad relented, if only slightly. “Jeanette?”

He stood by the bed, waiting.

“I am not simply any widow at Licheford.”

Ahhh. She wanted him to openly acknowledge her. That was something he could never do, not for her or any woman. He had been clear about his limitations that first night, but Conrad had suspected for some time now that Jeanette wanted more from him. They would obviously need to have a talk. On another day.

“You are a most entertaining bed partner.” Conrad leaned down, kissed her, and stood to leave. “But one who must do without her earl for the evening. We will talk more on the morrow.”

Surprisingly, she held her tongue, although she was clearly unhappy with his dismissal.

He should not have come to her.

But the waiting . . .

Making his way from Marchette Tower toward the keep, Conrad looked for Wyot. Thankfully, his steward’s red hair should be easy to spot, even in the crowd dispersing from the evening meal he had missed.

“I’d not have expected you back so soon.”

It was Guy’s voice. If anyone was more impatient for news than Conrad, it was Guy. As a mercenary who had also been raised by a mercenary, he was accustomed to moving from place to place. The months he’d stayed at Licheford, waiting for word—from their friends, from the king, from anyone—would likely have driven him mad if not for Sabine. Although his friend had once spurned marriage, he had found the one woman who suited him.

He turned toward his friend, fully expecting a joke about his failure to make an appearance at the meal.

“Oh?” he asked. Then, because he couldn’t help himself, he added, “Any word?” He’d asked Guy that very same question just before his short visit to Jeanette.

Guy rolled his eyes. “Aye, in the very few moments you’ve been gone—a fact that does not recommend your manhood, my friend—we have indeed received word. A missive from Dromsley.”

His mocking tone said otherwise, but Conrad decided to play along.

“And what, pray tell, did the missive say?”

The sound of childish laughter drew his gaze to a couple of young children playing with a pup in the corner of the courtyard. Conrad would fight to preserve their innocence, their smiles and laughter. The king’s unjust policies and cruel taxes and reprisals, all to fund a war no one wanted, had taken a toll on the country he loved. They had not touched Licheford yet, but if King John went unchecked, they would. He and the other members of the order had set out to stop that. They, along with the twenty or so barons who’d joined their cause, had taken the unprecedented step of presenting the king with a list of demands. He had indicated he would treat with them, but they’d heard nothing else. All winter they’d waited for a response.

It was enough to drive a man mad.

“It was quite surprising, really,” Guy continued. “It said your continued vigil for a missive is likely to drive away your friends, your steward, that lusty widow, and all those who come into contact with you.”

Conrad crossed his arms. “I do not fare well with all this waiting,” he admitted.

“I had not noticed.”

“My lord?”

Wyot pulled on his bushy red beard as he approached them, a sure sign he had something important to impart. The steward bowed to them, his back slightly hunched with age, a habit he persisted in despite the fact that Conrad had long ago entreated him to stop.

“A party approaches,” Wyot said.

Conrad waited for more information, his heart beating out of his chest, but the steward didn’t seem to be inclined to offer it. “Who?” he finally asked, running his hands through his hair.

“We do not know yet.”

Conrad had waited all winter, preparing the men. Preparing to defend Licheford against siege or an attack.

Preparing for war.

Perhaps he was foolish, but he would wait no longer.

“I will meet them,” he said, striding toward the door that would lead to the first floor and outside the keep. He could feel Guy’s presence behind him, but Conrad did not slow his pace.

Finally, the waiting had come to an end.

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Published on January 20, 2021 11:52

Extended Excerpt of The Mercenary

St. Andrew Holybourne Abbey, England, 1214

Lady Sabine never wanted to be a nun.

She’d attempted to escape the abbey twice. On her last attempt, the monk with whom she’d arranged to leave had fallen ill and later died, a horrible omen, if one believed in such things. The time before that, she’d gone off alone, only to be spied by a stable boy, who had promptly told the abbess. Sabine had been given a warning—one more attempt and Lord Burge would be notified of her antics.

She shuddered at the thought.

“There you are,” said a familiar voice, the tone thick with accusation.

Sister Christine, the very woman she’d snuck out of the sext to avoid. The bishop was visiting, which had driven the sister into a frenzy. She had never taken to Sabine and had begun to critique her every action, especially at mealtimes. “Straighten your shoulders” or “Do not eat with such force” were admonishments she had heard for the past three days at nearly every meal.

How does one eat with force, precisely? Sabine wanted to ask but knew doing so would only anger Sister Christine. And so she had taken to avoiding meals these past three days, preferring to eat in her small chamber. Such an arrangement robbed Sister Christine of the chance to “better” her, however, and the sister often sought her out.

“Your presence is required at the evening meal.”

“Reverend Mother gave me leave,” she whispered in her most reverent tone. One she’d perfected of late.

The nun, her headpiece hiding all but her pale face riddled with wrinkles, was apparently not pleased with that particular response. Her eyes pinned Sabine to the spot. “Bishop Salerno is in residence,” she said, her tone brooking no argument. “You will take your meal in the refectory.”

Eyes downcast Sabine moved to make her way through the cloister to do just that when the nun’s hand wrapped around her wrist.

“And you will quit your attempts at escape. Many would be grateful for the opportunity you’ve been given.”

Her hand squeezed.

“Reverend Mother has been too tolerant.”

Sabine did not attempt to disengage her hand. Nor did she question the nun or comment on what she had left out of her speech. All knew the abbess was ill, even though she went about her duties as if well. Sabine had only been at the abbey one month, and even she could discern a difference in the elderly woman’s health. Sister Christine clearly had ambitions, and once she took control of the abbey, she would not be so tolerant.

“Aye, Sister. If you will pardon me?”

She attempted to pull her hand away, to no avail.

“You will be a Bride of Christ, child. Your haughtiness is not welcome here.”

Haughtiness? Sabine had never been accused of such in her life. But then, she’d never said so few words as she had since coming here. Her parents would be both surprised and appalled at the woman she’d become.

“I understand.”

Sister Christine did let go of her then, but she continued to glare at her as if Sabine had breathed a word of dissent. Turning slowly so as not to anger her further, Sabine held her head high and walked the length of the cloister to the hall. Nuns sat side by side in rows, mostly silent other than a few whispered words. Moments after she sat, another novice plopped down a bowl of soup in front of her. Sabine had served both the morning and midday meal, but still the young woman glared at her as if she’d shirked her duties.

Unlike Sabine, she wanted to be here. Had chosen to become a nun and devote her life to God. So why the dour disposition?

“He seems to know the bishop,” said the older nun beside her.

“Who?” she asked, attempting to peer over the tables that separated them from their august visitor.

“We’ve another visitor this eve.”

“A knight,” whispered the nun to her left.

Sabine couldn’t remember her name, but she liked this one. She had an easy way about her, and when she smiled, it was obvious she meant it. The smile she was giving Sabine now looked almost . . . conspiratorial, as if their new visitor was . . .

“Is he handsome?”

A certain sparkle in the nun’s eyes was her answer. The nun seated directly across from Sabine gave her a stern glance that cautioned her not to say such things.

It was the kind of remark she may have made to her mother. Who would have laughed as her father admonished both of them for their forwardness. But he’d have done it with a smile on his face.

Sabine pushed aside the thought.

A handsome knight. Friend to the bishop.

She really should eat her soup and make her way to the kitchen, where she’d be expected to work until vespers. It would be best to forget about a man who was as likely to tell the Reverend Mother on her as he was to help her escape.

But once the thought took hold, she could not put it aside so easily.

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Published on January 20, 2021 11:51

Extended Excerpt of The Scot

Stokesay Castle, Northumbria, 1214

“Your husband is dead.”

That the news made Roysa curious instead of sad said much about her short marriage.

“How?” she asked her brother-in-law, who seemed no more broken up than she felt. Which made her even more curious. Roysa had been married to Walter for less than a year. This man had been his brother for two and thirty years. Surely he should be reacting with something more than a nearly imperceptible lift of his thin brows.

“A hunting accident.”

It seemed those were the only details she would receive.

Lord Langham indicated she should sit. The small wooden chair with its velvet cushion might have been inviting if she were in her parents’ solar back home. But here, like everything about Stokesay Castle, the seat felt stiff and unwelcoming, much like her late husband. And his brother.

Although Roysa would prefer to retire to her chamber, somewhere she could absorb this surprising news and what it might mean for her, she knew she could not yet separate herself from this foul man’s presence. As always, her needs meant little.

“As his widow . . . ,” the brother began.

I am a widow.

Roysa had always been in possession of an active imagination, but this was one role she’d never imagined herself playing.

Walter had sat opposite her in this very chamber, chastising her about her “too lenient” treatment of the servants, mere days ago. And now he was dead. The finality of it was shocking.

“Lady Roysa?”

She snapped back to the present. “He is truly dead?”

Langham did not hide his impatience. “I assure you, the death of my brother is not a matter I’d trifle with, my lady. He is, in fact, deceased.”

Why are you not upset?

Of course she’d not ask such a question, but it sat there on her tongue like a blackthorn berry, bitter and unfit for consumption.

“You will, as is customary,” Langham said, looking at her as if she were the least significant person in the castle, “have forty days to vacate. A dower manor will be arranged.”

Roysa had some idea of where he planned to install her.

“Holton Manor?”

Her guess did not please the new baron, the twitch of his brows reminding her of Walter.

“Indeed.”

“As per the marriage agreement, you will also receive Holton for a term of one hundred years, along with rent collected from its tenants. Over five hundred marks per year.”

Something in his tone gave her pause.

The new baron sounded . . . hopeful. Those were indeed the terms of the marriage agreement, and though she was glad he planned to honor them, she also knew Holton edged the northernmost border of their land. The border was a tumultuous place at the best of times—and this was most certainly not the best of times.

“Is it safe?” she blurted before realizing she should not have done so. How could she expect an honest answer from the man who’d just delivered the news of his brother’s death as if he were discussing the day’s weather? She watched his eyes carefully but could glean nothing from him.

“Of course,” he said, too smoothly. “If you will pardon me, Lady Roysa.”

A dismissal. One she would gladly accept.

Barely conscious of what she was doing, Roysa dragged herself to her bedchamber. Sitting on the bed she’d occupied for the past year, she contemplated what was to come.

What would it be like occupying Holton Manor as a widow? Although she’d dreamed of something very different before her wedding—a happy future here at Stokesay Castle with children and plentiful laughter—it had not taken long for reality to set in. She’d fallen in love with a man conjured by her own imagination. Her handsome husband had been neither honorable nor kind.

Roysa shuddered.

“Lady Roysa?”

Her maid peeked inside, and for some reason, it was the sight of Lisanne that finally brought tears to Roysa’s eyes. Although her maid, who was six and twenty, was only her elder by two years, Lisanne had been married, widowed, and married again. She looked after much more than Roysa’s wardrobe.

“Why are you crying?” she asked, her gentle tone reminding Roysa of her sister Idalia, which made her cry a little harder. “My lord was a horrible man, God rest his soul. And a much worse husband.”

Pulling away, Lisanne grabbed a small linen cloth off the bedside table and handed it to her.

“Because I did not do so when Langham told me.” Aware she was making no sense, Roysa attempted to explain. “I felt nothing. What kind of woman learns of her husband’s death and feels . . . nothing?”

Lisanne planted her hand on her hips. “One whose husband mistreated her. Who refused to allow her to leave, even to visit her sick mother. One who should be thankful his brother despised my lord even more than the rest of us did.”

Roysa’s brows drew together. “Despised? I thought the brothers got on well enough?”

Lisanne’s look of pity did not inspire her to make further inquiries.

“You’ve not heard, then?”

“I came here immediately, and you know none but you will speak freely to me.”

Fear had stayed their tongues rather than loyalty. Roysa often wondered how she would have gotten along at Stokesay had Lisanne not taken her into her confidence.

“They’re only whispers . . .”

Lisanne hesitated. This gossip, whatever it was, made her nervous, which did not bode well for Roysa.

“Tell me,” she insisted.

“’Tis possible they are false rumors, my lady.”

She resisted the urge to beg her friend to speak, and instead waited for her to do so.

“’Tis said,” Lisanne said, raising and then lowering her shoulders. “’Tis said ’twas no accident. That Langham killed my lord for having relations with his wife.”

Roysa simply stared.

Her mother had often reprimanded her for gossiping with the maids, but she’d done so for a reason: the servants were often correct.

Lisanne’s worry became her own as she thought back to her short meeting with Walter’s brother. Langham had smiled as he spoke of sending her to Holton Manor. That smile had been anything but pleasant.

Although the story was outrageous, she suspected it was true. And she suspected something else—Langham did not plan for her to live comfortably there until the end of her days. He thought to dispose of her as he’d very possibly done with his brother. Title and land and the possibility of power did strange things to men, something Roysa knew all too well.

If she’d thought Walter dangerous, his brother was even more so.

And Roysa would not wait at Stokesay to learn if she was right.

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Published on January 20, 2021 11:47

Extended Excerpt of The King’s Commander

Chapter 1

Erik

Castle d’Almerita, Kingdom of Meria

“They’re all dead.”

So the rumors are true?

“I came right away,” I say as the man I’ve served my entire life buries his head in his hands. One by one, the others pile into the throne room behind me. King Galfrid doesn’t even seem to notice. Standing, he moves to the window. I wait with the other members of the Curia as the most powerful man in the kingdom slips his hands over his bowed head in complete despair.

“Vanni?” the king’s chancellor whispers to me. I shake my head. This moment deserves silence. Reverence.

Friends. Brothers in arms. We’ve lost so many this day.

Including the king’s son and successor.

A warm breeze drifts in from the open windows. In the chambers below us, only small, shuttered openings and arrow slits puncture the castle walls. A safety precaution. But we’re so high above the earth up here, only the sea is our witness.

Bright orange and crimson silk hangings flutter in the breeze as our king stands still next to them.

The whole Curia is now assembled. When the heavy wooden doors are closed behind the last of us, my liege finally turns to address the men assembled before him.

“The rumors are true. The boat sank this morn, one survivor living to tell the tale.”

My chest swells with hope—could Prince Matteo have survived after all?—but in the very next breath he dashes it.

“The captain’s son lives. As does my nephew, who apparently imbibed too much drink last eve and lasted only a few moments at port before he disembarked. All others perished in the sea not long after the Oryan left port last eve. According to the boy who washed ashore clinging to a piece of wood”—his voice cracks—“its port side struck a submerged rock and the ship quickly capsized and sank.”

We all cross ourselves and mutter words of sorrow for the boy and the implications of Galfrid’s nephew having survived when his son did not.

Matteo. A wave of nausea hits as I think of the prince, the boy who became a man alongside me. The strong and thoughtful son of our king. How could he be gone when just days ago we trained together, Matteo as skilled a swordsman as any.

I push aside thoughts of everyone I knew on board . . . and the fact that I was originally supposed to go with them.

Galfrid needs us now, more than ever. And I live to serve him.

“We will mourn tomorrow,” he says. The king’s voice is strong, but his eyes betray him, at least to me. While all of those present serve at the pleasure of the king, I alone was raised by him. My heart bleeds for him, and for the kingdom.

The loss of Prince Matteo weighs heavily on us both. Despite my intention to focus on the king’s words, I cannot help but think of him. His last moments. His promising future as the king Meria needed. Though not for lack of trying, the king and queen of Meria have produced just one child, and he is now lying at the bottom of the Merian Sea, along with two hundred of our most skilled warriors. The heir to the kingdom is dead.

The king addresses me. “You will go to him. Tell him of what’s happened here. Bid him to return.”

Silence follows his words. None, including me, need to be told of whom he speaks.

I nod.

“He will not come.” Thomas voices what each of us already know.

But Galfrid doesn’t waver. “He must.”

Pinning his hopes, the kingdom’s hopes, on the journey I’m about to take, the king begins to issue further orders. As the Curia, his most trusted advisors, discuss the further implications of this unfolding disaster, I’m already considering who to take with me, whether to journey by land or sea, and what to say when I arrive. As the first commander of the Curia, I should at least be able to gain an audience with him. But will he listen? Will he return with me?

“What say you, Vanni?”

I’d not been listening.

“Apologies, sire.”

Though not temperamental, the king is not a patient man. At his scowl, Ren, Galfrid’s second commander, repeats the question.

“Will we mount another attack on Edingham?”

It was an easy decision.

“We have a more imminent threat.”

The other members of the Curia proceed to argue with each other as if the king hadn’t just lost his child. Some remind Galfrid of the reason he agreed to the attack. Or the preparations we’ve been undergoing for months. Others agree with me, that the king’s nephew will waste no time gathering support to lay claim to the greatest prize in Meria.

Heir to the crown of our great kingdom.

“Enough,” the king says, and the rest quiet. We all know one man’s opinion matters more than the rest.

“Edingham will have to wait until Vanni returns.”

All eyes turn to me.

There are just seven people in all of Meria who know the king has a bastard son. Six of them are in this room. The seventh? The king’s wife, who insisted the babe be sent away.

“He must come.” I can easily read the king’s expression. Hidden beneath his regal bearing and trimmed white beard is a look of gut-wrenching grief and worry. I’ve never seen him like this, and he does not wear the emotions easily. But there’s only one comfort for a king who cares about his kingdom above all else: to know his crown will pass down to a worthy man. His nephew, whom none in the Curia like, does not meet that description.

He must not become the heir. I will ensure it.

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Published on January 20, 2021 11:31

Extended Excerpt of Scandalous Scot

New Orleans, Louisiana

Present Day

And just like that, Reik was gone too, leaving Ian alone in the cavernous house.

How many times had Ian looked around the Quarter and said to himself, I’ve seen stranger shit than that? Having grown up in a place with a history of accepting the unwanted, the “freaks” of society . . . Ian was pretty much used to anything.

But this took the cake.

All three of his damn brothers had officially disappeared, presumably into the past.

Ian stared at the ancient silver cross in his hands, the one he and his brother had been holding together a few minutes earlier. It was unnaturally cold, but it hardly looked like a relic that had the power to send one person into the past, let alone three. And yet, there was no denying Rhys, Grey, and Reikart had all disappeared while holding it.

This was some crazy shit. But he couldn’t sit here all day and dwell on it. He had work to do.

Laying the cross on his father’s desk, he strode to the picture window, grateful it overlooked the private garden. St. Charles Ave. was probably swarmed with reporters curious about the increasingly strange affairs of the McCaim family. Dad in a coma. His brothers’ disappearances getting more and more difficult to hide.

And wouldn’t they have a field day with this?

Ian slipped his phone out of his perfectly tailored pants, which would only garner strange looks where he was going. He found his cousin’s number, then called him on speaker and tossed the phone onto the mahogany desk next to him. It would only make him more anxious if he had to watch it shake in his hands.

“Reik’s gone,” he said as soon as his cousin answered.

Silence.

Jeremy, completely up to speed on everything that had happened since the day Rhys disappeared, must be beyond shock at this point.

“Jeremy?”

“I’m here. It’s just . . .”

Yeah, I know.

The whole thing was nuts, which was why they’d assumed their father was crazy the moment the words time travel left his lips. For five years, he’d been claiming their mother hadn’t left them—that she was, in fact, a time traveler from ancient Scotland who’d been called back to her time. The best investigators money could buy had disagreed, saying she’d walked away from the family and scrubbed her identity to avoid being found.

She didn’t leave us. Your mom is from the past. I know it sounds crazy, but I’m going to prove it to you. When I figure out the chant, I will prove it.

They hadn’t laughed him off—he was their dad, after all—but they hadn’t believed him either. Ian felt guilty for that now. They all did. Especially since their father was in a coma. His dedication to finding their mother had taken a toll on him, and he’d suffered a breakdown.

“We worked it out. Jeremy . . .” Ian closed his eyes, blocking out the bright sun streaming in through the picture windows. “I’m going too. You know what to do.”

More silence.

Jeremy would serve as McCaim Shipping’s interim director and take the lead in convening executive sessions. If they weren’t back in two weeks, he would step in to help lead Ian’s public relations team, the one he’d put together over the last four years. After a month, a search firm would be hired to replace all four of the brothers.

They’d come close to losing the business when his mom had first gone missing. Investors had lost faith in the McCaim patriarch, and they’d threatened to walk—so Rhys and Grey had done the hard thing and forced their father out. But Rhys and Grey were gone, and Reik and Ian had agreed they would stop at nothing to go with them. While Ian had wanted to try again immediately, Reik’s cooler head had prevailed. He’d reminded Ian that they were the only two McCaim brothers left in good enough health to run the company. Provisions had to be made. For the company. For their father.

Mom had been gone for five years. What if they were gone as long?

What if they never came back at all? Without the cross, they couldn’t get back. Presumably. And it was still here in his father’s study.

So they’d made their contingency plan. Told their cousin everything to ensure someone would be here for Dad, someone with the best interests of McCaim Shipping in mind.

Now it was time to put it into action.

“Jesus, Ian. I can’t believe this. I mean, I do believe you, but . . . he’s seriously gone?”

Ian turned to look at the spot Reik had occupied moments before.

“He’s gone. And I can’t screw around here. None of us knows how the rules work. If I don’t do this right now, who knows when, or where, I’ll end up. This way, at least I’ll have a good shot at finding Reik.”

“Are you prepared?”

Ian moved toward the duffle bag he’d prepared.

“More than Rhys and Grey, for sure,” he said, unzipping the bag. He hadn’t even changed from work yet. But unlike when he and Reik grabbed the cross earlier, as they’d done most days since Rhys had vanished in front of them, this time, he knew it would work.

He’d watched first Rhys, then Grey, then Reik succeed where he’d failed . . . He knew now which word had tripped him up and was confident he would be joining his brothers next.

“And you’re sure about this?”

Ian tried to ignore the censure in Jeremy’s voice. His cousin didn’t understand the choice he was facing: abandon his mother and brothers in the past or his father and the company he’d built in the present. In the end, nothing mattered more than his family, and the doctor had made it clear that his dad was all but screwed. His brain was still swollen, his prospects dim. So he would go back, find his brothers and mother, and use this silver cross to bring them all back.

Maybe, just maybe, hearing their mother’s voice again would bring their father back too.

He had to hope.

“I’m sure.” He began taking off his dress shoes. “Thank you, Jeremy.”

“Good luck, cuz. I have a feeling you’re going to need it.”

Ian pulled off his socks next and then dumped the jeans, T-shirt, and hoodie out from his bag. What was one supposed to wear to time travel, anyway?

Certainly not a suit.

“Take care of him.” Ian would not get emotional again. He and Reik had already visited the hospital to say their goodbyes to a father who couldn’t hear them.

“Will do.”

This time, the silence wasn’t broken by his cousin’s voice. Jeremy had hung up.

Ian finished changing, and before his brother could get too far ahead of him—if that was even how this worked—he grabbed the cross and took a deep breath.

He’d only been this scared three times in his life.

The night they’d learned their mother was missing. The day they’d gotten the call that their dad was in the hospital. And the first time one of his brothers had disappeared before their eyes. And now he was about to follow in his older brothers’ footsteps, as he’d always done, for better or worse.

Ian’s hands refused to stop shaking. What a chickenshit he was.

Just say the words.

He didn’t need the slip of paper anymore, Ian knew them by heart. He’d listened to Reik’s recording of the words over and over again. His brother hadn’t thought he was listening—it wasn’t something he was known for in the family—but this time, he had been all ears.

Roll the gh on the last word.

“Talamh, èadhar, teine, usige ga thilleadh dhachaigh.”

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Published on January 19, 2021 06:20

Extended Excerpt of Sexy Scot

Present Day

“Holy fuck.”

Greyson and his brothers dropped the silver cross at the same time, the plush Persian rug in their father’s study capturing its fall. Staring at it, and then each other, none of them spoke, all of them acutely aware of the empty space where their brother Rhys had been standing moments before. Even Ian was stunned into silence, a rarity for the youngest McCaim.

“What the hell just happened?” Reikart asked.

None of them had the answer. Rhys’s disappearance was illogical. It should have been impossible. And yet, there was no disputing he was gone. Their big brother, the person who’d always held them together, had just disappeared on the final word of the ancient Gaelic chant none of them had thought would work.

“No.” Greyson recoiled from the others, shaking his head. “No.”

“Grey, he’s gone,” Ian said. Both he and Reikart were looking at Greyson expectantly, as if they thought he would know what to say. What to do.

But he had . . . nothing. Business was his expertise, not magic. He’d always thought their father’s fixation with time travel and ancient Scotland was the product of a sick mind, an inability to cope with their mother’s disappearance. He’d never imagined there might be something to it.

No, Rhys had to be here somewhere. Storming out of the study, he passed all the evidence of their father’s obsession—stacks of ancient books, scattered papers, scrolls, and assorted artifacts—and burst out of the French doors. His brothers were already shouting after him, but he stayed focused on his mission, calling Rhys’s name as he headed down the marble entranceway to the back doors, his pulse rising in tempo with his steps. He could hear his own voice becoming more and more desperate with each room he searched.

And there were plenty of them.

McCaim Shipping had been good to their family. But billions of dollars hadn’t stopped their mother from disappearing. Nor had their fortune curbed their father’s obsession with finding her. Now their father lay in a coma, and their brother had just disappeared into thin air. The McCaims had fallen apart. Expensive portraits, imported vases. They meant nothing.

Which was just as well since his baby brother, who’d followed him on his ill-fated trek through the house, hurled one of those vases against the hardwood floor, a temper tantrum better suited to a toddler than a twenty-seven-year-old man. Ian was only three years younger than Greyson, but it might as well have been a lifetime in terms of maturity. Reikart had followed him, his brow creased with worry.

Get a grip, Greyson. They need you to take charge. You’re the next eldest. The heir apparent.

“Ian.” He grabbed his brother’s shoulder. “Ian.”

But the fit of rage was over, another emotion following in its wake. Ian sat heavily in the hallway, tears running down his cheeks. Reikart didn’t hesitate—he put his arms around him, holding him like a wee babe, as their mother would say. Greyson did the same.

“We will figure this out,” he said, regaining the control that should never have left him. Time to accept the truth. He knew what had happened in that study. They could call Rhys’s name all day, but he wasn’t going to amble out of the guest suite or the bathroom. He was gone.

“How?” Reikart asked. “How will we figure this out, Grey?”

Damned if he knew. But he could guess.

“Dad was right.”

Ian pushed them off, his large body easily breaking away from their grip. He hadn’t been a football star for nothing. “Do you know what you’re saying?” he asked, almost an accusation.

Greyson would give his little brother one thing, he didn’t have a self-conscious bone in his body. Ian didn’t give a shit that he’d just cried like a baby or tossed a $1,500 vase against the wall. Some days he wished he could be more like that. Right now, though, the last thing they needed was two temperamental McCaim brothers. Time to roll out his self-control and take command of the situation.

“I know exactly what I’m saying.”

It was fucking insane—minutes ago he’d called this a “fantasy”—but he’d seen it happen with his own eyes. They all had. They couldn’t keep pretending otherwise.

Standing, he held out a hand, and Ian grabbed hold of it. Greyson pulled his brother up and silently led the way back to the study. He got there first. The strange silver cross lay where it had fallen, and he made his way to it, compelled. It looked ancient, as if it were . . .

Hundreds of years old.

He knelt beside it, reaching out. Just as before, it was cold to the touch. More than cold—it gave him the sensation of being outside in a bracing wind—the feeling even stronger than it had been before. Lifting it, he turned toward Reikart and Ian.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but it worked. There’s no other explanation. You saw what I saw. Rhys disappeared. Which means Dad was right all along.”

“Yeah.” Ian shook his head. “That makes total sense. Mom didn’t actually disappear five years ago. She time-traveled from the past before we were born and one day—poof—went back home. And now Rhys has gone back too. Poor bastard always wanted to go to medieval Scotland. Maybe he should have settled for a theme restaurant.”

If Rhys were here, he’d have something to say about their brother’s smart-ass tone. Greyson ignored it. He could understand Ian’s anger. And Reikart’s persistent look of disbelief. But they weren’t really left with much of a choice here.

“Grey,” Reikart said, trying to reason with him “You don’t seriously believe that, do you?”

He didn’t want to. And yet . . .

“What’s the alternative?” Greyson demanded.

He waited for one of them to come up with something, hoping it would happen. But he already knew better. There was no disputing the facts. Their father had slipped into a coma, and they’d come to his study to search for clues about their mother’s disappearance. What they’d found was this silver cross and a chant in an ancient tongue. On Rhys’s insistence, they’d held the cross and recited the chant, and Rhys had disappeared.

Disappeared.

It was absolutely crazy. Insane. But it had also happened.

They’d all thought their father had gone off the deep end—so much so that Rhys and Greyson had taken control of their family business. But this meant he wasn’t crazy after all. This meant their mother might actually be from thirteenth-century Scotland.

His brothers were still looking at him expectantly, hoping he could pull answers out of his ass, but he had none to give them. It was more pressure than he’d ever felt while making a business deal.

“We’re going to try it again.”

Both Reikart and Ian erupted at once. He immediately cut them off.

“We’re going to try it again, and this time we all go back.”

“Pfft. Back through time, you mean?” Ian was clearly still in denial.

“Didn’t we try to do just that?” Reikart asked. “But Rhys is gone, and we’re still here.” He had not said dumbass, but his look said it. “What makes you think the result will be different this time?”

Greyson glared, but his brother was right. Something had gone wrong last time, which meant they needed a contingency plan.

“If only one or two of us get through, whoever’s left behind has to keep trying.”

The contingency plan was shit, but it was all they had. Greyson pretended he wasn’t absolutely terrified.

Neither of his brothers looked convinced.

No one said aloud what he was sure all three of them were thinking. Rhys and their mother could both be dead. Did it kill you, traveling through time? Who the hell knew, when it wasn’t supposed to be possible in the first place. They were dealing with dozens of big, fat unknowns here.

The stress of all those unknowns had nearly destroyed their father, a man so determined and driven he’d built a billion-dollar shipping company from one ship he’d spent his life savings to purchase.

“Mom. Rhys. They could be in trouble.”

And that was all it took. With those five words, his brothers reached out to touch the Celtic cross he still held. They turned as one to look at the chant Rhys had tacked to the wall, scribbled on a piece of scrap paper. It meant nothing to him, but Rhys had thought the words significant. They read them together, slowly, carefully, Greyson’s sheer will keeping his hands from shaking.

“Talamh, èadhar, teine, usige ga thilleadh dhachaigh.”

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Published on January 19, 2021 06:06

My Highland Bride Extended Excerpt

Breywood Castle, Kingdom of Edingham

“Do you love her?”

The upper chamber of the gatehouse becomes completely quiet, and for good reason. It’s an impertinent question—beyond impertinent—but I can almost admire my new squire for his bravery. Then again, the boy came to us from a small village a sennight ago, knowing nothing about knighthood, so perhaps he does not realize he is being brave.

“Did yer ma never teach you to shut yer mouth, boy?” scoffs Boyd, one of my guards.

Ignoring the boy’s question, which I have found is the best approach, I say, “Boyd, the smith’s son spotted a riding party on his way back from the village. He thought they might be from the king.”

My squire jumps from his seat. “I met the king once!” he says, as excited as I’ve ever seen him. “I remember it, aye. The King of Meria.”

Boyd and the others snicker.

“You met the king, did you?”

The guardsmen clearly do not believe young Bradyn. To be fair, when he arrived at Breywood on the back of a cloth wagon, he hardly looked like a boy who’d once met a king.

“Do you remember his colors?” I ask him.

Bradyn nods eagerly. “Aye, Lord Stokerton. Red and gold.”

The men still aren’t impressed. Personally, I don’t much care if Bradyn is being truthful or remembering incorrectly. If indeed the king’s men are coming this way, I need to know immediately. A perfect job for an eager young squire.

“Climb up to the watchtower. As soon as you see red and gold banners approaching the gate, run to the training yard as fast as those two legs will carry you to tell me. Aye?”

“Aye, my lord.”

Without waiting, he immediately does as he was bid, scrambling up the circular stone stairs.

“Why would the king’s men come here?” Boyd asks as the others break away and go about their duties.

A good question. One I don’t have an answer to. Our men, led by the first commander, Lord Scott, set out for the king’s court to treat with him. Surely they have arrived by now, but would they have returned so quickly? And if so, why didn’t the smith’s son mention the two parties were traveling together?

“Could they be returnin’ with Scott?”

I move to the slit on the westernmost wall and peer out. Nothing but grass and trees.

“He made no mention of the queen’s banners.”

Boyd grunts. “Is she aware we may have guests?”

“Nay, but I’m off to tell her now. She’s at the yard. Make sure the boy sends word once he sees them.”

This grunt, different from the last, tells me he’s displeased. My choice of squire has raised his ire, which is too damn bad. Does my new squire ask too many questions? Aye. Does he know anything about being a squire? Nay.

But he jumped down from that wagon in the courtyard of Breywood Castle just after we had learned about the raid along the border that had seen his parents slaughtered. I hadn’t thought to saddle myself with a squire again so soon after my last one received his spurs. Indeed, I’d vowed to remain squire-less for the foreseeable future, but I made the mistake of meeting the boy’s eyes.

Besides, turning a homeless and parentless farmer’s son into a knight is not the most difficult task I’ve ever undertaken.

I take my leave and begin walking toward the training yard. Though it would be faster to walk the allure, I need time to think on the implications of this royal visit from our longtime enemies.

After I met with King Galfrid’s commander earlier this month, Cettina agreed to send a contingent to discuss terms with the king rather than mount an immediate counter-attack. Though the queen had the support of the Curia, many outside her inner council thought she was being soft.

They want war against Meria, always.

Especially after learning Galfrid sent two hundred of his best knights against us. That those men sunk to the bottom of the ocean in a shipwreck before arriving at our shores, the king’s only son and heir one of them, matters little to the warmongers among us.

But the more I think on it, the less I believe these men have any connection to Lord Scott. Our banners have not been spotted. Which means these representatives of the king come of their own accord.

“Commander.”

Nodding in greeting to the smith’s apprentice, I hurry forward, anxious to speak with Cettina.

Do you love her?

I’ll need to give Bradyn a talking-to. The rumors about Cettina and me are persistent enough without any help. There is no need for my own squire to perpetuate them.

I hear the clang of swords before I see men at the quintain. Bradyn rotates between training in the yard, on the horse Cettina provided him, and with the men. He has a long way to go—others younger than he already display enough skill to see real battle—but I have every confidence he will rise to the challenge.

“Your shadow is missing,” a young knight teases as I walk toward her.

“On guard duty,” I respond, making my way toward the queen.

Her skill with the longsword grows more impressive each day. Cettina’s insistence on learning to use it is just one of the many reasons we find ourselves the subject of flapping tongues.

Seeing me, she steps away from her opponent, hands him her sword, and nods to the edge of the yard. I meet her there, where it’s slightly less noisy, and waste no time.

“The king’s men have been spotted in the village. I assume they make their way here.”

Cettina purses her lips together and looks me straight in the eye.

“Is Lord Scott with them?”

I shake my head.

“Our banners were not spotted.” I glance down at her attire, similar to the other men in hose and a surcoat with no gown to be found. “I told Bradyn to fetch me as soon as they are spotted coming through the gates. Perhaps you should prepare for them.”

She lifts her chin in defiance. One thing I’ve learned from serving Cettina is that she rarely does as she’s willed. Not by me and not by her first commander, even though she trusts Lord Scott implicitly. None of the Curia can compel the queen completely to their cause.

It is the reason I would give my life for her.

Unlike her father, she will do what she believes is right no matter the consequences. One day, I fear, such willfulness will get her killed. In the meantime, she is our best chance for returning Edingham to our ideals.

“I will meet them as such.”

As the first queen of Edingham, or this Isle, Cettina has no precedents to follow. And apparently receiving her enemy’s men in a tunic and hose will be an acceptable practice moving forward.

“Afterwards, we must talk,” she adds.

“Your Grace?”

It annoys her when I use the title in private, and indeed, her eyes flash back at me.

“I know you returned from Murwood End talking of peace with Meria, but it will never come to pass unless we gain Lord Moray’s support. Just yesterday my brother-in-law was seen speaking to MacKinnish.”

My hands ball into fists. MacKinnish has little love for Cettina, and I even less for her bastard brother-in-law. I refrain from reminding Cettina that it was she who pardoned her excommunicated sister and brother-in-law and allowed them to return to the castle last year as one of her first acts as queen. I understand why she did it—her sister’s treatment was unjust—but there’s no denying Lord Whitley has been a pain in the arse ever since. He’ll not rest until he’s fully undermined Cettina.

“If we are to convince the Highlanders to stand down, we need Moray,” she continues.

She’s not wrong. Gaining Lord Moray’s support for peace would placate the Highlanders and force those in Edingham who do not live in the mountains to follow, but unfortunately it will never happen. She knows this.

“He hates my family nearly as much as he does yours. Moray will never enter the fray, Cettina.”

Again, that look. “There is no man the Highlanders will listen to more.”

“We’ve dismissed this idea before.”

“You and Scott have dismissed it, not I. Moray’s support becomes ever more important as my brother-in-law stirs the Lowlanders. I will not be forced into war.”

“Are you asking my advice as your commander, or are you ordering me to treat with him as my queen?”

I know the answer before she gives it.

“That, my dear Stokerton, is an official order.”

Goddammit. It will be a waste of valuable time we do not have. Born and raised in the Highlands, I know they’re much too stubborn to be convinced of anything against their will.

“Very well.”

I bow as Cettina takes her leave. My family land borders Moray’s, so at least I’ll be able to pay a visit to my family.

“Oh,” she calls back over her shoulder, “while you’re there, perhaps you should enter so you might champion your queen. It would do well to remind everyone why you were chosen for this position.”

I watch her walk from the yard toward the keep, trying to make sense of her words. Enter? Champion?

And then I remember.

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Published on January 18, 2021 05:45

The King’s Commander Extended Excerpt