Beth Trissel's Blog, page 107

Excerpt from American Historical Romance Novel ENEMY OF THE KING

Chapter 1
August 1780, Low Country, South Carolina
Dreadful screeching, like the cries of an enraged cat, tore through the muggy night and into Meriwether's chamber. She sat bolt upright in bed. "Demented owl," she muttered and pushed back the short lengths of hair clinging to her forehead. Her shift was also damp from tossing. An indefinable restlessness drove her as a ship before the wind.
The clock downstairs struck two.
Meriwether stiffened at the echo of hooves on the cobblestones in the yard beneath her window. What business could anyone possibly have to conduct at this unearthly hour? Perhaps it was a courier, and perhaps he'd come before. Images of phantom horses from past nights cantered through her mind. She had thought them dreams sprung from fever, but she was much better now and wide awake.

The sound of hooves stopped and the horse snorted.
She parted the muslin curtain around her canopied bed and slid her feet to the carpet. A great golden moon bathed the room in a pearly sheen. She crept to the partly open glass—gasping as the screech owl flew at her from the live oak outside the window. Round yellow eyes stared into hers for a split second before the bird veered off into the darkness.

Meriwether breathed in sharply. The sweetness of jasmine wafted from the trellised vine as she peered down through moss-draped branches. The milky light streamed over two men standing in the yard, their heads bent in conversation.
One man in a dark coat and black tricorn held the reins of a bay horse. Neither he nor his mount was familiar, but she knew the other gentleman well. Several inches taller than the stranger, he was simply dressed in a white shirt tucked into breeches that molded to his long legs and met his riding boots. Shadows hid his face and the chestnut hair pulled back at his neck, but there was no mistaking Jeremiah Jordan, master of Pleasant Grove and Meriwether's guardian these past few months. Elegance cloaked him like a mantle.

Her heart quickened at the sight of Jeremiah, rarer and rarer these days. What wouldn't she give to have him all to herself for even one single hour? That seemed as impossible as an end to this confounded war. Chest fluttering, she knelt at the window to better overhear their low voices.
"Men are gathering," floated up to her from the stranger.
Her stomach knotted in tight twists. Was this nocturnal visit prearranged? Worse—had Jeremiah joined the Patriots? Her Loyalist sympathies recoiled at the awful possibility.
He'd never voiced any open fervor for the rebel cause. The neighbors thought him still too distraught over his wife Rachel's death to take an active role in the war, but doubts gnawed at Meriwether. She had seen the flash of anger in Jeremiah's blue eyes whenever British Lieutenant Major Tarleton's name was mentioned. Perhaps it was just the effect Bloody Ban had on any decent person, but Meriwether suspected far more lay beneath Jeremiah's outward reserve than he'd ever revealed.

Lacy white clouds feathered the moon as she leaned out the window for a better look at the two men. Jeremiah glanced around the yard then passed what looked like a leather pouch into the stranger's hand. She glimpsed a flap in the center and a shoulder strap like the pouch that couriers used. "The usual place," reached her straining ears.
Jeremiah lifted his head and stared up at Meriwether's chamber. She sprang to her feet stumbling back. What would he say if he knew she spied on him? Her thoughts flew like quail flushed from cover. Were his frequent absences from home truly plantation business or far more dangerous errands?

With Charles Town fallen to the British and the entire Southern Garrison captured, South Carolina was rapidly becoming a crown stronghold. If Jeremiah were mixed up in this rebellion, he courted disaster. Remaining in her chamber wouldn't answer any questions. If she slipped down the back stairs and edged closer to the yard, she might learn more.
Eavesdropping on the man who'd graciously taken her in after her father's death smacked of disloyalty, but how else was she to discover the truth? She hesitated only for an instant. She wasn't Captain Steele's daughter for nothing. Mettle accompanied the name.

Arms outstretched, she felt her way in the darkness around the clothes press and washstand and then opened the door and tiptoed from her room out into the hall. The eerie sensation of unseen eyes sent prickles down her spine as she stole along the dim corridor. Perhaps it was the portraits of Jeremiah's ancestors watching from the walls or perhaps even someone else, someone gone, yet not gone. She'd had this uncanny feeling before. It made her want to run outside, away from this disturbing presence.

Meriwether sped past the room where Jeremiah's elderly aunt, Miss Anna, slept—stubbing her bare foot on the low table crouched in the blackness like a jungle cat. "Ouch!" she cried softly and rubbed her throbbing toe, expecting footfalls on the steps.
No one came. Miss Anna could slumber through howling wolves. One clumsy young woman would not disturb her. Wishing she'd worn her shoes, Meriwether limped to the landing. Moonlight pouring through the recessed window at the top of the stairs lit the glassy gaze of the eight point buck mounted above her. She froze, her eyes riveted on the deer's head. A snake—perhaps venomous—wound around the antlers. Meriwether was no coward, but she'd rather face a Legion dragoon with a bayonet than this serpent. It must have slithered in through the open window.

Strangling a cry, she bolted past the writhing mass and down the steps. Never mind that the boards creaked beneath her feet. She hit the ground floor at a run and flung open the door. She flew outside, nearly forgetting why she'd come in her haste. Breathing hard, she halted in the archway.

Calm yourself, she admonished, and quietly closed the door behind her.

Flattened against it, she ran her eyes over the yard. Both men were conspicuous only by their absence. Not surprising. She'd unwittingly given them warning. They might have ducked into the stable or carriage house, or melted away into the night, spiriting the horse with them.
Locusts droned and crickets chirped as she poised in the entryway. Horses nickered from the pasture. Nothing more.
What now? She couldn't go back inside with that snake dangling there and had nowhere else to go except the kitchen, a short distance from the manor house.

Keith Daws, Jeremiah's right hand man, and his family slept inside its stone walls.
Jeremiah and Keith Daws had been friends ever since she remembered, rare between an Englishman and a Negro. Meriwether didn't want to risk waking any of the Daws. Keith's oldest son, York, was a light sleeper and would be more than a little curious to discover her wandering shoeless in her nightdress. Better to remain as she was than to try and find her way to the front of the house in the dark.

She sank down in the doorway, knees drawn up, feet tucked under the linen hem. No serpent was sliding across her bare toes. It was childish, perhaps, but couldn't be helped. She buried her head in her arms. What a farce she'd made of spying. "Ah, Papa," she whispered, imagining his hearty chuckle and badly wishing he were still alive. He'd been her compass. She couldn't find her way without him and her twin brother, Bobby, off fighting for the crown.
"Are you staying the night out here, Miss Steele?"
Meriwether jerked up her head, her heart in her throat. Jeremiah stood at the base of the brick steps that led up to her perch. "Mister Jordan! You move like a ghost."
"You rather resemble one in that shift, dear heart."

Moonbeams silvered his well-muscled figure in the full-sleeved shirt and thigh hugging breeches. She drank in every glorious inch. The magical light hinted at his penetrating eyes and aristocratic, almost haughty nose softened by his sensuous mouth. It could be a hard mouth when he was angry, which wasn't often and never with her; at least, not yet.~

Enemy of the King made the Best Romance Novel list at Buzzle. The novel is available at: The Wild Rose Press, Amazon, Barnes & Noble and other online booksellers.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: American historical romance novel, Award winning American Historical romance novel Enemy of the King, best romance novels 2010, Charleston South Carolina, Colonial American Historical Romance Novel, Excerpt from Colonial American historical Romance Novel Enemy of the King, history, Jeremiah Jordan, South Carolina, The American Revolution, United States

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Published on November 14, 2010 20:20

Shades of November

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Misty days, cold rain falling, leaves scattering from the trees in a red-gold swirl meld with days of brilliant sunshine. Pure light streams through late autumn color and spills over fields of new, green rye. My fair valley is a glistening jewel on such days and I can see the Alleghenies from my window. When it's hazy, mist veils the mountains rising beyond the muted hills above our meadow.

On my dining room table sits a box of crocus and other tiny bulbs that ought to be in the ground. I've already planted oodles of bulbs this fall and temporarily stalled as to where to put these. I got carried away in hot muggy August when daughter Elise and I ordered the bulbs–even tacked this order on to the one she and I'd already made after she returned to school. Back then autumn seemed but a dream of faultless blue skies, crisp air, and glorious leaves that stretched on and on infinitely in my mind. In reality, fall comes and goes all too quickly…the wonder and beauty that lures me into those long dark months before the return of my beloved spring. Not all the leaves are fallen yet and some vivid color remains on the trees, but not for long. Still, there is much to be savored about every season and I seek for the joys in this one.

For one thing, advancing November is what I call 'the snugly time.' For those of you with real fireplaces, I envy you. There's such primal satisfaction and comfort in the crackle of a wood fire, the orange glow of the flames and red coals, the smoky fragrance. I have a fireplace DVD, I kid you not, and a large electric space heater that looks like a wood stove with a fake fire in it. But it gives out warmth and if I play the fireplace DVD while running the space heater/wood stove, at least it provides the feel of a hearth. Certainly better than when all I owned was the DVD that emitted zero heat in this drafty old farm house.

My sister, feeling this was the height of pathetic, gave me the wood stove/space heater for Christmas. We do have ancient chimneys here but none are safe to use. Someday, someday, we shall build a new one. But the farm has a way of eating up all the scanty funds before they stretch to include a new stone hearth.

I'd love a massive hearth such as I describe in many of my novels. The Big Meadows Lodge up on the Skyline Drive has the most wonderful hearth in the world. I could settle in for days and write in that cozy room with a superb view of the ridges and valley spreading out below–my father says when he was young and the air clearer, people could see the Washington Monument in Washington, DC from a point in the Blue Ridge. I hope we will get our air quality that pure again. Meanwhile, when I'm in the lodge before that hearth I'm deeply content to let the rain fall and fog shroud the ridges. A snug log cabin would also do nicely as a writers retreat.

One of the benefits of these darkening days is that it's an excellent time for writing and reading, two of my most favorite occupations. I need a new CD, something with a historic and fantasy sound, music that transports me from here to there, to write my latest light paranormal romance to. Recent choices include the soundtrack from Prince Caspian, Lord of the Rings (all three of them) the latest Harry Potter soundtrack…I'm open to suggestions. I love Celtic music and have collected releases from various artists but nothing I have seems to suit the mood I'm seeking. On goes my search for the perfect music to write to.

*This is also a great time of year for making soup and baking bread, one of today's projects.

*Pics of The Alleghenies, Our Farm, The Big Meadows Lodge, and Me writing with my faithful companion Sadie Sue~ Pics by mom, daughter Elise, and I don't know who took the one of the lodge.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: autumn reflection, country life, country life in autumn, Fireplace, Harry Potter, Hearth, Lord of the Rings, Prince Caspian, romance writing, Shopping, Skyline Drive, Stove, The Big Meadows Lodge

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Published on November 12, 2010 06:16

An American Rose Christmas Anthology Giveaway Contest~

An American Rose Christmas (anthology) is 30% off at The Wild Rose Press. Also available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and other online booksellers. I am giving away a print copy, signed by me, and a digital download chosen from visitors who leave comments on this post. Drawing on Dec. 3rd! Cheers!

Blurbs:

Tory captain Dr. Nicholas Clayton discovers stolen military secrets on a severely injured female spy. When her wounds heal, Holly Masters must decide if she can kill the man who saved her life.~

While pretending to be a male soldier, farm girl Sara Brewster falls for a handsome Union army surgeon. When her secret is revealed, will a lavish Christmas Eve ball work in her favor–or will her heart be broken?~

Southern belle Marybeth Dawson discovers Santa Claus can't cross the Mason Dixon line–but handsome Union soldier, Trevor Sutton can.~

When a strong willed upper class New York girl falls for a dashing, compassionate stable boy, it will take a Christmas miracle to bring them together. Thankfully, true love is on their side.~

All reformed prostitute Eva Baird wants for Christmas is to have her daughter back in her arms. But gun-toting outlaws, spiteful in-laws, and a sweet-talking stranger with arresting gray eyes threaten to turn her dream into a lump of coal.~

My Story in this anthology is A Warrior for Christmas~

Reclaimed by his wealthy uncle, former Shawnee captive Corwin Whitfield finds life with his adopted people at an end and reluctantly enters the social world of 1764. His one aim is to run back to the colonial frontier at his first opportunity––until he meets Uncle Randolph's ward, Dimity Scott.~

Excerpt:

December 1764

An estate outside Philadelphia

Blinking against wind-driven sleet, Corwin Whitfield followed the stout man through the front door of the massive stone house, far larger than he'd imagined. A dozen cabins or Indian lodges put together could fit inside and still leave ample room. With winter lashing at their heels, Uncle Randolph had pressed both man and beast hard to reach Whitfield Place before nightfall.

Icy pellets hit the door as his uncle shut the solid wooden barrier. Better than a skin flap, Corwin supposed. He was well accustomed to the wet and cold, but a fire would feel good. His gloved fingers were numb from riding over snowy roads all day, not to mention all the previous days. Puddles spread at his boots on the flagstone floor in the entryway.

"Welcome home, Mister Whitfield."

By the light of the small glass lamp on the stand inside the door, he saw a woman in an apron, severe skirts and gray shawl. The cap engulfed her pinched face. Inclining her head and curtsying, she said, "How was your journey, sir?"

"Wretched, Mistress Stokes." Uncle Randolph waved a gloved hand at Corwin. "My nephew." He swiped a paw at her. "My housekeeper," he added by way of introduction. "Fifth cousin of my late wife's, or some such connection."

"Indeed." Mistress Stokes curtsied to Corwin. "Welcome to Whitfield Place."

He considered the etiquette drilled into him by his uncle and offered a brief nod. A bow didn't seem required.

Uncle Randolph scowled. "Foul weather."

She seemed unperturbed by his gruff manner. "Yes sir."

"Bound to worsen. See to it the fires are built up." Unbuttoning his brown caped coat, Uncle Randolph flung it onto the high-backed bench along one wall. He peeled off his gloves, tossing them and his tricorn onto the sodden heap.

Corwin did the same with his newly acquired garments. He couldn't fault his uncle's generosity, but the man had the temperament of an old he-bear.

Uncle Randolph ran thickened fingers over gray hair pulled back at his neck and tied with a black ribbon. "Where's Miss Dimity keeping herself? Is she well?"

Corwin detected a trace of anxiety in his tone.

The dour woman gave a nod. "Quite well, sir. She's in the drawing room just after having her tea."

"Good," his uncle grunted. "Tell cook we'll have our supper in there. Stew, pastries, and ale will serve. Don't neglect the Madeira."

Another curtsy and the housekeeper turned away to pad down a hall partly lit by sconces wrought of iron. His uncle frowned after her. "She's a good body and keeps this place tidy but tends to be lax on the fires. We mustn't risk Dimity taking ill. Delicate girl. Cold as a tomb in here."

Corwin found Whitfield Place equally as welcoming as a grave. The chill was pervasive. A furlined wican would be warmer. He followed his uncle across the frigid entryway and through a wide double door. His relation paused just inside the spacious room and Corwin halted beside him.

"There she is," Uncle Randolph said with the hint of a smile in his normally reluctant features. "My ward, Miss Dimity Scott. The little Quaker as I call her."

Corwin thought it highly doubtful this staunch Anglican had taken in an actual Quaker. Looking past assorted tables, gilt-covered chairs and a gold couch, he spotted the feminine figure seated before the glowing hearth. A padded armchair the color of ripe berries hid much of her slender form. His first impression was of fair curls, like corn silk, piled on her head beneath a circle of lace; his second, that the young woman bent over her embroidery seemed oblivious of all else. One this unaware would never survive in the frontier. He'd been taught to move with the silence of a winged owl while observing all around him. "Why does she not look up at our coming?"

"Ah, well, that's a matter I've been meaning to discuss with you." The hesitancy in his uncle's tone was unlike this man who knew his own mind and was swift to instruct others. He squinted at Corwin with his good eye; the other perpetually squinted from an injury he'd received in a duel. "I trust you'll not hold it against the poor girl as a sign of weakness, my boy. Warriors sometimes do and you've kept company with those savages far too long."

It wasn't like his uncle to ramble, and Corwin shifted impatiently upon hearing his adopted people disparaged again. "What are you saying, Uncle?"

He rubbed his fingers over a chin grizzled with whiskers. "Dimity cannot hear us."

"At all?"

"Not a sound, unfortunately. Though she is able to detect the vibrations of music. Odd, that."

Like the beating of Indian drums. "Has she always been without hearing?"

****

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: American Historical Romance, An American Rose Christmas, Barnes & Noble, Beth Trissel, Broadway theatre, Carol Spralding, Christmas, Christmas Anthology, Christmas romance anthology giveaway, Donna Dalton, Holidays, Lauri Robinson, Literature, New York, Opinions, Peter Cooper, Santa Claus, Susan Macatee, Tori Anne, United States

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Published on November 09, 2010 18:04

Pumpkin Bread

This recipe for pumpkin bread is from our church cookbook, contributed by my sister in law and adapted by me. It's a family favorite. Enjoy!

Ingredients: ½ cup shortening or oil (I use coconut oil), 1 cup sugar, 2 large eggs, 1 cup pureed or canned pumpkin, ¼ cup dark molasses

1 2/3 cup flour, ¼ tsp baking powder, 1 tsp. baking soda, ¼ tsp cloves, 3/4 tsp salt, ½ tsp cinnamon

Mix wet ingredients together. In a separate bowl, mix dry ingredients then add these to the wet mixture. If needed, blend in 1/3 cup of water. Normally I don't need to add the extra liquid. It depends on how moist your pumpkin is. I sometimes substitute butternut squash or sweet potatoes for the pumpkin and that can make the mixture more or less moist.

Bake at 350 for one hour in greased and floured bread pan. Makes one loaf. A sweet, spicy bread, excellent plain or with butter and jam or honey.

*Pic Some of this years Cinderella Pumpkins from our garden

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: Baking powder, Bread, Butternut squash, butternut squash bread, Cinderella pumpkin, Cooking, Home, Pumpkin, pumpkin bread, Sodium bicarbonate, Sweet potato

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Published on November 09, 2010 05:35

Christmas In Merry Old England

This fascinating post is contributed by my talented friend author Pamela Roller~

I'm writing this with my box of tissues close by, fighting a nasty head cold. In spite of my sneezing and sniffling, however, I'm really pumped about Christmas. It's my all-time favorite time of year. I get as excited as a little kid.

Was Christmas exciting 400 years ago? Imagine, no new laptops under the tree, no Kindles, iPods, books by fabulous authors, nor the latest in kitchen gadgets. No new car in the driveway with a huge red bow (not that I ever got one of those), no inflatable snowmen in the yard or netted lights around the bushes. Just what did people give as gifts four centuries ago? How did they celebrate? How did they decorate?

And can you imagine Christmas being banned? Let's go back to 17th century England to see what happened.

Through the early 1600s, December 25 was a holy day (holiday), celebrating the birth of Christ. Shops and offices were closed, and people attended special services at church. This day marked the first of the Twelve Days of Christmas, and over the next eleven days, people went to more church services, and businesses and shops were open for shorter hours. Sounds tame, right? Read on.

Families decorated their homes with ivy and holly and rosemary. Just inside the threshold of a house was hung a woven bough, in the middle of which was placed a small effigy of the Christ child or the holy family, and was blessed by the local priest. Those who visited the house during the Twelve Days of Christmas showed they brought only goodwill with them by a symbolic embrace under this holy bough (this became the hanging of mistletoe in Victorian times). In the spirit of "keeping up with the Joneses," families vied with each other to decorate their boughs more elaborately with gilded nuts, small apples, colorful ribbons and the like.

Where they lived and how much free time and money they could spend determined their degrees of celebrating. Visiting friends and family, eating and drinking, and exchanging gifts was the norm. The richer folk gave "boxes" of money to servants, the poor, and various tradesmen. St. Nicholas was not one who gave children presents as he does today, but rather was considered a sort of Master of Ceremonies for community and private celebrations.

And folks got wild during the Twelve Days of Christmas.

People made special food and drink, back then filling up on plum pudding, minced pies, turkey, peacock, goose, swan and beef. Taverns sold huge quantities of their specially brewed Christmas ale. These days were a deliberately permissive period of singing and dancing, eating and drinking to gluttonous bliss, sitting around, playing games, gambling, getting drunk, and having a whole lot of sex. Twelfth night, the last night of the celebration, was marked by even more feasting and frivolous fun.

Alas, toward the mid 1600s, many people, in particular the more Godly, frowned upon this type of Christmas celebration. Too extravagant, they said, too disorderly. And far too immoral. Moreover, Christ's mass, as they saw Christmas, was encouraged by the Catholic Church and had no biblical justification. Thus, they sought to ban the celebration of Christmas, which they saw as Popish and sinful. The new buzzword was "Christ-tide," where December 25 would be a day of fasting and spending most of the day in worship. Parliament, increasingly supporting Puritan Protestant Oliver Cromwell, ordered people to remember in humiliation those who had, in the past, turned the day into sinful gluttony, "giving liberty to carnal and sensual delights." From about 1647 to 1660—during Cromwell's rule—no one in Great Britain was allowed to celebrate Christmas. Shops were ordered to remain open on December 25, and it was against the law to eat mincemeat pie.

However, traditions are hard to kill, and many people continued to celebrate. Secret religious services marking the birth of Christ continued to be held on December 25. This led to a Christmas civil war, so to speak, in the late 1640s that consisted of sometimes violent confrontations to force shops and businesses to stay open and to prevent public celebrations.

The defeat of Cromwell and the restoration of Charles II led to declaring all legislation of banning the celebration of Christmas null and void. The religious and secular elements of the full Twelve Days of Christmas was restored.

Eat, drink and be merry. Happy holidays!

Pamela Roller is the author of On Silent Wings, a gothic historical romance set in Restoration England. Visit her website at http://www.pamelaroller.com/.

©Pamela Roller

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: Christmas in the seventeenth century England, Christmas Traditions, historic Christmas traditions, On Silent Wings, Pam Roller, tradition of gift giving

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Published on November 06, 2010 06:35

So I'm Over At Photobucket Looking For Festive Holiday Images

Lean pickings on holiday images this year, but this one is a hoot, a take off on George Washington's famous crossing of the Delaware on Christmas. A successful, I might add, maneuver because who the heck saw that one coming? Well, you better watch out.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: George Washington crossing the Delaware

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Published on November 05, 2010 13:53

Spotlight On Historical Fantasy Romance Novel Daughter of the Wind

Quantcast This is a rain-swept autumn day. The Allegheny Mountains are veiled in mist. A fitting time to spotlight my light paranormal romance novel, Daughter of the Wind. So I'm featuring a post I did last fall. If you like fantasy, suspense, mystical flavors of Native American mixed with the superstitious Scots mountain people, and above all ROMANCE, then this novel is for you.

Blurb:

Autumn, 1784: A tragic secret from Karin McNeal's past haunts the young Scots-Irish woman who longs to know more of her mother's death and the mysterious father no one will name.

The elusive voices she hears in the wind hint at the dramatic changes soon to unfold in her life among the Scot's settled in the mist-shrouded Alleghenies.

Jack McCray, a wounded stranger who staggers through the door on the eve of her twentieth birthday and anniversary of her mother's death, holds the key to unlocking the past.

Will she let this handsome frontiersman lead her to the truth and into his arms, or seek the shelter of her fiercely possessive grandfather? Is it only her imagination or does something, or someone, wait beyond the brooding ridges—for her?

Excerpt:

The strange awareness inside Karin grew, like a summons urging her to an untamed place.

Jack ran fading eyes over Karin. "Paca tamseh," he said, and sagged more heavily against Grandpa.

"Indian words," someone hissed. "I heard 'em."

Karin shrank back from the man, but Sarah grabbed her arm, pulling her forward with a steely grip. "Can you blame him for knowing their speech after all these years?" She jerked Karin onto her knees and they knelt by the newcomer. Loosening her grip, Sarah wrapped her arms around his neck. "My poor boy."

Heart racing, Karin hugged the crock. She looked to her grandfather. "I never knew she had an older son."

"Jack was eight when Shawnee captured him twenty years ago. Any son of Sarah's is welcome in my house and the settlement," Grandpa said with a look, daring any to object.

None did. At least, not aloud, although Karin expected there'd be plenty of talk behind their hands.

"You told me Jack was dead, Mama," Joseph said.

"I thought he was. Praise God he's back."

"How did he know where to find you?" Uncle Thomas asked. "You weren't a McNeal when he was taken."

Neeley clucked. "Never mind that now. We've a wounded man who's been welcomed home with lead shot."

Jack fluttered his eyes and looked to Karin. His gaze drew her almost against her will. She leaned toward him.

"Someone seeks you, Shequenor's dahnaithah."

The message rippled through her. And she knew—his was the inviting summons in the wind.

****

Chapter Two

Autumn 1784, The Allegheny Mountains of Western Virginia, the Scots-Irish

Jack McCray, as he'd been known before his capture and still was in some parts of the frontier, had a vague awareness of the astonished folk gathered around him. He caught himself fading in and out of consciousness and fought to remain alert.

He would've preferred a bed made up before the hearth, but the two McNeal men half-carried him through the parting host and into one of the back rooms. Hard-won instinct warned him to stay awake, though lethargy weighed him down. This blast in the night came on the heels of a hellish journey through the mountains.

The pain in his shoulder roused him to greater awareness as they hoisted him onto a bedstead curtained in checked maroon cloth. Ages ago, he'd slept in a bed, but not one with feather ticking, sheets, and his head cushioned on a bolster with pillows. If it weren't for the gnawing ache he might've thought he'd died and gone to heaven.

He closed his heavy eyelids, opening them again to find the candle in the iron holder on the bedside alight. Another candle glowed from the top of the washstand.

The dancing flames cast long shadows on the plastered log walls and the faces hovering above him.

This definitely wasn't heaven.

His mother's imposing husband, John McNeal, stood over him with grudging acceptance in his keen blue eyes. Mister McNeal's strapping son, Thomas, appraised him with narrow-eyed skepticism. If Jack were able-bodied, there'd likely be a reckoning with these two formidable males—might still be.

Joseph swam into Jack's vision. Little brother regarded him as though not fully persuaded he wasn't a spirit. Ah, but Joseph is the ghost, the image of our big auburn-haired father, Jack thought.

pipetomahawklg A pang knifed through him. If his mother were remarried, then his father no longer lived. Not that he begrudged her bettering her lot with the McNeals, but his father had been a fine man. Jack faintly recalled his even temper and hearty laugh, and he'd been a crack shot, a skill Jack had inherited but failed to use tonight. He hadn't gotten off a single volley at his attacker, the sneaky bastard.

Joseph slipped Jack's buckskin pouch and powder horn from his injured shoulder. He laid them on the bedside table along with his tomahawk and slid a strong arm beneath his neck. "Sip this," he said, tilting his head as he held a mug to his lips.

Jack gratefully swallowed sip after sip. The brandy warmed his raw throat and he prayed it would numb everything else. "Thanks, little brother," he said hoarsely, and struggled to sit up.

He winced at the pain, but couldn't just lie here. "I've a mount—needs tending."

"Are you daft, Jack?" Joseph said, pushing him back down onto the mattress. "I'll see to your horse in a shake."

"Stallion—take care—" he warned through gritted teeth.

Joseph held him still. "I know about horses."

strawberry roan horse Jack chafed to think of such a valuable animal left to stand out in this foul weather. Then John McNeal drew a wicked looking knife and gave him something else to worry over. Jack could only hope the older man still retained the full use of his sight as he sliced through his bloody sleeve, spoiling his favorite shirt—damn, his lucky shirt. Well, he was alive, wasn't he?

John's gruff voice intruded on his mute protest. "Sarah, sit you down before you drop. Neeley'll wash the wound."

Head in her hands, Jack's mother slumped onto a stool at the end of the bed. The poor woman couldn't cease to weep and seemed on the verge of collapse. His conscience goaded him, a rather unfamiliar, disagreeable prodding. Clearly, she'd held him dear to her heart all these years, while his memories of her were dim. Nor had he made any effort to return sooner.

Jack slid his eyes over the people hovered about him in search of the angel he'd sighted earlier and spoken to briefly, but she seemed to be keeping her distance. Some females took time to grow on him before he found them pleasing. Not this fresh beauty. Her face and slender figure grabbed him the instant he'd spotted her.

It crossed his clouded mind that he'd frightened her and must make amends if he hoped to have another word, or anything else, with this rare creature. Of her heritage, there could be no doubt. It was stamped in her face and coloring, but the bewilderment in her blue-gray eyes betrayed her ignorance.

The old matriarch called Neeley bustled in like a busy hen. She bore a steaming basin of what Jack supposed, from the herbal scent wafting in the mist, was a medicinal wash. "Thomas, see Sarah gets to bed and brew her a cup of betony. That'll calm her," Neeley directed.

Thomas helped his stepmother to her feet. "Come on, Sarah. You'll do better with a rest and some tea," he said, and guided the unsteady woman from the room.

Neeley set the white porcelain bowl on the washstand. She squinted down at him and then gestured with bent fingers at the girl peering from behind John's bulk. "Karin, come closer. You're my hands, lass."

Her eyes, too, Jack suspected. Looking past her, he watched in fascination and relief as Karin edged nearer the bed. He much preferred her to tend his injury, but if he spooked her she'd bolt like a skittish mare. Teeth clenched against the pain, he tried to appear unthreatening. Maybe he could entice her closer.

Mister McNeal cut away the last of Jack's sleeve and slid his eyes over him without a flicker of expression. He handed the bloody cloth to Joseph. "Toss this in the fire and go see to his horse. We'll tend your brother."

Joseph hesitated, loathe to leave his long-lost sibling, perhaps. No. His eyes shifted protectively to Karin with more than a trace of yearning in their depths. So, that's how the land lies, Jack surmised, wondering if she felt the same about Joseph and annoyed that he cared if she did. Why should he give a damn who she favored?

"Karin will bear up. She's seen worse," John assured the reluctant young man.

"So have I," Joseph muttered, and turned on his heels.

This left John McNeal, old Neeley. Karin still hung back. Evidently Neeley was in her glory now. Dipping the towel in the aromatic water, she lit into Jack.

"What the—" he jerked and nearly swore.

The old woman didn't falter and sponged the blood from his arm and throbbing shoulder. No doubt she tried to be careful, but failed. "John, you'll want to be taking this lad's wet clothes off him before he catches his death," the zealous woman advised.

Jack balled his hands into fists under her ministration. "Not just yet," he intervened, unwilling to drive Karin away. The modesty he sensed in her would surely balk at such a manly display of bare flesh.

Unexpectedly, the timid girl walked to his side and gazed down at him with pity in her eyes. And what eyes, like a troubled sky, he mused, between barely contained groans.

old plantation kitchen

A wince crossed Karin's expressive features as if she, too, were in pain. "Let me see to him, Aunt."

Neeley gave a nod. "I'll fetch fresh water." Dropping the crimson rag in the bowl, she sloshed from the room.

Karin took a clean linen towel from the rod above the washstand. "Never fear. I shall be gentle, sir."

Jack hadn't been called sir ever and it bemused him that this hesitant maiden fretted over his emotional state. Someone, perhaps his mother, had brought her up to be a lady. "I'm sure you will, miss."

She dabbed his shoulder dry, then dipped her small hand into the pungent crock. Pursing rosetinged lips, she smeared the aromatic paste on his wound. "I'll give the salve a while to work before I dig the ball out and stitch you up. Ever had woundwort, sir?"

"Dulls the pain right well," Jack managed, hiding a grimace. Even her soft touch stung like the devil, but he wouldn't push her away for anything.

****

A Handsome frontiersman, Mysterious Scotswoman, Dark Secret, Pulsing Romance…DAUGHTER OF THE WIND.

For more on my work please visit: www.bethtrissel.com

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Published on November 04, 2010 20:22

Historical Fantasy Romance Novel Daughter of the Wind

Quantcast This is a rain-swept autumn day. The Allegheny Mountains are veiled in mist. A fitting time to spotlight my historical fantasy romance novel, Daughter of the Wind. So I'm featuring a post I did last fall.

Blurb:

Autumn, 1784: A tragic secret from Karin McNeal's past haunts the young Scots-Irish woman who longs to know more of her mother's death and the mysterious father no one will name.

The elusive voices she hears in the wind hint at the dramatic changes soon to unfold in her life among the Scot's settled in the mist-shrouded Alleghenies.

Jack McCray, a wounded stranger who staggers through the door on the eve of her twentieth birthday and anniversary of her mother's death, holds the key to unlocking the past.

Will she let this handsome frontiersman lead her to the truth and into his arms, or seek the shelter of her fiercely possessive grandfather? Is it only her imagination or does something, or someone, wait beyond the brooding ridges—for her?

Excerpt:

The strange awareness inside Karin grew, like a summons urging her to an untamed place.

Jack ran fading eyes over Karin. "Paca tamseh," he said, and sagged more heavily against Grandpa.

"Indian words," someone hissed. "I heard 'em."

Karin shrank back from the man, but Sarah grabbed her arm, pulling her forward with a steely grip. "Can you blame him for knowing their speech after all these years?" She jerked Karin onto her knees and they knelt by the newcomer. Loosening her grip, Sarah wrapped her arms around his neck. "My poor boy."

Heart racing, Karin hugged the crock. She looked to her grandfather. "I never knew she had an older son."

"Jack was eight when Shawnee captured him twenty years ago. Any son of Sarah's is welcome in my house and the settlement," Grandpa said with a look, daring any to object.

None did. At least, not aloud, although Karin expected there'd be plenty of talk behind their hands.

"You told me Jack was dead, Mama," Joseph said.

"I thought he was. Praise God he's back."

"How did he know where to find you?" Uncle Thomas asked. "You weren't a McNeal when he was taken."

Neeley clucked. "Never mind that now. We've a wounded man who's been welcomed home with lead shot."

Jack fluttered his eyes and looked to Karin. His gaze drew her almost against her will. She leaned toward him.

"Someone seeks you, Shequenor's dahnaithah."

The message rippled through her. And she knew—his was the inviting summons in the wind.

****

Chapter Two

Autumn 1784, The Allegheny Mountains of Western Virginia, the Scots-Irish

Jack McCray, as he'd been known before his capture and still was in some parts of the frontier, had a vague awareness of the astonished folk gathered around him. He caught himself fading in and out of consciousness and fought to remain alert.

He would've preferred a bed made up before the hearth, but the two McNeal men half-carried him through the parting host and into one of the back rooms. Hard-won instinct warned him to stay awake, though lethargy weighed him down. This blast in the night came on the heels of a hellish journey through the mountains.

The pain in his shoulder roused him to greater awareness as they hoisted him onto a bedstead curtained in checked maroon cloth. Ages ago, he'd slept in a bed, but not one with feather ticking, sheets, and his head cushioned on a bolster with pillows. If it weren't for the gnawing ache he might've thought he'd died and gone to heaven.

He closed his heavy eyelids, opening them again to find the candle in the iron holder on the bedside alight. Another candle glowed from the top of the washstand.

The dancing flames cast long shadows on the plastered log walls and the faces hovering above him.

This definitely wasn't heaven.

His mother's imposing husband, John McNeal, stood over him with grudging acceptance in his keen blue eyes. Mister McNeal's strapping son, Thomas, appraised him with narrow-eyed skepticism. If Jack were able-bodied, there'd likely be a reckoning with these two formidable males—might still be.