Marsha Canham's Blog, page 12

Sample Sunday, say hello to Beth Orsoff

Today's guest blogger (why do I always want to type blooger?)  is another member of the BacklistEbook loop group, and I will let her introduce herself in her own words *g*

Hi everyone.  Thanks for stopping by.  My name is Beth Orsoff and I write humorous fiction.  Usually that takes the form of chick lit, but sometimes it takes the form of chick lit/mystery/suspense (think Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum series).  I have three e-books available, and am currently editing a fourth, which I hope to release in October.

The book Marsha is featuring today is "How I Learned to Love the Walrus (An Arctic Romantic Comedy)."  The question I usually get with this book is "Why?"  Why would an entertainment attorney from Los Angeles (my day job, although now only part-time) who has never been to Alaska and never seen a live walrus write a book about a woman who travels to Alaska to produce a documentary about walruses and learns something about love and life along the way?

Potential answers: (a) I'm crazy, (b) I felt compelled to write it, or (c) all of the above.  It's (c).  I should explain, although (a) is self-explanatory, so I'll concentrate on (b). 

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon in April 2006.  I was thumbing through the newspaper (this was in the olden days when people read newspapers in paper form) while waiting for my husband to return home from an errand when I came across an article about a bunch of walrus calves that had been found abandoned in the deep waters of the Arctic Ocean.  According to the article, it was very unusual to find walrus calves without their mothers because young pups don't know how to forage for food.  They depend on their mothers for their survival. The scientists guessed that the walrus cows had followed the sea ice north in search of food and never returned. 

The article contained a photo of one of the baby walruses treading water, and a quote from a scientist on board the ship who said for the entire twenty-four hours they spent in that location, the walruses swam around the boat crying.  The scientists knew there was no hope of rescue and the calves would likely drown or starve to death.  It was heartbreaking, both for them and for me.  By the time my husband returned, I was practically in tears. 

Until this point, I had always written light, humorous fiction.  When I told my husband  this would be my next book, he not surprisingly asked, "How the hell are you going to turn that into chick lit?"  My answer: "I don't know, but I'll figure it out."

The figuring it out part was a lot harder than I had imagined.  All I knew when I started was that that scene would be in the book and it would have a profound influence on the protagonist.  And that's how "How I Learned to Love the Walrus" was born.  And despite that heartbreaking scene, it is a romantic comedy.  Really.  I swear it.  Don't believe me?  Here's the synopsis and an excerpt below:

When Los Angeles publicist Sydney Green convinces her boss to let her produce a documentary for the Save the Walrus Foundation, the only one Sydney Green is interested in saving is herself.  The walruses are merely a means to improving her career and her love life, and not necessarily in that order.  Sydney would've killed the project the second she learned she'd be the one having to spend a month in rural Alaska if it had been for any other client.  But for rising star and sometimes boyfriend Blake McKinley, no sacrifice is ever too great. 

Yet a funny thing happens on the way to the Arctic.  A gregarious walrus pup, a cantankerous scientist, an Australian sex goddess, a Star Wars obsessed six-year-old, and friends and nemeses both past and present rock Sydney Green's well-ordered world.  Soon Sydney is forced to choose between doing what's easy and doing what's right.       

The scene excerpted below takes place between Sydney Green, our intrepid publicist, and Ethan Eckert, the cantankerous scientist, on Wilde Island, a fictional island (although based on a real island) off the coast of Alaska where thousands of walruses congregate each summer.  The island has no electricity or indoor plumbing, and only eight human inhabitants (including Sydney and Ethan).  As you might imagine, bathing is an ordeal.  After three days on the island, Sydney attempts her first shower. 

 

 An Excerpt from How I Learned to Love the Walrus

I packed a change of clothes and my toiletries in my duffel, then followed her up the hill, past the cabin, to a free-standing enclosure abutting the steepest section of the incline.  The shower consisted of a metal pole in the ground with a rusted head on top surrounded by panels on three sides and a floor made of plywood slats.  It had no roof, no insulation, and two feet of open space on the bottom where the wind whistled through, but Jill told me I could count on ten minutes of hot water.  After that it got iffy.  Then she told me to pull the chain to the right to turn it on, to the left to shut it off, and left me on my own. 

I traded my boots for flip-flops and undressed inside my long wool winter coat.  When I was naked underneath, I dropped the coat and made a dash for the chain.  I was only exposed to the frigid air for a few seconds, but it was long enough for my skin to erupt in goosebumps and to start my teeth chattering.   

I washed my hair first, then lathered up with the soap while the conditioner soaked in.  I managed to shave both underarms and was working my way up my left leg when the hot water ran out.  I towel dried myself faster than I ever had before, climbed back into my boots and coat, and dashed for the cabin.

I had three options:  I could wait an hour for the solar heater to deliver more hot water to the shower, I could boil water on the stove then wait for it to cool, or I could finish shaving my legs with cold water in the sink.  I figured the faster I finished shaving, the faster I could get dressed and warm up. 

I pulled on my bra and panties, dropped my coat, and jumped up on the kitchen counter.  With my legs stretched out over the sink, I quickly finished the left and had just lathered shaving cream on the right, when Ethan walked in. 

He didn't say a word to me.  He just poured himself more coffee, then turned around and stared.

"Would you mind," I finally said.  "I'm shaving here."

"I can see that," he replied.    

I don't wear flimsy, lacy underwear, so there's nothing you can see of me in my bra and panties that you can't see at the beach, but I still didn't like being openly stared at.  "Haven't you ever seen a woman shave her legs before?"

"Not in the kitchen sink, no."

"I ran out of hot water in the shower," I said, as I turned on the faucet to rinse my razor.  "At least in here I'm out of the wind."

He nodded and took a sip of from his mug.

I waited a few seconds, hoping he would leave on his own, yet he didn't appear to be in any rush.  "Don't you have better things to do than stand here watching me shave?"

He pursed his lips together as if considering it, then shook his head.  "You can't download porn on a satellite connection so I have to take what I can get."

I briefly considered threatening him, but since my pink daisy shaver wasn't exactly menacing, I decided my best option was to try to ignore him, and maybe he'd go away on his own.  After all, watching someone shave their legs isn't exactly titillating.  "Suit yourself," I said, and returned to the task at hand.     

I'd just rounded my right knee when I nicked myself in the same spot I always do.  As always, the blood started gushing immediately.  I searched the counter for something to stop the bleeding, when Ethan ripped a paper towel off the spindle behind him and handed it to me.

"Thanks," I said, as I tore off a corner and stuck it to my skin.  The white paper instantly turned red, and the blood trickled out from underneath, then the stream hit the shaving cream and the whole blob turned pink.

"Goddammit!"

"You need to put pressure on it."

"What are you, a doctor?"

"Yes."

I wasn't sure being a zoology professor counted, but I wasn't going to argue the point.  "Yeah, but you work with animals, not people."

"We all bleed the same," he said, as he grabbed the rest of the paper towel, folded it into a thick square, and stuck it onto my wound.  He held it in place with his thumb and let his fingers graze the back of my knee. 

I leaned back on my elbows in an effort to put some distance between us.  He was definitely invading my personal space again.  But this time my response was much worse than a panic attack.   

Available at Amazon and Barnes and Noble

Check out Beth's website:  http://bethorsoff.com/

Facebook:  http://www.facebook.com/BethOrsoff

 

 

"It's like crapping in a sauna"

Infamous words, texted by my dear son as he waited for the AC repairman to show up at the home away from home, though I doubt they'll linger as long as "I'll be baaaaaaaack"  or "life is like a box of choc-lates"

He and the grandson left here all happy happy Thursday afternoon, planning to drive straight through to Florida and to have two whole days to themselves golfing before the girls flew down to join them.  Payton is in her end of year soccer tournament this weekend, so, assuming they win the whole applecart, which hopefully they will (off to a good 2-0 start so far, third game this afternoon) they get to fly out tomorrow night for a week of sunshine, theme parks, and…er…Florida heat.

Jefferson actually made it about an hour down the road when a fuse blew in the new car.  He's like me and tends to not get too pissy at the small things that go wrong on days when everything should go right, but they'd had a full week of BIG things going wrong, all to do with the new car, so this was like that proverbial tiny tiny straw that sent all the camels in Yemen running over a cliff in terror.

He turned around and drove straight back to the dealer, who swapped out the tiny little fuse, and they were off again, on their way to sunny Florida, golfing, Hooters…

And they made good time, taking regular stops to stretch, eat, and just relax.  With only one driver, it's a long haul to try to do in the 20 hrs it takes from door to door, but the Clone has done it before and, like me again, once you're on that road, and you're getting closer, and you've got your second wind…just keep going cuz you know you can crash and sleep at the other end.

So they arrived in Orlando at noonish and, going through the five page checklist I sent with them, turned everything on, power, water, plugged in all the appliances, took the saran wrap off the toilets..very important *snort*…and flicked on the AC cuz it was about 110 inside the trailer.

Nothing happened.

An hour later, he calls asking if there was a special trick to turning the AC on, like an extra plug, or FUSE, or something.  Nope. Flick the switch, it hums to life.

He flicked, nothing happened.

Okay so he's 1500 miles away and not the handiest man around the house when it comes to fixing things. And I'm 1500 miles away without a clue who to call about checking the AC unit.  After another hour of back and forthing and calls to check this, check that, I send them to the pool while I try to find someone in the park who is not a snowbird, who might know who to call.  I've had the unit repaired before but at this point, the name of the guy escaped me completely, so I called the fellow I did know who works on sprinkler systems and hasn't a clue about AC units. But bless him, he says leave it with him, he has a friend who has done work in the park and he'll try to get hold of him. 

By 10:00pm, the sweaty, crusty duo have called it a night and flopped out like beached starfishes under the ceiling fans. Ron calls me back, says he can't get hold of his friend, but there are some other options, like a regular repair guy listed with 24hr service.  I think to myself, great…so we should have gone this route four hours ago, but hey, he tried.  Then I think hold on….The Clone is crusty already and finally asleep after driving all that way and not dealing well with the lack of AC…so I make the decision to let the boys sleep through the hot steamy night and Ron will call at 7am to arrange the repair.

Perfect.  All except for the fact that while the boys are far less crusty than they were the day before, NOW they're crusty because they were planning to be on a golf course this morning.  But that's forgiven if they can get AC for the rest of the week, and if, possibly, they can get on the greens by the afternoon…so again, I send them down to the pool or the air conditioned clubhouse to wait for the call from the repair guy. 

I'm starting to do all sorts of math in my head by now.  Repair guy, ching ching to drive out. Double ching ching to drive out on a Saturday. Ching ching CHING if it's anything too complicated or it can't be fixed or I need a whole new unit.  I already joked with Ron about needing to get it fixed before the girls went down tomorrow or the DIL would likely erupt like a volcano.  He laughed at first, thinking I was joking.  I wasn't.  So with all this going through my head, I figure okay, if it's over X number of dollars, I'll just go for the new unit because this one has been fixed a few times now, and it has to be reaching the point where it isn't worth it and I need something reliable. (and if this sounds like deja vu, there's another blog here detailing the drive BACK from Florida last spring and finding out I needed to get a new furnace the same day.  Ching CHING)

The call comes just before noon, the guy is on his way.  The DIL and I are sitting in the sun, in 95 degrees, watching Payton play soccer, but no complaints. We can't possibly be as hot as the boys.   We get the call it's only a dirty starter and there's no freon in the tank, so a minor ching ching, and I start cheering and all the parents pick up the clapping and cheering cuz they think our team scored another goal.

Jefferson gives the repair guy a pack of cigars and he's all happy. Austin is standing in the driveway with his golf clubs, and he's all happy.  Payton's team wins the game, and she's all happy cuz she scored a goal. (which will, of course, in future re-tellings of the story, become the WINNING goal)  It's Michelle's birthday today, so she was happy to begin with.  And me?  My kids are happy, my munchkins are happy.  It's a good day.

Oh…and about the infamous quote at the beginning of the blog?  That's what the Clone texted from the throne room whilst waiting for the repair guy to show up.

Thank goodness the plumbing was working.

Anatomical discrimination. Get out the placards, time to pickett.

I admit I haven't written nearly as many books as many of my peers. I've written 17 while others who started around the same time as I did, have done two, three times as many. Nora Roberts is up in the zillions, but she once told me she didn't go anywhere without her notebook. She scribbled notes in cabs, in line waiting for cabs, in restaurants, trains, boats, planes.  I write in my office. I'll jot the occasional note in the kitchen or in the family room to myself just so I don't forget a particular phrase I've thought of, or a plot point I've been trying to work through. But basically, once I step out of my office, that's it for the day.

But, in my defence of lower numbers, I also do a lot of research.  Back before the internet became popular, it was a case of slogging back and forth to the library, arms sagging under a dozen or so dry, factual history books, all of which got read and notes to self jotted down as I went along. Sometimes a 400 page book yielded one interesting fact.  Sometimes I wasn't even that lucky.

Writing dialogue and fleshing out characters was..and still is..a matter of listening and observing. We lived in two grand neighborhoods, the Eden Pit years, the Noake Crescent years, each one filled with characters who, at one time or another, appeared in most of my books and provided the most fodder because, well, they were all whacky and we had tons of fun. 

The point of this ramble is, that no matter how much research is done, how cleverly you enlighten the reader on a historical event they may not have known anything about, how many real people and events are draw on for breathing life and color into a character to make them memorable…in a romance novel it still all boils down to …ROMANCE.

Yep, I write romance novels. That means there has to be romance in those pages.  And that usually means there has to be sex, and that means I have to come up with several different ways and means of two characters doing what they do when they fall in love.  Of all the elements that go into writing a romance novel, whether it's contemporary or historical, writing the sex is by far and away THE hardest part, no pun intended.

Most writers don't like to repeat themselves, that's why we choose different settings, different time periods etc for each story, all very logical. But think about it. Putting the Kama Sutra aside, how many ways can two people make love, and even if you do leaf through the Kama Sutra, certain body parts fit into other body parts in a certain way and that's just the way it is.  Sure, you can do it in the tree tops, on horseback, in a haystack, on the roof of a Corvette…but it's still a matter of maneuvering part A into part B in a way which sounds romantic and erotic and leaves the reader breathing a little heavier, or sighing with a smile on his or her face.

The smile is the key here, folks, because the last thing a writer wants is for that smile to become a chuckle or a laugh or a guffaw. Yes, I'm referring, in my roundabout way, to euphemisms. 

Back when Rosemary Rogers came into picture, it was still scandalously taboo to refer to body parts by their actual names. Readers fainted if they saw the word penis and instantly branded the books as pornography.  Words like shaft and spear and manhood were used, often with a throbbing adjective.  My absolute favorites were throbbing manroot, marble hard shaft, and the prize winner:  purple helmetted soldier of love.  Reading them send me from chuckles to groans to rolling eyeballs.  What is sexy about a "manroot"?  To me it always sounded like a hairy carrot.  And a marble hard shaft? Ouch. Anything hard as marble is bound to hurt, and to me a shaft is something long and wooden with the potential of giving slivers.  As for purple helmetted soldier of love…well…I grant you a condom could conceivably resemble a helmet, but I've yet to see a penis march anywhere.

Oddly enough, there don't seem to be as many euphemisms for part B. ..either that or I just can't think of any off the top of my head.  There's flower and petal and womanhood, but nothing quite as spectacular as purple helmetted soldier of love. 

Time to pony up here.  Does anyone have any special euphemisms that have stuck out in your mind?  Male or female, we want 'em all.  The good, the bad, and the ridiculous *g*

Readalong Monday, Chapter Six

I hope you're enjoying the readalong. Through A Dark Mist is,  of course, Book One of my Robin Hood Trilogy. Book Two is In the Shadow of Midnight and Book Three is The Last Arrow.  All three have been holding their own on the Amazon bestseller lists for the past two weeks, thanks to all of you wonderful readers.  Through A Dark Mist is still free at Amazon, though I can't guarantee how much longer that will last.  Apparently the wheels turn slowly when you're trying to get them to make it free, and even slower when you want to change it back .  I feel a blog about that coming on, so stay tuned. LOL

Through A Dark Mist © Marsha Canham

CHAPTER SIX

The messenger thundered up to the castle gates on a horse lathered nose to rump in the sour white foam of haste. The man himself was so winded he could barely communicate his demands to the guard who angled a bleary eye through the portcullis gates to identify him. Once admitted, he was escorted through the outer bailey, across a wooden drawbridge to an inner courtyard, through more gates and more annoying questions, until finally he was admitted to the innermost court. The horse's hooves clacked loudly on both wood and cobbled surfaces, echoing the urgency of the message he carried, scattering the throngs of servants and pages who were going about their morning duties. Dismounting at last, he forced his cramped legs to run up the enclosed stairway to the entrance of the main keep, where he reiterated, with no small amount of irritation, his breathless demand to see Lord Lucien Wardieu.

The seneschal, a dour and grim-faced stub of a man, warned with equal acidity that the lord was still abed and would not humour an interruption. The guard, against all sane advice and protocol, shoved the seneschal aside and bolted the length of the corridor to enter the narrow stone spiral of stairs that led up into the lord's private tower.

At the top, he was delayed by the poniards and drawn swords of the two alerted squires who slept in the anteroom adjoining their master's sleeping chamber. The ruckus they caused in challenging the intrusion was sufficient to bring the naked and enraged Baron de Gournay slamming out of the chamber, his own sword unsheathed and gleaming in readiness.

"What the devil goes on here?" he demanded. "Rolf! Eduard! Who in blazes is this man and what does he want?"

"Please, my lord," the guard gasped, his one arm bent to the breaking point by the elder of the two squires, Rolf. The younger one, his face earnest with intent, jabbed the point of his knife deeper into the intruder's straining throat, causing a fine thread of blood to leak from the cut.

"Please, my lord! Hear me out! I bring urgent news from the sheriff! News I was commanded to relay to your ears only, my lord. Your ears only!"

Some of the tension eased from Wardieu's arms as he lowered the huge steel blade. After another taut moment, he nodded curtly to his squires, who relaxed their grips only enough to allow the man breath and speech.

"Well? Deliver your news."

"It … it comes from the Lord High Sheriff, my liege. F-from Onfroi de la Haye."

"We know full well who the sheriff is," came a belligerent voice from the inner chamber. Nicolaa de la Haye appeared a moment later in glorious dishevelment, the sheet she had snatched up off the bed held haphazardly around her waist and looped over one shoulder.

The sight was so startling, the guard was struck dumb. He gaped first at the mottled pink splendour of a nearly bared breast, then at the telltale scratches and bitemarks that scored the baron's virile body.

"Well?"

"Th-there was an ambush, my lord. In Lincolnwood. More than a score of brave men slain, the rest robbed and forced to leave the forest on foot."

For several tense moments, Wardieu continued to stare expectantly at the guard, his brain slowed by a night of wine and sexual excess. It cleared, however, on an oath so violent and graphic, the squires looked over, startled.

"The Lady Servanne!" he exploded. "Where is she?"

His eyes bulging with fear, the guard stammered what he had been told to report of the ambush. "The cavalcade was set upon by outlaws, my lord. Their leader … called the Black Wolf by his victims … took the Lady Servanne hostage and advised the remainder of the guard to remove themselves from the woods ere they drown in their own blood along with their fallen comrades. H-he also insisted a message be delivered to"—the guard's eyelids shivered closed and he swallowed hard—"to the Dragon of Bloodmoor Keep, advising him that a ransom of ten thousand marks is necessary for the safe return of the hostage."

Wardieu's icy blue eyes narrowed to slits. "Ten thousand marks! Who is this madman, this … Black Wolf? Why have I not heard of him before now? And where, by Christ's holy rood, was our vainglorious high sheriff while this travesty was being committed?"

The golden knight advanced upon the cowering guard as he spoke, his hand once again clenched around the hilt of his sword. So terrifying a visage did he present, a naked and unyielding wall of solid muscle, that the guard could not have answered had he wanted to.

"The Black Wolf of Lincoln," mused Nicolaa de la Haye. "Onfroi has mentioned him on occasion."

Wardieu spun around to confront her. "What? Why have I not heard of him before today?"

"Good my lord, as you well know, my husband never boasts of his failures. This wolf's head has been playing at skittles with Onfroi's bold guardsmen for … oh, a goodly month or more, at least. I am sure he would have had to tell you eventually, since the rogue seems to be encamped within hailing distance of your own borders. In his defense, however —though God knows why I should bother—his mind has been strenuously taxed with other matters of late."

Wardieu deliberately ignored the veiled reference to the sheriff's current round of revenue collecting—taxes supposedly levied to help finance the king's army, but in reality, going to finance Prince John's feral ambitions.

"If your husband required help ridding the forest of a nest of thieves," Lucien growled, "why the devil did he not come limping to me as usual?"

"Perhaps he was trying to stand on his own at long last?" Nicolaa suggested, her voice so heavy with sarcasm, the words dripped. "Perhaps he feels his manhood has been threatened enough by your superiority in other matters?"

Wardieu clamped his jaw into a steely ridge. "Rolf—fetch my clothes and armour. Eduard—call out my personal guard and tell them to be prepared to ride within the hour."

As the squires moved hastily to comply, the frosted blue gaze flicked back to the guard, who was endeavouring to restore circulation to his twisted elbow. "Where is the sheriff now, and where are the men who were escorting the cavalcade? I want to question them personally."

"My lord sheriff anticipated you might. He has set up temporary camp on the green above Alford Abbey to await your pleasure. Meanwhile, he has sent patrols back to the point of ambush and expects, what with the rain and damp we had earlier in the week, the tracks will not be too difficult to cipher."

"Onfroi has difficulty tracking his way to an over-full latrine," Nicolaa drawled, stifling a yawn. "I expect I should dress and accompany you, Lucien. The men are so much more eager to prove their worth to me in fulfilling their duties."

"Please yourself. I'll not be stopping or humouring any delays between here and the abbey."

"Provide me with a worthy mount," she said, her eyes raking boldly down the powerful length of his body, "And you will not hear me balking at the thought of a hard day's ride."

Lucien turned to the gaping guard. "Go below and have my seneschal find you some hot food and drink, then be ready to lead us back to the green."

"Yes, my lord. My lord … there was one other thing."

Wardieu had already started back into his chamber to dress. "Yes, what is it?"

Sweat popped out across the man's brow in tiny, oily beads. "It comes from the Black Wolf, my liege. He said it should be delivered with a further message so that you would know his intentions were true."

A shaking, gloved hand reached into a leather pouch strapped to his belt. A small canvas sack was withdrawn and held out to the frowning baron. The thong binding the mouth of the sack had become loosened through the long journey and, before Wardieu could unthread it fully, the sack gaped open and the contents fell onto the floor by his bare feet.

It was a finger; a woman's severed finger, judging by the size and shape of it.

Wardieu drew a deep breath. "What was the message?"

The guard's chin quivered and he looked from Nicolaa to the baron. "Only … only that if you did not pay the ransom, you would not see your bride again … leastwise not in pieces large enough for anyone to recognize."

Nicolaa, sidling closer for a better view, was the first one to break the ensuing silence.

"Well," she murmured, "if nothing else, this Black Wolf knows how to make his meaning perfectly clear."

 

 

Sample Sunday; today's guest author is Miriam Minger

I hope everyone is enjoying trying out new samples every week.  Some of the authors have been new…even to me…and some, like today's guest blogger Miriam Minger, have been around as long as I have.  It's been fun reconnecting with some authors I knew way back when…or as Shelly Thacker says, back when we used chisels and chipped out manuscripts on stone tablets.  Well, she did.  I used a spiffy Underwood typewriter and reused the ribbon until it was so faint it was unreadable. Hah.

 

Here then, is today's guest, Miriam….

     I love writing historical romances, but I always wanted to try my hand at "something different", too.  That something different for me began as a kernel of an idea about two mothers desperately wanting one thing….the same little boy, and grew into my first thriller, RIPPED APART. 

    It felt really liberating to let my writing loose in the contemporary setting of San Antonio, Texas and Mexico and create an emotionally gripping story with the same fast pace and high drama as my historical romances, but with a different emphasis altogether for the outcome.  In romances the satisfying ending comes in the hero and heroine overcoming obstacles and finding that happily ever after together, while in a suspenseful thriller the main characters are simply happy to be alive.   

    I didn't stray too far from my roots, however, as RIPPED APART has a healthy dose of a romance element that will appeal to readers who have enjoyed my historical romances.  Buckle your seatbelts and get ready for an edge-of-your seat ride!

 

SHE WILL DO ANYTHING TO GET HER SON BACK.  THEY WILL KILL HER TO KEEP HIM.

Unspeakable tragedy and cold-blooded murder conspire against Clare Carson when her six-year-old son is kidnapped after a heart transplant and his abductors want her dead. A dying cop's last words lead her to former Special Ops Jake Wyatt, who helps her discover the horrific truth behind her son's abduction and offers to help her get Tyler back. With nowhere else to turn, Clare entrusts her life to Jake not knowing he has a deadly agenda of his own that could destroy them.

 

Excerpt from Ripped Apart – © 2011 by Miriam Minger:

 

"Ms. Carson? Clare Carson?"

Clare fumbled groggily with the phone. The woman's anxious voice in her ear sounded like a screech. "Yes, this is Clare."

"It's Dr. Laura Holland from the Pediatric Acute Care Unit. We need you to come to the hospital as soon as you can."

"What's happened? How's Tyler?" Sitting bolt upright in the bed, Clare clutched the phone. Her heart beat wildly as the woman didn't answer right away but spoke to someone in the background. Clare glanced at the digital clock that read eleven twenty p.m.–a little over an hour since she'd fallen asleep–and threw aside the comforter. "Hello? Is anyone there?"

"Ms. Carson, I'm Bill Maher, chief night security officer at Universal Hospital."

 "What's going on? How's Tyler—"

"Your son is missing, ma'am."

Clare thought she was hearing things and she stood up from the bed. "What do you mean, missing?"

"An x-ray tech came to the floor during the shift change at eleven—said Dr. Holland had requested an immediate CAT scan and the tech had come with a wheelchair to take the boy downstairs. One of the nurses called x-ray ten minutes ago to check on Tyler, but no one there had seen him or knew anything about any CAT scan."

"But I just spoke to Dr. Holland. What does she say?"

"She made no such request, Ms. Carson. My personnel are searching all over the hospital and I've notified the police—"

"I'll be right there." Clare didn't wait for the man's reply. She hung up the phone and bolted from the room, disbelief and rising panic making it hard for her to breathe. One thought burned in her mind as she grabbed her handbag and headed for the back door.

Damn you, Billy.

If her ex-husband had decided to make good on his threat to take Tyler from the hospital, she would kill him.

 

Ripped Apart is available from Amazon  Barnes & Noble

Check out more of Miriam's books on her Website: http://www.walkerpublishing.net/

 

 

 

Readalong Monday, Chapter Five

 

Through A Dark Mist  Copyright 2011 © Marsha Canham

  CHAPTER FIVE

 Servanne's young body ached from top to toe. She had fought off bouts of faintness and nausea all through the long, seemingly endless night of torment. There had been no bells tolled to mark the passing hours. The fires inside the shell of the pilgrims' hall had been banked, fading from insipid red to frilled white ash. All but two of the torches that sat in black iron cressets had been doused early in the evening. The remaining two had been allowed to burn down to stubs, and then left to smoke listlessly in their rusted cradles. Only the waning brightness of the stars overhead marked the slow passage of the hours, and they, for the better part of the night, had been cloaked behind drifting banks of opaque mist.

Dampness and cold were Servanne's only companions. Biddy had fallen fast asleep within an hour of her declared tenacity. Apart from the odd restless nicker from the horses and the contented snores of the men who had made their beds on piles of old rushes, there was only the occasional hiss and crackle from the dying fires to break the leaden silence.

Slowly, however, the gloom and shadow that had enveloped the abandoned abbey distilled to a murky, half-lit dawn. The mist began to recede into the forest. Figures and objects, smothered by darkness, slowly took shape and substance again and, responding to some inner timepiece, the huddled figures began to stretch and yawn, and push knuckled fists into crusted, bleary eyes. A round of coughing and spitting bestirred the dogs, who took up where they had left off the night before rooting in the rushes in search of food scraps. The men greeted one another, some groaning over swollen heads and sour tongues, some exchanging ribald complaints over other stiffened, ill-exercised joints. Somewhere a goat bleated and an axe bit into wood. Beyond the stone walls, a flock of birds were startled out of their rookery and rose above the gaping, scorched beams in a screaming black cloud.

Sparrow came swooping down out of nowhere, landing with a whoop and cry that nearly sent Biddy tumbling sideways off her log stool.

"You said you did not want to sit," he chirruped good-naturedly to Servanne. "Did you also mean you did not care to wash or clear away the night vapours?"

Servanne was too weary to take offense at his humour. "I would like very much to refresh myself."

"Follow me, then. Follow me."

Biddy's stiffened joints creaked and cracked as she tried to heave herself to her feet, and with Servanne's help, she finally managed. Moving was another matter entirely and she scooted her mistress on ahead while she followed at a slower, more cautious gait.

Sparrow led them out into the courtyard and around to the rear of the stone buildings. Here, the thick outer wall had once boasted a low postern gate through which the monks could enter or leave the grounds without disturbing the main gates. The entryway was all but overgrown by weeds and thick ropes of ivy, but a space had recently been hacked through the bramble and it was there Sparrow paused, grinning back at Servanne as he beckoned her through the gap.

For a brief, lack-of-sleep-induced moment, she thought the little man was helping her escape.

The spurt of newfound energy the thought triggered lasted only until she was on the other side of the wall and saw the path that led into the greenwood. Returning to the abbey along the path were the two women she had seen the previous night, both of them carrying full buckets of water.

"The cistern inside the abbey has gone dry," Sparrow explained, ignoring Biddy's muffled oaths as she fought off a web of vines that had fallen on her. "But there is a sweet stream just ahead. Follow me. Follow me."

He danced cheerfully into the deeper woods, his stubby hands fluttering as he pushed aside the saplings and pale green fronds that overgrew the pathway. He kept chattering to himself, or singing—Servanne cared less which. Nor did she care that the air was fresh and cool, tinged with the pungent smell of evergreen, or that their footsteps made very little sound on the rich, loamy earth they walked on. So absorbed was she in her own misery, she did not see Sparrow halt. A sharp cry and quick hands saved them both from tumbling headlong over a ten-foot drop of rock that marked the abrupt end of the path.

To the left was a steep, rounded escarpment which rose to a high, bare promontory of jagged rock. Silhouetted against the metallic blue of the morning sky was the outline of a man, undoubtedly a sentry, who, from his elevated position, would be able to see a fair distance in all directions. Halfway down the rocky escarpment, a wide smooth sheet of water flowed out of a fissure in the wall, streaming over a series of moss-covered ledges, cut like steps into the curve of the cliff. It collected in a deep blue basin below, part of the pool darkened by the shadow of the overhanging promontory, the rest sparkling warm and inviting in the early sunlight.

Obeying Sparrow's pointed finger, Servanne carefully picked her way down the narrow trail that edged the embankment. At the bottom, it leveled out and she was able to walk onto a flat table of rock that leaned out over the water's shallow end.

"You can have a bit of privacy here, if you want it," Sparrow said. "I will go back and see where Old Shrew-Tongue has gotten herself. 'Twould be a pity to see her spill arse over heel into the pool." He thought about the image a moment and added with a chuckle. "Aye, a dreadful pity."

He was gone in a wink, vanished back into the undergrowth that swarmed the edge of the embankment. Servanne stared at the fronds until they had finished rustling, then gazed instinctively up at the sentry, who made no effort to pretend he was not staring directly back down at her.

Escape was the farthest thing from her mind as Servanne gingerly lowered herself onto her knees. She bowed her head and leaned forward to stretch the aching muscles in her neck. With a weary sigh, she unfastened the heavy samite surcoat and peeled it off her shoulders, then, on an afterthought, removed the jewelled broach that held the linen bands of her wimple pinned closed at her throat. Slowly, moving with the stiffness of a ninety-year-old woman, she unwound the starched collar bands and set the headpiece with its flowing caplet of cloth neatly on the blue crush of samite. She uncoiled the two thick braids of her hair and, using her fingers as combs, unplaited each glossy braid and shook the long, rippled mass free. When it was completely unfettered, she ran her splayed fingers across her scalp to massage it, nearly weeping with the pleasurable sensation of freedom.

As she was bending to dip her hands in the glassy surface of the pool, a loud splash farther along the shore caused her to jump and stare across the pond. A pale shape streaked below the water, erupting from the silver-black surface again several yards ahead of the spreading rings he had generated. Servanne recognized the chestnut mane of hair even as the Black Wolf shook it vigorously to scatter the clinging droplets of water. It was apparent he had not yet seen her, however, for as he began to walk into the shallower water, he was intent upon scrubbing his chest and arms with the handfuls of fine sand he had scooped from the bottom. A second dive brought him out of the shade and into the sunlight, and this time, when he stood, the water streamed in glistening sheets from his head to the tops of his powerful thighs.

A man's naked body held no surprises for Servanne. Her husband had slept nude beside her for three years. Visiting knights and nobles had thought nothing of stripping naked and either being bathed by her or in front of her as was the custom in welcoming a guest to one's castle. Some had been as virile and solidly thewed as this forest outlaw, although she could not, upon the instant, recall a chest quite so broad, or a belly so tautly ridged with bands of muscle. The hair on his chest glittered like a copper breastplate; a sleek line of it funnelled down to a smaller thatch that swirled around his navel. Lower still and it grew into a tight, dark forest at his groin. What lay like a restless beast within that forest would have been more than enough to cause Servanne's heart to leap over several erratic beats if it were not already stumbling headlong over another disturbing sight.

Furrowing down his right side was a swath of misshapen scar tissue fully as wide as her hand, as long as her arm, distorting the surface of his flesh from his armpit to his buttock. Circling the same shoulder was a shiny patch of skin, resistant to the sun's tanning effects, and marking clearly where a chirurgeon's crude efforts had attempted to compensate for skin and muscle pared away from the upper arm. The shoulder itself was as gnarled as bark. His left thigh bore similar evidence of horrendous wounding—injuries one sustained from a battlefield, not a cornfield.

Under different circumstances Servanne would have been amused by the look of complete surprised that jolted the stern, stoic features when he realized he was not alone in the small glade. His hands froze halfway to reaching for a weapon that was not there. His eyes widened and flared with something akin to panic—though she could not imagine there could be anything on this earth able to rouse a fright in his soulless heart. As it was, she could hardly find cause to laugh at his reaction when her own sorry predicament was just as unsettling. Her head was bare—an unthinkable breach of propriety, even here in this pagan's forest. She was alone. (Where the Devil had Biddy taken herself to?) She was certain there must be smudges of dirt and dried tears streaking her face, and her hands shook like those of a palsied invalid.

The Wolf blinked more water from his eyes, cursing whatever misguided part of his brain had convinced him he was seeing a golden-haired sea nymph rising out of a pool of sunlight. She was golden-haired, all right, but far from being an enchantress. Just a flesh-and-blood nuisance who had no business being there.

Even after the initial start of shock had passed, the Wolf continued to experience some difficulty in regaining control over his composure. He did not like being caught unawares, did not relish the sensation of baring his scarred body to a woman in broad daylight, nuisance or not. It was not that he was ashamed of his appearance, for he cared little for what anyone thought; it was more a defensive reaction to the pity, and sometimes the recoiling horror he saw reflected in eyes unused to such sights.

As discomforting as it was to feel the clear blue eyes upon him, it was similarly distracting to know they were having a distinct effect on the way his blood was flowing through his veins. Because of the strict modesty of the wimple she had worn, he'd had no idea until that moment, of the colour, length, or incredible sheen of the blonde hair hidden beneath. Now, where it spilled over her shoulders, it resembled liquid gold, emphasizing the porcelain whiteness of her skin, the large almond-shaped eyes, the fine lines of her nose, chin, and mouth. While each feature on its own could claim no great or rare beauty, when flattered by the luminous cloud of her hair it lured a man to speculate over what other misinterpretations he might have made regarding her form and figure.

Seeing no reason why he should deny his curiosity—since she was so openly humouring her own—he followed the slender arch of her swan's throat down to where the clinging fabric of her gown afforded little modesty for the impertinent thrust of her breasts. Not so large as to cause a man difficulty in breathing, they were nonetheless of a proud shape and bearing, the nipples jutting like little round buttons against the cloth. He guessed he could span her waist neatly with his two hands, and her limbs, folded so gracefully beneath the shimmering pool of her hair, would be long and lithe, and would feel like warmed silk against his palms.

Servanne, silent throughout his inspection, endured the probing heat of his eyes until a flush of light-headedness threatened to topple her. It was difficult not to stare at the steaming dampness that rose from the surface of his skin; nearly impossible to ignore the power and strength sculpted so boldly into every inch of bulging muscle. Worse, she suffered a vivid recollection of having been held in those arms, crushed against that chest, threatened by those lips that were even now moving without sound …

"… a long way from camp, my lady?" he was saying. "You found your way here alone?"

"S-Sparrow brought me," she replied, quickly lowering her gaze and focusing on where her hands were clasped together on her lap. "He … he thought it would be permitted for me to wash and refresh myself. I … am sorry if my presence has interrupted your bath, but Sparrow assured me I would have the pool to myself."

"He did, did he?" The Wolf arched a brow. "And yet he knows my habits almost as well as he knows his own."

Servanne hated the flush she could feel blooming darker in her cheeks, and she hated the diminutive forester for indulging in what had obviously been another of his pranks.

The Wolf looked down at the golden crown of her head and for no good reason that he could think of, reassured her with a dry laugh. "He needs to have his nose tied at least twice each day to keep it from poking where it does not belong. But, since I am finished here anyway, you may have your privacy." He turned, retreated half a stride, and hesitated again. "You might want to heed a warning and stay well clear of the waterfall. It may look harmless enough, but the bottom is tangled with weeds as thick around as a man's arm."

She shook her head without looking up. "I do not know how to swim. I would not venture deeper than my ankles, but … I thank you for the warning."

The Wolf's mask of determined indifference slipped yet again and he raked his hands through his hair with an impatient gesture. "I make no excuses for my behaviour, but it has been a long time since my men or I have been in the company of gentlewomen, and, tempers being what they are …"

Servanne clasped her hands tighter. Was he attempting to apologize? Was he suffering pangs of guilt over the abominable way he had treated her last night—as well he should! If she thought it was worth the effort, she would have spat in his face and told him how much she cared to hear his lame excuses and apologies.

"It is not my wish to cause you any further discomfort, Lady Servanne. My quarrel is not with you."

"It is with the man who is soon to be my husband," she said tersely. "Therefore, sir, your quarrel is indeed with me."

The faintest hint of a bemused smile passed across the Wolf's mouth. Spirited … and loyal too; qualities that would do her good stead in the days ahead. Whether they would be enough to see her through, he had no idea, but for the moment, they earned her more respect than would have been won through weeping, wailing, and swooning off her feet at each turn of a phrase.

He accepted her rebuke with uncharacteristic silence. His slate-gray eyes lifted to the burnished blue vault of the sky above and moved slowly, speculatively around the ring of trees until they settled finally on the source of the waterfall high on the escarpment.

"This place is called the Silent Pool," he murmured absently. "According to legend, it was filled by the tears of a maiden who had fallen hopelessly in love with one of the monks from the abbey. Unfortunately, the bishop lusted after her too, and one night, on his way from the monastery to the village, the young monk met with an "accident" and fell from the promontory. The maiden knelt by his body and wept until the basin was filled with her tears, ensuring that she and her lover could remain here undisturbed for all of eternity. To show their sympathy and approval for the sacrifice she made, the druids cast a spell over the pool … a spell of absolute silence," he added cynically "that can only be broken by a love fulfilled."

Servanne found herself swaying to the melodic drone of his voice. "You believe in curses and spells?"

"I believe what my eyes see and my ears hear. Look around you. Listen. The forest is teeming with birds and animals, but not one is ever seen or heard near the pool. The waterfall makes no sound where it runs into the basin; the leaves move on the branches, but say nothing to the wind."

Servanne raised her head with an effort. Surely this was another form of torment, for she heard sounds, a great many of them rushing and hissing in her ears. She tried to obey his command to look up at the trees, but the sun was a hot, hazy blur and its glare off the surface of the water made her feel dizzy and disoriented. Cleaving that glare into a mass of sparkling pinpoints of light, was the tall, shadowy figure who moved suddenly toward her.

The Black Wolf reached the lip of the rock an instant before Servanne's head would have struck it. The act of catching her jolted her eyes open briefly, but they fluttered closed again, the lashes falling like stilled butterfly wings against the ashen skin.

"Little fool," he murmured. "It is a wonder you have held your head up this long."

Cradling her against his chest, he lifted her carefully into his arms and waded with her to a point on the bank where he could more easily step out of the knee-deep water. He carried her back up the slope and returned along the path to the monastery, where, once inside the crumbling, vine-covered gate, a scowl warned away the curious stares that followed his naked buttocks through the pilgrims' hall.

In the chamber set aside for Servanne and Biddy, he gently deposited her on a sleeping couch made of fresh rushes and fur pelts. Somewhere along the way, she had roused enough to drape her arms around his neck, and she held fast to it now, reluctant in sleep to exchange the luxuriant heat of his body for the cooler bed of pelts.

The Wolf gently pried her hands from around his neck, and, with only the silent walls of the cloistered chamber to bear witness to the crime, he ran his fingers down the shiny wavelets of her hair, tenderly brushing aside the curls that had clouded over her face. The chamber was windowless and the candle unlit. Even so, in the sparse light that flared through the open door, her hair glowed like the phosphorescent waves on a moonlit sea, her skin was pale and radiant, almost blue-white against the darker furs.

A frown pleated his brow as he looked down and saw that the hem of her gown was wet from having been dragged through the water. A hesitant glance at the door was shrugged aside and without further thought, he unfastened the belt of fine gold links she wore girded about her waist and eased it out from beneath her. Not the least doubtful of what her reaction would be if she could see what he was doing, his smile was wry as he slid the skirt of her gown up to her hips, collecting the lower edge of her thin linen undergarment—also wet—and manipulating both above her waist, breasts, shoulders, and finally tossing them free of the tousled mass of her hair.

It was when he lowered Servanne back onto the bed of furs that his smile faded and the gray of his eyes took on a new, smouldering intensity. He became suddenly aware of the feel of her naked flesh where it pressed against his, and acutely aware of his own nudity for the first time since leaving the Silent Pool. His hand was a paltry few inches from the round fullness of a breast, and of its own accord, the fingers traced a light path to the dark pink blossom of the velvety nipple. An intrigued palm measured and marvelled over the firmness of the flesh that seemed specially moulded and shaped for just that purpose.

A low, almost inaudible moan drew his gaze up to her face. Her lips were parted and invitingly moist. Her body trembled slightly at the intimate contact—so slightly he might have thought he imagined it if not for the berry-hard nub that formed beneath his cupped hand. His fingers moved again and a second soft, breathy sigh set the nerves down his spine tingling.

The tingle burned all the way into his belly and groin, and the heated curiosity of his gaze roved from her breasts to the fine golden thatch of silk at the juncture of her thighs. It was soft to the touch, the curls parting and luring him deeper into the enticingly shadowed cleft. This time, there was no mistaking the tremor that welcomed his explorations, no denying the response that deepened the stain of colour in her warming flesh.

The Wolf withdrew his hand and clenched the treacherously inquisitive fingers into a tight fist. He knew there was nothing to stop him from taking her; indeed, had that not been an integral part of the plan from the moment he had heard the Dragon had chosen himself a bride? She was no virgin, untried, untouched, but she belonged to the Dragon and that made her an important gamepiece in his pursuit of revenge. An eye for an eye, was it not written?

The Wolf sank back on his haunches, not wanting to remember, but unable to prevent the memories from crowding into his anger.

Nicolaa.

Young and vibrant, lithe as a whip and just as deadly efficient in stripping away the innocence and guile of youth. Nicolaa had been the one who had introduced his adolescent body to worldly pleasures other than fighting, jousting, and training for war. She had taken his raw, aggressive lust in hand and had spent weeks of steamy days and nights instructing him exhaustively on the art of making love.

Nicolaa.

During that time he had imagined himself wildly, passionately in love with her. He had gone so far as to have a petition of marriage drawn, knowing the match was as sound politically as it was personally. Her eager and immediate acceptance had sent him thundering to her father's castle, where, in a burst of love-smitten irreverence, he had not waited for her to be summoned, but had sought her out in her private solar.

The sight of her, all white skin, raven-black hair, and flashing eyes, naked and grappling blindly to the churning hips of another lover had stopped him cold in the doorway. Seeing the man fling his golden head back to keen his ecstasy, and recognizing who was drawing the guttural screams of rapture from Nicolaa's arched throat, nearly caused him to unsheath his sword then and there and slay the pair at the height of their betrayal.

Instead, the Wolf had waited, his heart building a wall of ice around it while he watched their rutting acrobatics grind to a sweating, shivering halt. Nicolaa had seen him first, and had screamed. Her lover had turned toward the door and … smiled his triumph.

Without a word, he had torn the marriage contract asunder and left the room, left the castle. A week later, he had sailed away fromEngland, his gypon emblazoned with the red cross of the Crusader.

An eye for an eye, the Wolf reminded himself as he flexed his hands open and slowly lowered them to the pale, sleeping form of Servanne de Briscourt. It was a cruel, callous world —cruder by far to a woman than a man, but there too it was Fate who ultimately decided which gender should spring from the seeds sown. It was his fate to have been born a man of destiny; hers to have been born the pawn whose life or death meant very little in the scheme of things. He could not afford to think of her as anything else, despite the innocence and vulnerability she tried so hard to conceal behind the snapping blue eyes. If he did, if he dared feel any compassion or regret, all of their lives, including hers, would be forfeit.

Sample Sunday…say hello to Judith Arnold

Today's guest blogger is Judith Arnold.  Like a lot of us, she's been working hard to get her backlist books in digital format and this week, you lucky readers, not only do you get an excerpt from her latest, Cry Uncle, but if you like it, it's free for a limited time!

Without further ado, welcome Judith:

I'm so glad Marsha's given me the opportunity to chat with you all. The best thing about being a writer is connecting with readers. Writing can be a joy or a torment, publishing is a crazy-making business, but being able to share my thoughts and stories with readers makes everything worthwhile.

            A little about me: I started "writing" before I could write. As a young child, I loved hearing bedtime stories before I fell asleep, but sometimes no one was around to tell me a story. When I complained to my older sister about this, she said, "Tell yourself a story." So I started making stories up. I'm not sure exactly when I started writing my stories down, but I do have a copy of a story I wrote when I was six years old. So I've been writing a long time!

            After college, I worked for a while in the theater, writing plays. My first love was fiction, however. My first published novel came out in 1983, and I've been a full-time novelist ever since.

            I grew up inNew Yorkand currently live with my husband in a picturesqueNew Englandtown. We have two wonderful sons who refuse to read my books because they have sex in them, and reading a sex scene written by Mom is just a bit too icky. Fortunately, their friends read my novels and assure my boys that their Mom is a really good writer. Needless to say, I love my sons' friends!

I hope you enjoy this excerpt from Cry Uncle:

 

"LET'S SEE, NOW: you've got something old—" Kitty gestured toward the gold locket strung on a chain around Pamela's neck "—and something new—" she tapped the white satin headband around which Pamela's pale blond hair was arranged. Two more dabs with a cosmetics brush in the vicinity of Pamela's eyes, and then Kitty hauled Pamela off the toilet seat and guided her to the mirror above the sink, so Pamela could see for herself the lush blue eye shadow Kitty had applied. "Something borrowed and something blue," she said, snapping shut the cake of shadow and beaming proudly at her handiwork.

Pamela stared at the borrowed blue make-up, wondering whether two of the traditional bridal requirements could be met with a single item. Not that such details mattered. This wedding was a farce. Kitty knew it as well as Pamela did.

"I should have bought a new dress," she grumbled, scrutinizing the sleeveless white shift that emphasized the ruler-straight lines of her physique. "This thing looks like an oversize undershirt."

"It looks wonderful," Kitty assured her, preening beside her in a strapless flowered sun dress. "Anyway, it's white. How do I look?"

"Spectacular," Pamela said, meaning it. Kitty's cleavage bisected her sun-bronzed upper chest. The flare of her dress emphasized her narrow waist. Her bright blond hair glowed. Pamela wondered whether anyone would even notice the bride standing in the shadow of her bridesmaid's resplendence.

"I'm so excited," Kitty squealed. "I've been married four times, but I've never been a maid of honor. Ever hear the expression, 'Never a bridesmaid, always a bride'?" When Pamela didn't smile, Kitty slid her arm around Pamela's narrow shoulders and gave her a comforting squeeze. "Trust me, Pamela—this is going to be the party of the summer. A major blast. You're going to have a great time."

Pamela had never thought of weddings in terms of blasts, major or otherwise. She'd certainly never thought of her own wedding that way. A wedding ought to be a solemn occasion. Relinquishing one's freedom shouldn't be taken lightly.

Of course, Pamela had relinquished her freedom the moment she'd telephoned the police and announced that she'd witnessed a murder. Compared to that, marrying Jonas Brenner was hardly significant.

"You did say he cleaned up the Shipwreck," she half-asked.

"We all did—Lois, Brick, me and a few others. You're not going to recognize the place." She marched Pamela into the bedroom, deftly navigating through the clutter, and lifted two bouquets from her unmade bed. Gardenias, Pamela noted wryly. Not exactly the sort of blossom she associated with weddings. When she thought of gardenias she thought of sultry Southern weather and fading Southern belles, and…

Sex. Gardenias implied eroticism, something hot and steamy and private.

With a weak smile, she accepted her bouquet from Kitty and followed her out of the flat. The late-afternoon air was sweltering. Pamela felt as if she were wading through sludge as she descended the stairs to the parking lot. By the time she reached Kitty's ancient VW Beetle, she was drenched with sweat.

She settled onto the passenger seat and cranked down the window. Her palms were soaked, and she let the bouquet rest in her lap so she wouldn't accidentally drop it onto the floor, which was littered with fast-food wrappers, bent straws and sand.

"Nuptial jitters," Kitty said sympathetically as she coaxed the engine to life. "I had them before my first and third weddings. Don't worry—a couple of beers and you'll be feeling fine."

Pamela eyed Kitty warily. "Jonas promised he'd have champagne."

"Oh, yeah, sure—if you like that stuff. Me, I find it gives me a roaring headache. Plus, it's too sweet. Tastes like soda-pop."

Pamela considered explaining vintages to Kitty, and the difference between sec and brut, but decided it wasn't worth the effort. No doubt the champagne Joe would serve at a place like the Shipwreck would be just what Kitty predicted—sweet and guaranteed to cause a crippling hangover.

The drive took only five minutes. Emerging from the car, Pamela heard a cacophony of voices through the Shipwreck's screened front door, on which was hung a sign that read "Closed for private party." Judging by the noise, Pamela doubted the party was all that private. It sounded as if Joe had invited the island's entire population to this shindig.

Before she could either march bravely into the bar or else come to her senses and flee, Kitty grabbed her arm and ushered her around the building, up an alley and into the small back lot where Jonas had offered his hand in marriage less than a week ago. "You can't go in the front door," Kitty reminded her. "No one can see the bride before the wedding."

"What are we going to do? Stand out here roasting in the sun?"

Kitty ignored the exasperation in Pamela's tone. "I'll sneak you into Joe's office. Hang on." She opened the back door a crack, releasing a blast of boisterous voices. It sounded as if the party was already well under way.

Pamela glanced at her watch.Four forty-seven. The ceremony was supposed to start atfive o'clock. Jonas had taken charge of the invitations, and Pamela had no idea what time he'd told people to arrive. InSeattle, wedding guests generally came at the hour the service was scheduled to begin—and early arrivals were not served liquor.

Who cares? she muttered inwardly as, baking in the merciless heat, she waited for Kitty to sneak her into the office. Who cared if her wedding guests were three sheets to the wind? Who cared if she was getting married in a seedy bar, surrounded by strangers?

To her surprise, Pamela realized that she cared. If she'd resolved to get married, she should have asserted herself a bit on the particulars: a chapel, not a bar. A morning service followed by a brunch for a few close friends—although in Pamela's case, the only locals who could pass for friends—not close ones, at that—were Joe, Kitty, and Lizard. But the event should have had at least a modicum of class.

Tears dampened her lashes. She hastily wiped her eyes before Kitty returned to the back lot to fetch her. "Come on," Kitty whispered, as if anyone could have heard her over the din in the main barroom.

Pamela let Kitty lead her inside, down the back hall and through a door. Jonas's office was a small room taken up with an old, chipped desk, an even older-looking swivel chair, a tattered sofa, and a few file cabinets. Crayon drawings decorated the walls, and a cardboard carton in a corner held assorted toys. Pamela peeked inside and saw a tricorn hat, a rubber knife and what appeared to be a cheesily constructed prosthetic hook.

"That's Lizard's stuff," Kitty explained the box. When Pamela dared to pick up the plastic hook, Kitty added, "That's part of her pirate costume. You should see her when she gets all decked out as a pirate—the eye patch, the peg-leg, the gun… It's adorable."

I can imagine, Pamela thought wryly. "Why does she store her toys in Joe's office?"

"So she'll have something to play with when she's hanging out here."

"Here? What on earth would a little girl be doing in a bar?"

"Well, it's not like she's knocking back a few," Kitty explained. "But if Joe has a baby-sitting snafu or something, he brings her along with him. She used to spend lots of time here when she was younger. He had a little port-a-crib set up in here for her to sleep in. Although sometimes it was hard to get her down with the juke box going, or if there was an especially rowdy crowd, so we'd bring her into the main room—"

"The bar?" Pamela couldn't believe it. An innocent, defenseless little girl spending her evenings in a bar?

Then again, innocent and defenseless weren't appropriate words to describe Lizard. In a brawl among a group of drunken brutes, Pamela would bet on Lizard to land the most punches.

"Everybody in the bar loves her. Me and Lois, even Brick. And the customers. And Joe, of course, most of all. It's not like he wants to bring her here, but he's got to earn a living and he can't just leave her home alone. His mom was supposed to be Lizard's baby-sitter, but sometimes she didn't come through. Great lady, but less than a hundred percent dependable. And now she's off inMexicodigging up bones—"

"Bones?"

"That's the rumor." Kitty swung out the door, calling over her shoulder, "I'm gonna see if we're ready to roll."

Pamela sighed. She wasn't ready to roll. She wondered if it was too late to bail out of this charade. Surely people had been stranded at the altar with far less cause. And there wasn't even an altar at the Shipwreck.

But if she didn't marry Joe, where would she go? She was tired of running, and she'd literally reached the end of the road. And even if Joe's child-rearing strategies included bringing Lizard to the bar, he deserved to keep his niece.

Pamela wasn't a quitter. She followed through on things, finished what she started and obeyed the dictates of her conscience. Right now, her conscience was telling her she couldn't jilt Jonas Brenner.

Kitty returned to the office, smiling brightly. "It's show time," she announced. "Brick's got the boom box set up, the judge is here, and you're about to tie the knot."

Swallowing a lump of emotion—part rue, part dread, part sheer panic—Pamela straightened her shoulders and joined Kitty at the door. They tiptoed out into the hall as a tinny rendering of the Wedding March resounded through the small speakers of a portable stereo atop the juke box.

As Kitty had promised, the barroom had been spruced up. The tables, pushed to the perimeter of the room, were all draped in white paper table cloths, and white satin ribbons had been looped over the exposed rafters and the steering-wheel clock. A strip of what appeared to be unbleached muslin lay the length of the room. Although chairs had been arranged on either side of the runner, most of the guests were standing, peering toward the front of the room, where a silver-haired man in a straw hat and a dapper seersucker suit stood before a table which was bedecked with flowers. Pamela assumed he was the judge.

Lizard abruptly appeared at the rear edge of the bar, near where Pamela and Kitty were standing. Nudged by a wizened dark-skinned woman in a caftan trimmed with feathers, Lizard started down the muslin runner. She wore a cotton sun-suit with a pretty floral pattern—not a dress, but infinitely more respectable than a plastic hula skirt or pajamas. Her hair was half braided, half loose, and she carried a bouquet of peacock and gull feathers.

Pamela couldn't see her face, a fact for which she was grateful. She knew Lizard didn't care much for her. Lizard's reluctant shuffle down the aisle, her feathers fluttering and her steps making clicking sounds as her rubber sandals slapped the bare soles of her feet, told Pamela all she needed to know about the child's opinion of her uncle's wedding.

She shifted her gaze from Lizard to the wedding guests. Perhaps they'd been whooping it up before, but now they were still and nearly silent, respecting the sanctity of the occasion. It looked to Pamela as if at least a hundred people were crammed into the room. In her plain white cotton shift, she seemed to be the most elegantly dressed person present.

It isn't really a wedding, she told herself, but the thought rang false in her soul. A thousand-dollar wedding dress, engraved invitations, a live organist and a sun-filled church weren't what made a wedding real. When she stared down the long, wrinkled strip of muslin to the judge at the other end, she knew this was a real wedding. Her wedding.

The comprehension staggered her. She reached out to grab Kitty, but she was too late; her matron of honor was already sauntering down the aisle, sending her smile to the left and to the right and occasionally acknowledging a familiar face with a cheerful wave. Pamela remained alone at the rear of the barroom, gathering her wits and praying that going through with this marriage wasn't even a bigger mistake than testifying against Mick Morrow had been.

From the front of the bar, Kitty turned and beckoned Pamela with a crook of her finger. Pamela felt the assembled guests turn en masse to stare at her. The hum of voices she heard as she took her first step onto the runner was no doubt not the hushed murmurs of people admiring a beautiful bride but rather Joe's friends whispering, "Who the hell is she? Where did he find her?"

Once again she had to resist the urge to bolt. Holding her head high, squeezing her gardenia bouquet, she walked sedately down the aisle, refusing to glance to either side, refusing to admit that she felt queasy. She concentrated on the judge's benign smile and counted her steps, maintaining a slow, courtly pace.

The late afternoon sunlight sifted through the windows, casting the front of the room in a golden glow. When she was nearly at her destination, Joe stepped forward to greet her.

Pamela froze. Not from fear, not from panic, but from the shock of her response to him. He looked tall, relaxed and absolutely sure of himself. His hair was brushed back from his face, his cheeks were clean-shaven, and his glorious blue eyes seemed to connect with her, communicating that this was okay, everything was going to be okay, she was going to make it to the end of the muslin runner without losing her lunch. He wasn't quite smiling, but she noticed his dimple. And his earring, a tiny gold heart that caught the light and glittered.

Clad in a white linen blazer, a brightly patterned shirt and cotton slacks, with an orchid pinned to his lapel, he was put together as informally as she was. But he looked…if not like a husband, at least like a man who didn't regret having chosen Pamela for his wife.

He also looked extraordinarily handsome.

Pamela recalled her first impression of him—that he looked like a bum. Not all that much had changed since then. His hair was still way too long, and the laughter in his eyes seemed teasing, and of course he had a hole through his ear. And yet… It wasn't just because none of his apparel was obviously torn, or because he had suddenly transformed into a model out of GQ, but… In the instant her gaze locked with his, Pamela honestly believed marrying him was the right thing to do.

 

For a complete list of Judith's books, visit her website: http://www.juditharnold.com/

More shameless self-promotion…and a question

Actually it's an inner debate I'm having, and have been having since last week when Amazon FINALLY dropped the price on Through A Dark Mist for a freebie promotion I was attempting.  I've been attempting it for a month now, but the powers that be at the Big A tend to pick and choose who they want to wave their magic wand over and who they don't. 

Bit of background here…

Back in March, Smashwords ran a read-a-book promotion where a lot of authors got together and offered their books free for a week via coupons. I was in Florida at the time and woke up one sunny morning to find an email from a fellow author asking me how I had managed to get the Big A to make my book, Swept Away, free.  You can't just go to Amazon and change the price if you're trying to be a good, kind, friendly, nice author and give your readers a deal for a week or two. The lowest price you can set there is .99 and if you do, it instantly cuts your royalties from 70% to 35%(which I never have understood *why* it does, but it does).  Anyway, I went HUH? Checked the Amazon page for Swept Away and sure enough, it was marked down to free.  I had no idea at the time, having had my books uploaded less than six months at the time, that a free promo was a GOOD thing.  I didn't know at the time that authors have to jump through ten kinds of hoops to get their books free over there and that, like a loss leader in a grocery store, it gives readers who may not have given your book a glance at $2.99, an opportunity to try your writing for nothing and if they like it, they may pick up one or two others to try.  I never was good at marketing or business smarts LOL.  That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.

So anyway, I instantly panicked and got in touch with Amazon and said hey! Whoa! Why is my book free?  A very nice gentleman wrote back almost instantly and explained that the Big A price matches other distributors, and because it was free at Smashwords, they made it free at Amazon.  I wrote back again and explained it was only free through a coupon promotion, that the price hadn't changed, and that in fact the promotion was already over.  He wrote back again and said oh, okay, we'll adjust the price back to what it was immediately.  Which he did.  However, in that 24 hr period, 38,000 free copies of Swept Away were downloaded. And to my surprise and willy-thrillies, The Wind and The Sea reached the Bestseller lists as well.

Too late, I noticed the boost in sales for the other three books I had uploaded at the time. Modest boosts, but boosts nonetheless.  I wasn't the only author who noticed, and suddenly it was game on to see if you could actually focus a campaign around getting a free book at Amazon.  Julie Ortolon was the first on the Backlistebook group to organize, plan, and launch a campaign around her newly released Perfect trilogy, and the results amazed everyone in the group. She shot to the top of the bestseller lists in Amazon and Barnes and Noble, as well as Apple and Sony, and because she offered book one of that trilogy free, sales on the other two in the series also shot up into the top ten lists.

We all learned a valuable lesson in strategy, marketing and promo from watching Jules.

In mid May, I was lucky enough to get the rights back to 7 of my books from Dell. The boost in sales I had seen in March had levelled off and, having realized that a freebie was a good thing,  I had already started jumping through the hoops to make another of my books free, this time Bound by the Heart. (still a bargoon, by the way, for $1.99)  By the time I had made covers and formatted the 7 books, the Amazon bot picked up the price change on BBTH and woo hoo, marked it down to free, where it stayed for three weeks and nearly 60K downloads.

By this time, there were an awful lot of authors testing out the ride on freebie bandwagon.  I understand why Amazon doesn't allow authors  to make their books free, and why *they* reserve the right to do at their discretion. If everyone was allowed to put books up for free, it would turn into one huge massive outlet for free books and face it,  Amazon is a business and their goal is to make money.  So my experience in dealing with the Big A  is *not* a complaint.  A whine, perhaps, but not a complaint.

Back to my whine…er…point.  So in June, I thought okay, I'll try giving my medievals a little boost.  They had been among my favorite books and I genuinely wanted to see them get a second breath of life out there in the digital world. I didn't put typical romance covers the three books, choosing instead to give them a uniform look with weapons…two had swords, one had a crossbow.  For twenty years they have been referred to, in reviews, as my Robin Hood trilogy, with Through A Dark Mist as book one, In the Shadow of Midnight as book two, and The Last Arrow as book three.  I even made up an ominbus containing all three books and titled it The Robin Hood Trilogy.  A week into June, I lowered the price of Through A Dark Mist to free at Smashwords. Past experience tended to show that it took about two weeks for the price change to filter through to Barnes and Noble, Sony, Apple etc, and at that point it would be picked up by the spies at Amazon.

Well, that didn't happen. Not on this side of the pond, anyway.

Amazon UK picked up on the price drop after less than a week and it's been free there ever since.  I still wanted to offer that first book in the series at a discount, so I gave up waiting for the Big A on this side of the Atlantic to price match and dropped the price to .99, where it stayed for two weeks.  Last Friday, Amazon finally dropped it to free to match the price at Smashwords, Barnes and Noble, Sony, and Apple.  Hmphf.  It's been blissfully free now for the past six days, holding the #1 spot on the top 100 Free Bestselling Historical Romance list and #5 on the overall Freebie Kindle Bestseller list.

So that was the background to the point of this little ramble.  On to the ramble…

Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday of last week I spent a good deal of time redoing the covers for the Robin Hood trilogy.  I have, if anyone has been following along, gradually been changing the covers of some of the earlier books I did when I was relatively new at the graphic stuff. China Rose, for example, has gone through four cover changes since it was reissued as an ebook. Swept Away recently got a face-lift (or should I say body-lift *g*) and because I've done covers for some other authors, I've been having a better look at what's out there, what works for the genre, what grabs the eyeball of the readers.  I still like the original covers for the medievals, I just thought maybe they could use some spicing up.

 

 

 

Friday I was out for dinner with friends. When I came home, I sat at the puter and was about to upload the new covers when I noticed Through A Dark Mist had been marked down from .99 to…FREE!  Amazon had finally picked up the price change.  I said a few colourful words, but then I sat and pondered…what do I do now about the new covers?  Do I change them, do I leave them until TADM comes off the free promo?  I've asked and received opinions from fellow authors, so now I'm asking the readers.  Do I change them, or do I leave them for another week, which is when I start the process of getting the price on TADM back up to $2.99?  Leave them or change them? What do you think?  And before you ask, yes, I used the uber-hunky Jimmy Thomas on the first two covers because the books feature father and son as the main characters, but The Last Arrow features Griffyn Renaud, the outsider and assassin, so I thought a different face suited it.  You can give your opinions about that too *g*

Readalong Monday…Chapter Four

In case you're impatient and don't feel like reading along chapter by chapter, Through A Dark Mist is currently FREE for a limited time at Amazon and Smashwords.  Those who are content to read along on your puters, hope you're enjoying the story so far.

Through A Dark Mist © Marsha Canham

CHAPTER FOUR

 

It seemed to Servanne that outrage upon outrage was to be heaped upon her for as long as she was expected to endure the outlaw's company. Not only was she being forced to join them in defiling the holy ground of the ruined abbey, but she was also pressed into taking part in further indignities. Scarcely had she been permitted the luxury of scrubbing the grime and dampness of the forest off her face and hands, when she was summoned to join the motley band of renegades while they consumed their evening meal. An adamant refusal was met, moments after it was relayed, by the appearance of the Black Wolf himself in the doorway of the tiny, windowless cubicle that had once been a monk's sleeping chamber. A clear warning was delivered: refuse again and she would be thrown over his shoulder and carried to the dinner table.

Her eyes red-rimmed from weeping, her body aching and bruised in too many places to recount, Servanne accompanied the rogue to the long pilgrims' hall, the only building of the three still boasting a partial roof, and the one that had obviously been taken over as living and sleeping quarters for the band of outlaws. To complete her humiliation, Servanne de Briscourt was seated, as guest of honour, with the Black Wolf and half a dozen of his more important henchmen on the raised stone dais that dominated one end of the vaulted hall.

It was an eerie feeling to be seated at a long trestle table, its surface covered with a prim white cloth and laid with fine silver and pewter, and to overlook a hall whose walls were scorched and blackened by fire, bristling with the nests of enterprising colonies of swallows. Mouldy rushes and decomposed leaves littered the floor, rustling and even moving now and then with small living things. Horses nickered and scuffed heavily against one another in a crude pen constructed at the far end of the hall. Their smells of offal, sweat, and leather mingled unpleasantly with musk and decay, which in turn was flavoured pungently with the oily black smoke that rose from the pine-pitch torches burning in iron cressets set into the stone walls.

Two longer tables had been erected at either end of the dais to form an open-ended square, while the fourth side was taken up by a fire pit filled with glowing red coals. Squirrels, hares, capons, and other small game were turned on spits by men who defied the heat and flames to snatch at pieces of the sizzling meat and crackling skin. Larger shanks of venison, mutton, and boar were overseen by two bustling women— the only two in the camp so far as Servanne could discern— who turned their spits and basted their meats with large copper ladlefuls of seasoned oil. Another fire, pitched over an iron grating, kept cauldrons of water boiling, steaming the air, and smaller pots of stews and sauces burping sluggishly at the end of long iron hooks suspended from crossbars.

Even to the casual observer, it would be obvious that these were not men accustomed to hardship. The life Servanne had envisioned for outlaws who spent their days poaching and their nights avoiding capture was definitely not one of fine linen, rich food, and flagons encrusted with gold and silver. Moreover, common foresters would hardly move about the countryside with a large stabling of horses, and most especially not the heavy-shanked, muscular animals that Servanne saw being fed and well tended in the pens. They were no ordinary plow-horses, nor were they nags stolen from merchants who used them to draw carts or carry packs. Sir Hubert had kept a fine stable of warhorses—huge beasts trained to respond to a knight's commands, to kill if provoked, to bear the burden of full armour and heavy weapons.

At least half of the two dozen animals penned under the charred and rotted archways of the pilgrims' hall could have rivaled the best Sir Hubert had kept in his stables. And one of them, a huge black destrier with a silver mane and tail whose slightest grunt or annoyed sidestep sent the rest flinching nervously out of range, would have compared favorably to the white rampagers bred for King Richard's use.

Who were these men if they were not common thieves and outlaws?

Her curiosity roused, Servanne took a new interest in examining the faces around her. To her immediate right was the Black Wolf—an enigma from start to finish, and far too complicated for a cursory perusal. To her left, the mercurial sprite, Sparrow, equally baffling. Sandwiched between the half-man, half-child and the stoically formidable presence of Biddy, was the one they called Friar. He had shed his monk's robes and was dressed more comfortably in lincoln green leggings and linsey-woolsey tunic. As serene and smooth as his countenance might be, there was nary a hint of softness in the breadth of his shoulders or the solid muscle in his arms and legs.

Gil Golden sat on the Wolf's right-hand side, which gave Servanne a clear view of the terrible, ravaging scar that distorted the left side of his face. He too could not boast of an inch of excess flesh, but his was a wiry trimness not thinned by starvation or deprivation. To his right sat a pair of scoundrels so identical in features, clothing, and gestures, Servanne had initially blamed a weakened constitution for causing her to see double. Twins were a rarity inEngland. The fact that these two—nicknamed Mutter and Stutter by their comrades—should have survived to adulthood with no twisted limbs, missing teeth, or pockmarks to distinguish them apart, was truly a wonder. They lifted their eating knives in unison, chewed in unison, and, after the third goblet of strong ale, turned red as raw meat and belched in unison.

As for the others—a score who sat at tables—there were not a few oddities caught by Servanne's sharp eyes. A hand raised to call for a servant or squire and quickly withdrawn on the recollection that none were there. An easy camaraderie only found among men who had spent a good many years together, not a few furtive months of skulking and thieving.

And the man who sat in their midst like an uncrowned king? Those shoulders and that musculature could not have been developed behind a plow or a serf's thralldom! Those arms had known the weight and fury of sword and lance; those eyes, keen and canny, had seen the world—perhaps too much of it? And that voice, that carefully controlled, precisely articulated manner of speaking belonged to no peasant churl. He chatted amiably with the other outlaws at the table, and most of the time spoke in clear, unaccented French. Occasionally, however, he addressed the handful of retainers who laboured over the fires and tended the pens, in the barbaric Saxon tongue that branded them as locals. Once he even responded to a raucous jibe from the Welshman in the same melodic but totally unpronounceable gibberish native to the bearded mountain of a man.

Much as he sought to conceal it, the Black Wolf of Lincoln was well born, well educated, and well traveled. A knight turned rogue? An outcast who had surrounded himself with other knights who, for some reason or another, had chosen to break with every honour and vow they had once held more sacred than life itself? And what of his claim? Only a crackbrain would give any credence to his claim of being the real Baron de Gournay, so who was he? And why was he thieving his way through the forests ofLincoln, murdering, kidnapping, and wreaking havoc in the name of Lucien Wardieu?

Sinking deeper into a mire of confusion, Servanne tried to recall every scrap of gossip, good or bad, she had heard about the reclusive knight who resided at Bloodmoor Keep. There was some cold business, many years ago: false charges of treason against the father which were later proven beyond doubt to have been contrived by his enemies—but what powerful baron did not have enemies? Lord Lucien had hunted down each and every one of the conspirators and forced their sealed confessions, too late to save his father from a traitor's death, but boldly enough to win back most of the estates confiscated during the trial. There was more, but nothing that would give her a clue as to why two men would be laying claim to the De Gournays' violent, warlike ancestry.

"The broth is delicious tonight."

Startled, Servanne looked up at the Wolf's lopsided grin, then at the two-handled écuelle he was politely offering for her consideration. The steaming contents of the bowl gave off a rich, meaty aroma that started the glands beneath her tongue spurting with a vengeance.

It was the custom in all great homes for the diners to sit in pairs when there were ladies present, and for each couple to share the same soup bowl, wine cup, and thick trencher of day-old bread that served as a plate. It was also the gentleman's task to serve the lady, to offer soup or wine to her first, to present the choicest cuts of meat, and to even feed her bite-size morsels of bread or cheese if she desired it. In this court, under these charred beams and torchlit ruins, Servanne regarded such formalities as ludicrous. Intolerable. The linen, the gold plate, the silver and bejewelled eating knives only added insult to indignity and made her want to scratch the mocking grin from his face.

"Perhaps the venison will be more to your liking," said the outlaw lord, undaunted by her cold blue stare and even colder silence. He drained every last drop of soup from the bowl and set it aside to be collected, then smacked his lips with greater relish as a cheerful server replaced the used vessel with platters of still-sizzling meat. Mutton, venison, and hare were offered alongside bowls of leeks, onions, and peas. Eels turned inside out and boiled in wine gave off a sour-sweet aroma; fresh crusty bread, pasties, and quenelles swimming in savoury sauces and gravies prompted a need in Servanne to grip the edge of the table beneath the snow-white linen. Her stomach wept in protest as each dish was offered and refused. Her throat ached for a taste of bread and honey; her eyes drifted in a blur from platter to platter; her belly rumbled and quaked in an attempt to break down her resolve.

"My lady?" A sliver of tender hare's meat wavered in front of her, flourished expertly on a silver blade. Servanne stared at the delicate pink morsel, following the movement of her tormentor's hand until the meat was taken away and deposited between his own lips. A dribble of clear juice ran over his lower lip and trickled down his chin. Servanne's tongue peeped out anxiously from the corner of her mouth, lingering there even after a casual wipe of his hand had removed the trail of sweet grease.

"A bite of lark pasty, perhaps? This way you can judge for yourself our boasting over Goodwife Mab's skills."

"No. Thank you," she whispered.

He shrugged and the tender, delicate shred of meat, wrapped lightly and lovingly in a blanket of egg-glazed pastry, went the way of the declined hare. In the next instant, she swore she could hear the buttery pastry crunching between the strong white teeth; she had her own imaginary tidbit half chewed and swallowed before she caught herself and clenched her jaws tightly together in anger.

He was only being attentive because he knew she must be starving. It would serve him right if she fainted dead away and—

"Delicious," he murmured, drawing the word out to ten syllables. "Mistress Mab, you have outdone yourself."

A short woman, round as a dumpling and just as soft, giggled and bobbed gratefully after the compliment.

"Indeed, mistress. The fare is by far the best I have tasted in quite some time, and that includes a visit to the royal kitchens atWindsor."

Servanne's eyes opened wide. Hardly believing her ears, she looked to her left and confirmed that it was Biddy who had spoken, her mouth stuffed with the lark pasty. Moreover, all three layers of chin were dobbed with grease, and there was an unmistakable flush of warmth on her cheeks to indicate her wine goblet was not being refilled for the first time.

"Shall we cry 'Judas' and have her flayed for insubordination?" a husky baritone mused in her ear.

"Biddy is … older; not as strong. She needs to keep up her health."

The explanation sounded feeble, even to Servanne's ears, but her salvation was quick to come from another source.

"You should eat something as well, sweet lady," Sparrow advised. "The rare air here in the greenwood thins the blood if it is not well fed. Even an apple, or a bit of cheese will help keep the humours balanced. You would not want to fall ill and have to rely upon the services of oldNorwoodthe Leech, now would you? He came to us with Mab and claims to be a fair barber and a drawer of teeth, but as to his leeching talents … we have not yet found a survivor to accredit them."

A sad shake of the tousled brown mop of hair sent Servanne's attention to a large, toothless toad of a man who was grinning at her from the lower tier and waving a dripping joint of mutton by way of acknowledging the compliments.

He had a red, leaky nose fully as broad as his face, and wore an apron of leather that had become so stained and encrusted, it was moulded to his body like armour.

"Perhaps … a bit of apple," Servanne conceded.

Sparrow jumped up to stand on his stool so that he could reach the far side of the table. Quick as spit, there was a small collection of choice, tasty bits of meat, pastry, and other delicacies heaped on a freshly cut slab of white bread. This he placed in front of her and settled back onto his stool, his feet dangling several inches off the ground. He was aware, as was Servanne, of the smouldering gray eyes that had followed his every move, but if the threat of sudden flame troubled him, it was not reflected in his next piece of sage advice.

"The best way to stop a fly from annoying you is to stop swatting at him," he said with a wink and an elfin grin. "Eventually it gets bored and flies away to pester someone else."

There was wisdom in what he said, and, the fact that it caused the Wolf's brows to furl together like the gathering clouds of a storm, prompted Servanne to breach her resolve to starve to death. She reached for a thin slice of capon and took the tiniest bite into her mouth. It was delicious, which made her stomach groan for a second morsel, then a third …

When her trencher was emptied, refilled, then emptied again, she unselfconsciously tore the gravy-soaked plate into bite-sized pieces and removed all evidence of its existence down to the last crumbs. Sparrow's drinking cup had also ended up between them and she found the wine to be surprisingly fresh and full-bodied, of a far better quality than the vinegary possets that often graced the tables of wealthy nobles.

Mutter and Stutter, bowing to howled demands and flung food, took their leave of the table and, kicking aside the dogs who fought happily amid the crunch and snap of discarded bones, placed their stools in the bright glow of the fires and set their fingers to plucking out tunes on the lute and viol.

The food, the wine, the music cast a dreamy sense of unreality over everything. The fire sent gauntlets of orange and yellow flame leaping toward the blackness above. The enclosing stone walls formed a cavern of light and shadow that was almost cozy in its isolation.

Servanne could feel her eyelids growing heavier and heavier, the weight of her wimple beginning to pull her chin lower and lower onto her chest.

"So, my lady." The Wolf's sonorous tone brought her head up with a start. "You have supped on the king's deer and prolonged your stay on earth awhile longer. You have also shown a remarkable restraint in the matter of the ransom I shall demand from your groom. Are you not curious to know the value of your life—or rather, what value your groom will place on your continued good health?"

Servanne sighed wearily, in no mood to take his bait.

"I am certain, whatever you have demanded, he will pay."

"A true adherent to the codes of chivalry, is he? Gold spurs flashing, swords thrusting, damosels rescued from the clutches of evil at any cost? He sounds almost too good to be true."

Servanne glared in silence.

"So, you have no doubt he will pay whatever I demand?"

"Have you?"

"Madam, I doubt everything and everyone—even my own good sense on occasion. It is a credo that has kept me alive while others have perished and turned to dust."

"A pity you were not less insightful," she murmured tartly, putting a deal of frost in her gaze before turning her attention back to the minstrels. "I have no doubt my stay here will be a short one."

"One way or another," he agreed smoothly. "Still, ten thousand marks is a goodly sum of coin."

Servanne stiffened, then whirled to face him. "Ten thousand marks! Are you mad?"

"Are you afraid he will not part with that much silver?"

She released her breath on a gasp of exasperation. "If you are asking if Lord Lucien has the wealth to pay such an … an outrageous sum, the answer is yes. Ten times over."

A dark brow arched inquisitively. "Then I should have demanded more?"

"No! I mean … no." She stopped and chewed savagely on her lip. "Ten thousand is …"

"A fair test of his devotion?"

"Too much to expect a man to pay for—"

"A bride whose angelic disposition nearly overwhelms her vast inheritances? Tell me honestly—if you can do such a thing without compromising the staunch beliefs of your gender—have you not wondered what his motives were in seeking this union?"

"His motives!" Frustrated, Servanne clasped her hands into tight little fists and fought to keep her temper in check. "The purpose behind your aggravating persistence eludes me, sirrah. What is it exactly that you wish to know? Lord Lucien is a fine, noble gentleman—"

"Who loves you to the point of distraction and cannot bear to think of a prolonged separation."

"A noble gentleman," she reiterated furiously, "who—"

"Who wants something you have, and is willing to sacrifice his much prized freedom to get it."

She flushed hotly. "There may have been some consideration given to the dowry, but—"

"My lady," the rogue laughed outright. "You are far too modest. With what you bring into the marriage, you will turnLincolninto his small, private domain. A kingdom, if you will, with a dragon on the throne and a nest of serpents writhing at his feet, eager to do his bidding. Mind, it does you some credit to understand from the outset what he wants from you. Most women would be inclined to look no farther than the closest mirror to explain a sudden, pressing need for wedded bliss."

"He will not suffer for his bargain," she said archly.

"Spoken with true humility," he grinned. "And for the sins of vanity and ignorance, you shall recite ten pater nosters to the good Friar."

"You should be the one begging repentance," she countered angrily. "For surely you traded your soul to the Devil long ago. As a Christian, I shall pray for your redemption."

"Save your prayers for yourself, my lady. You will need them far more than I, whether the ransom is paid or not."

Servanne gritted her teeth. "If you are threatening me, or endeavouring to frighten me—"

"My dear lady, I am not endeavouring to frighten you any more than you should be already. In truth, I would rather open your eyes to a few unpleasant facts."

"By first demanding an outlandish ransom, then suggesting it will not be paid? How truly thoughtful of you, messire. Are you this considerate to all your hostages?"

"One or two have screamed quicker for mercy, but the methods improve with each outing." He paused and his eyes were lured down to the moist pink arch of her lips. "Unless I am misinformed, you are Sir Hubert's only surviving heir?"

"I do not see where that is a concern of yours."

"There was a nephew," he said, ignoring the sarcasm. "But I was told he had a fatal accident a few weeks back and fell on his own sword. Three times. Clumsy fellow, would you not say?"

This was the first she had heard of it and her silence caused the slate-gray eyes to fasten on to hers again.

"Moreover, you are an orphan yourself, are you not? As such, should you perish before another husband has been procured, all dower rights of inheritance revert by law to the crown, to be kept, sold, or dispersed as the king sees fit."

"King Richard would never—"

"King Richard is away on his crusades," the Wolf interrupted bluntly. "It would therefore fall to Prince John's discretion, in his role as regent, to dispose of Sir Hubert's properties and chattel. Of the two brothers, which one would you say had the greasier palms?"

"Prince John," she whispered, intrigued despite herself, to see where this was leading.

"And of the two royal scions, who would have the most to gain by parceling out the late baron's properties quickly and quietly, with as little fuss as possible?"

Prince John, she thought, temporarily chilled out of her anger and weariness. Acting on the king's behalf and using the excuse that the funds raised would be going to finance the Lionheart's crusades in theHoly Land, Sir Hubert's estates could be divided and sold to interested bidders, with a portion of each sale discreetly ending up in the prince's own coffers.

The Black Wolf was watching her reactions closely. "In the same vein, if I had a choice between paying out ten thousand marks ransom for a bride I had no desire to take in the first place … or to bide my time and pay a good deal less to buy only those estates I wanted …" He paused and shrugged his massive fur-clad shoulders. "I might be sorely tempted to let someone else do what my vaunted code of chivalry prevented me from doing myself."

Servanne blanched, then sprang to her feet.

"Enough!" she cried, incensed beyond reason. "I will not sit here and endure such insults! Your logic is very sound, coming from a man who is both a traitor and a thief. I have no doubt you would choose the easier path to obtaining your goal, which only proves you are not who you claim to be. You are not Lucien Wardieu. You are not even a man! You are a corrupt and twisted shadow of a creature who has obviously decided that stealing a man's identity and committing heinous crimes in his good name somehow satiates a petty need inside you to become more than what you are. You have no honour. You have no shame. I hope, nay, I pray for the real Lord Lucien to come into these woods and hunt you down! I pray he catches you and stakes you down on the ground, and leaves you there for the dogs and boars to chew away strip by bloody strip! Moreover, I pray … oh, how I do pray to be present when he does so, to have the privilege and immense pleasure of watching you die inch by gored inch!"

She stood there, her face flushed, her chest heaving with anger. Not only the outlaw leader, but every man within earshot of her outburst—which included nearly all present in the pilgrims' hall—had stopped what they were doing to turn and stare.

The Wolf, in particular, was staring at the gleaming, jewelled eating knife she had snatched off the table and was holding in a clenched fist only inches from his nose. Half an eternity passed before he spoke, his tone silky, the words said with a quiet intensity that set off a roaring in her ears.

"I met Sir Hubert de Briscourt some years ago inFrance. A fearsome warrior on the battlefield, he brooked no insult from any quarter, servant or noble. It is a true wonder then, that in three years of marriage, he was not once driven to strangle you to death."

Servanne's lips were parted, the cool air giving ghostly substance to her rapid breaths. She stared down into eyes that were like banked fires, glowing and dangerous, apt to erupt at the merest provocation.

"Tut the knife down," he instructed calmly. "Or use it."

For a moment, her fingers tightened, and the knuckles glowed pinkish white. Then her senses cleared and her hand flexed reluctantly open, dropping the knife as if the hilt had suddenly become red hot. The sound shattered the absolute silence, releasing the tension everywhere but in the immediate area of the two principals. They continued to stare at one another over the resumed buzz of movement and conversation.

"Never, ever lift a knife to me again, madam, unless it is done with firm intent"—his voice was so low she could barely hear it—"for you will not be so lucky twice."

Servanne believed him. Only a blind fool would doubt the savagery that lurked just behind the hooded, soulless eyes.

"You are despicable," she said, the words tight in her throat. "I pray to God I do not live long enough to hate another human being as much as I hate you."

"Sit down," he commanded brusquely, "before the strain of all that prayer drains your strength and accomplishes your desire prematurely."

"I have no wish to sit down, sirrah. Not now. Not ever."

His jaw clamped ominously. "None at all?"

"None."

"Very well, if that is your wish—" He stood abruptly, his patience snapped like a taut thread. "Sparrow!"

A meek corner of the pale, elfin face peeped around Servanne's skirts. "Aye, my lord?"

"Have the table and stools cleared away. Lady Servanne will be remaining exactly where she is, by her own request. The night ahead promises to be a cool one, so by all means fetch a mantle and rug for the lady's comfort, but under no circumstances is she to sit or lie down at any time without first seeking my express permission to do so. If she dares to attempt either, through stubbornness or feint, have her bound hand and foot and chained upright to the wall. Is that understood?"

"Scoundrel!" Biddy gasped. "Cad! Inhuman monster!"

The Black Wolf turned from the defiant sparkle in Servanne's gaze to launch a particularly venomous glance at the spluttering matron.

"You may share your mistress's discipline if you see fit. If not, you would be wise to remain in your chamber for the duration of the night lest you be mistaken for an intruder and shot out of hand. Gil! Friar! We have plans to discuss for the morrow. Ladies … I bid you a pleasant and comfortable evening."

Servanne watched him skirt the table and stride across the firelit floor. Her body was trembling with anger; pride and obstinacy gave her the added strength to stand her ground and glare contemptuously at the sheepish ring of onlookers. She would stand there till hell froze, if she had to. Ask his permission? She would cut off her tongue and choke on it before grovelling to him or anyone else for favours. Ask his permission, indeed!

"Lady?"

A gentle tug on her surcoat drew Servanne's blurred gaze down.

"Lady … he bears a heavy burden on his mind, does my lord. Aye, and at the best of times he has a temper that rankles most foul when pricked. It cools just as quickly, however, and I warrant he would be happy to reconsider if I went after him and—"

"The man who causes injury to a woman only shames himself," she quoted stoically. "And, if he so injures her, she breaks his will more by refusing to bow to that shame."

Sparrow's eyebrows flew upward, losing themselves beneath the tumbled locks of his hair. Did she think the Wolf was a normal man?

"My lady," he cautioned earnestly, "it is neither wise nor necessary to prove your will to be as strong as his. Many have tried; none have succeeded."

"I have no wish to prove myself stronger, only to prove I am not easily broken."

"Methinks he is well aware of that already," Sparrow muttered, scratching furiously at a prickling sensation at the nape of his neck. "No one in my memory has had a voice left after raising it to him. As for the knife … dear oh dear, that was a sight to behold."

"My lady …" Biddy began. "Perhaps young Woodcock is right. Perhaps you should—"

Servanne lifted a hand to silence her. "There is no point in two of us enduring the cold and damp, Biddy. My bones are a good deal younger than yours, and I am quite resigned to wait out this ruffian for as long as it takes. Go to your bed with a clear conscience, I would prefer to have you well rested for whatever new trials await us in the morning."

Biddy clamped her hands together on her lap and swelled her bosom to prodigious proportions before pushing herself to her feet. "If you want me moved from this spot, you will have to have me dragged away by the heels! These decrepit old bones, as you think them, have a dole of life left in them yet, and shame to you for thinking so poorly of them and me in this time of tribulation! You! Woodcock!" She glared icicles at Sparrow. "Fetch those furs and mantle, and be quick about it. Bring the thickest pelts you can lay a hand to for my lamb to stand on, and a length of wool to wrap about her feet for warmth. Well? What are you waiting for: All Hallows Eve?"

The newly christened Woodcock planted his hands on his hips and looked as if he might balk at the chain of command. But a glance up into the sad and lovely eyes of the young demoiselle, who was fighting so bravely to choke back her tears, made him swallow his indignation and collect an assortment of blankets, furs, even a warm pair of mittens he had been hoarding in his own pack.

This done, he scampered off to his perch high on one of the undamaged wooden arches. From there he could look down over the entire cavernous refectory, seeing more than he was perhaps intended to see.

The Wolf was there, standing well back where the shadows were thickest and his presence not likely to be betrayed by the firelight. He stood as still as the stone wall he leaned against, and while Sparrow could not see his expression, he was mildly troubled by the suspicion that the wide brow would be frowning with perplexity.

In all the years they had been together—ten now since the Wolf had rescued him from a nightmare world of freak shows and fairgrounds—Sparrow had rarely seen him display anything but bored deference to the women who, more often than not, chased after him with their skirts raised and their eyes wanting. He was no fool to refuse what was so readily and eagerly offered; some he had even liked well enough to remember their names in the morning.

But this was strange. Very strange indeed. Prior to the widow's appearance at the supper table, the plan had not changed from its original conception. She was a hostage and hostages were fair game, especially when there were old scores to be settled. Rape, forced marriage, even mutilation was not unexpected in most cases of rivalry and revenge, and the Wolf had given serious contemplation to each of the three options at one point or another.

At the very least he should have boxed her ears a dozen times throughout the afternoon and evening. The fact he had not even touched her … ! Well, it was too much for Sparrow's tired head to support.

Yawning against the lull of heat and smoke that remained trapped under the dome of the roof, Sparrow settled more snugly into his nest of furs and let the hypnotic effects of the dying fires spare him the burden of further puzzles to solve.

 

 

Sample Sunday…Sharon Ihle

Sharon Ihle is the best-selling author of more than a dozen award-winning historical romances set in the American West. A lifelong Californian, Sharon recently moved from the sunny beaches of San Diego to the frozen plains of North Dakota. As someone who hates winter, hates snow, has had the same winter boots for 30 years…I find that not only hard to believe, but…weird LOL

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Hi everyone! I'm Sharon Ihle, author of fourteen historical romance novels set in the American West. All of the books feature the nineteenth century from the 1850's to the 1880's. I feel very passionate about this time in our history, and loved researching the western towns of old and the very colorful characters that played such a big part in settling the West. Who isn't fascinated by Wild Bill Hickok and Calamity Jane (featured in WILD CAT) or Jesse James and his gang (featured in GYPSY JEWEL)? And what about Wyatt Earp?

Now that I've mentioned him, I should tell you that Earp plays a small role in the book Marsha is featuring today, MARRYING MISS SHYLO. Even though this novel is a western, it actually begins in 1888 New York City. The heroine, Shylo McBride has passed herself off as the non-existent niece of President Grover Cleveland in order to learn the whereabouts of her mother. When she meets the devilishly handsome Dimitri Adonis, a man with a few deceptions of his own, Shylo sees in him the means to travel to San Diego, where her mother has relocated. While writing this novel, not only did I get to enjoy researching the past in my hometown of San Diego, I traveled to Greece where I met the perfectly yummy hero for my deceptive heroine.

Here's an excerpt from MARRYING MISS SHYLO:

In this scene, Shylo, who is basically penniless, and Dimitri are on the observation deck at the back of the train that is heading for San Diego. Bandits have blocked the track and brought the train to a screeching halt. This interrupts Shylo's plan to get Dimitri interested enough in her to continue paying her way during the trip…

 

Out on the deck of the observation car, a stunned Shylo found herself face-down on the floor, the iron leg of an overturned chair tangled up in the folds of her skirt. She leaned up on her elbows, shaking her head to clear it, and realized that her hair had come free and her straw hat had fallen off. Then she glanced up and spotted it tumbling brim over feathers across the desert sands. A moment later it was gone.

"What the hell happened?" she said, forgetting herself again.

Beside her, Dimitri climbed to his feet. "I don't know, but I couldn't have said it better myself." "Hell," an extremely versatile word, had become one of his favorites since coming to America, although to be honest this was the first time he'd heard the expletive uttered by a lady. Dimitri didn't concern himself about the lapse in manners, though. He was far more interested in Shylo's physical condition. "Are you able to stand?"

"I don't know." It was the truth. She didn't have to pretend coquettish reticence or fake a helpless demeanor this time. Shylo had no idea why the train had come to such an abrupt halt, how she'd wound up on the floor wrapped around a metal chair, or if she was in need of medical care. She only knew that her bottom was sore and one of her elbows burned as if on fire. Struggling to raise her hand to Dimitri's, she winced in pain.

"Wait. Don't move." He dropped to her side and removed the chair from beneath her, tearing a wide gash in her skirt in the process, and then carefully lifted her to her feet. "Better now?"

Shylo swayed against him, testing her limbs hesitantly. Other than a bruised bottom and an aching funny bone, everything seemed to be in working order. She almost told him so, too, but stopped herself as she suddenly recognized the opportunity before her. For whatever reason, the train had stopped, and because of that, Dimitri was finally where she wanted him— holding her in his arms. There was no way she intended to let him go now.

Tilting her head back just enough to look up at him, she fell into her role as a pampered heiress and lied through her teeth. "I'm afraid I may have sprained my ankle a little, and isn't it just my bad luck that it turns out to be the same one I hurt back in New York?" She leaned into Dimitri's chest, her lashes fluttering out of control. "Maybe if you just hang on to me for a minute, the pain will go away."

He adjusted his grip, holding her up on tiptoes. "Is that better?"

"Tons," she said, sighing heavily. "But now … oh, I don't know why, but I seem to be feeling a little dizzy, too." She burrowed her head beneath his chin.

"You are hurt." Dimitri lifted her feet off the ground and carried her toward one of the chairs that hadn't fallen over. "I'm going to sit you down and go see if I can't find a doctor on board to come look at you."

"No," she said, her voice too loud and much too unladylike. Shylo planted her feet, including the one with the "injury," and softened her voice. "I mean, thanks for the thought, but that won't be necessary. I'm feeling a little better already."

Dimitri cocked one thick black eyebrow. "Are you sure?"

"Well …"

Her eyes were blinking furiously, struggling to come into focus, he assumed, and Dimitri was sure that she was more badly injured than she admitted. Was she so afraid of doctors or just trying to be brave? Perhaps he should be a little more discreet about rounding one up. "All right. Why don't you sit down anyway. I'm going inside to at least find out what happened to make the train stop so suddenly. We may be in some danger."

"Oh, I doubt that." She slapped his chest lightly. "I'm sure we only stopped to take on coal or water. The engineer probably blew a warning whistle, and we were just too distracted by all this"—she waved her arm toward the barren countryside, frowning as she forced herself to say—"beautiful scenery to notice."

"I won't be a moment."

"Fine," she snapped, unable to control her temper any more than she could control Dimitri. "Go ahead if you must, but a real gentleman would stay here to help me put myself together."

Until she turned away from him and bent over to retrieve her hairpins, Dimitri hadn't paid much attention to the fact that Shylo's coiffure had slipped loose of its bonds, freeing her tresses to tumble down her back and shoulders. Sunlight highlighted her thick honey-colored locks as she plucked the pins off the deck, confirming his suspicions about the touch of fire he thought he'd once noticed.

He'd been expecting that hint of red, but he was in no way prepared for the impact of observing such a glorious sight. It stirred him to watch her hair fall this way and that, a few lengths covering her shoulders and plunging down to her waist, others curling around the collar of her jacket or draped along her magnificent cheekbones. Even her eyes, now framed by the abundance of those lush, shimmering tresses, seemed to brighten and deepen to a more irresistible shade of blue.

Never had Dimitri seen anything quite like Shylo ringed in sunlight, and the spectacle of her standing there was a match to Aphrodite if ever there was one. He'd thought her reasonably attractive the day they'd met, but now her beauty stunned him, awakening his nether regions with a painful jolt. The sudden physical discomfort was as surprising as it was troubling, but that was nothing compared to the disturbing idea as it occurred to him that he might be losing his careful control—a control he'd worked a lifetime to achieve.

In a voice gruffer than he'd intended, Dimitri said, "I really ought to go find the conductor."

Shylo whirled on him, frustrated over her continuing ineptness when it came to tempting this man, but before she could blurt out something she'd regret, she realized a change had come over him. She had no practical experience in such matters, but something in his dark eyes and in the tense set of his jaw told her he was fascinated with her. Even though he had threatened to go inside, his gaze remained on her face and her unruly curls, and there was a certain longing in his expression, giving her the impression that he wanted nothing more than to touch them, to touch her.

He would come to her now, kiss her, or do anything she asked of him. Shylo was suddenly sure of that, if nothing else. All she need do was ask.

"Looking for the conductor may be a good idea," she said, slowly turning her back to him. "But would you mind helping me with my hair first? I'd hate to have the others see me in such a state, and it's too much for me to lift by myself." Another lie, but one that worked.

Although he suspected that he would be challenging his control more than he had in a long, long time, Dimitri could do no less than comply. "All right, but I warn you—this isn't exactly my area of expertise. What is it you want me to do?"

"Oh," she said breezily, pleased to hear the strain in his voice, "just bundle it all up and try to twist it into a pile at the top of my head. I'll take over from there."

With hands eager to take on the dangerous assignment, Dimitri plunged into her hair, lifting the bulk of those silken strands, and then staring at them as if he'd unearthed a cache of ancient jewels. He had every intention of doing exactly as Shylo had instructed, but once he had her mane in his grasp he could not resist burying his face in the flame-kissed curls.

He breathed deeply, loving the fresh clean smell, the scent of springtime devoid of the artificial perfumes so overused by most women of privilege. Several of those strands had curled around his fingers, trapping his hands in a silken web, and he impulsively brought them to his cheek, indulging himself with the warm, satiny feel of her hair brushing his skin. Against his better judgment, he imagined what it would be like if he were to wrap those soft locks around his entire naked body.

At the thought, he grew hard, more painfully engorged than he could ever remember being at any time in his life. He doubted this response, or the utterly carnal thoughts he was having about Shylo, were exactly what Ari had had in mind when he'd told him to "test the young lady" and "see what happens."

Digging deep within himself for the strength to drive the lust from his body, Dimitri quickly formed Shylo's hair into a pile, a rather sloppy one at that, and positioned it at the top of her head. Then he held it there, his traitorous body still raging with desire, and waited in agony for her to fasten her runaway tresses into place.

After she slipped the final hairpin into the knot, Shylo turned to face Dimitri again. He still wore that look of fascination, but something else had drifted across his handsome features, darkening them. Something that told Shylo her plan was working extremely well.

"Are you all right?" she asked, moving closer. "You look a little flushed and"—she pressed her fingers against Dimitri's brow—"not only warm, but damp. Is the heat getting to you?"

Dimitri clutched her arms, intending to set her away from him again, but instead found himself pulling her up tight against his body. "It appears that it is," he admitted, fighting the urge to rip the pins from her hair and let it tumble back over his hands. "The heat is definitely getting to me."

Dimitri's voice had gone all husky, and his rejoinder was rife with unmistakable innuendo. Did it all mean what she hoped it did—that he was as ready for this moment as she? "If I can help cool you off, or something, just tell me how. It's the least I can do after all you've done for me. What do you have in mind?"

"Kiss her a little, test her," Ari had suggested. God knew Dimitri wanted that more than anything right now. So why not proceed with those plans? What did he have to lose at this point? "What I have in mind," he whispered darkly, forging ahead, "will not cool either of us. In fact, the heat may even intensify. This is all right with you?"

"It is if you mean you want to court me."

This, of course, was what he'd hoped for, but Dimitri was surprised. Were all American women so aggressive in matters of courtship? "I suppose you could say that, among other things, is what I have in mind. Does this meet with your approval, Miss Folsom?"

"It does." She tilted her chin, offering her mouth in case he hadn't caught on. "What other things did you have in mind?"

Dimitri lowered his head and brushed her lips with his, lingering over them for just a moment. "Something like that. Do you still approve?"

She swayed slightly, her lashes fluttering of their own volition, and was surprised to hear her own voice come out in a breathless whisper as she said, "I sure do, and I think it's high time you got around to it. If I'da known it was going to be so much trouble getting you to kiss me, I'da just sat down and wrote you a letter."

Dimitri kind of froze up when she said that, and his expression was unreadable. Thinking nothing of it, she took hold of his hand and shook it. "Thanks for deciding to court me. I'll try to make sure you don't regret it." Although she could still feel the spot where his lips had touched hers, she tried not to sound too impressed as she added, "Oh, and thanks for the kiss, too.

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