By Diane Gaston

When I wrote my first Harlequin Historical, The Mysterious Miss M, I was merely trying to write a story an editor would buy and readers would love. I didn’t realize I was creating a niche for myself. On the back cover of The Mysterious Miss were the words: The Regency Underworld—sex, scandal, and redeeming love. My niche was born.

My Regency Underworld stories involve the darker side of the Regency, not quite the lords and ladies we might ordinarily associate with the Regency. My heroines have fallen from grace, or gamble, or are accused of murder. Or they are outside of society entirely, actresses or singers. My heroes range from a lowly secretary to his boss, a marquess. Other heroes are second sons, dangerous rakes, or titled gentlemen with huge difficulties thrust upon them. The hero in The Vanishing Viscountess is a marquess, but when he meets a beautiful fugitive on the run, he must pretend to be an ordinary man. For the first time in his life he cannot fall back on his wealth and privilege. You can read an excerpt from The Vanishing Viscountess here.

I love to make up stories about the privileged Regency world of lords and ladies interacting with this other coexisting, but not-so-beautiful world. In my October 2008 book, Scandalizing the Ton, my heroine is hounded by the Regency press, much like today’s celebrities are hounded by the paparazzi. When she becomes pregnant, the press go wild trying to discover the identity of the baby’s father (Does this remind you of anyone?). Hurry to read a sneak peek of Scandalizing the Ton.

What are your favorite Regency characters? What tales from the Regency Underworld would you like to see written?

It has been something of a hellish few weeks. As in no net connection, YAY net, no net, YAY, Boo…. for about three days…. with the silly, silly, silly expectation of me getting it fixed.

On that note anyone know of a good class to take on learning about wireless connections?

As is I think we finally have (knock on wood cuz I wouldn’t be shocked for it to all be down on Mon) phones and net. Again at my work and now I am so behind (on top of being behind) that I expect next week to be fun, fun, fun. Not to mention the building we are suppose to be moving into (we are in temporary digs right now) was suppose to be finished at the end of July. So I was hoping Aug (shut up gwen) has been pushed out to OCT.

le cry

So on that note The June Harlequin Historical Spotlight is going to run to Saturday the 5th.  Any comment to any post will be counted as entered into the grand prize drawing (the one I STILL need to post about).

And YES I have the winner for JR Ward and Jessica Andersen. I just need to finish the posts AND I do have both signed ARC’s for Seduce Me at Sunrise to award. As well as 5 or so ARC’s of Price of Desire to decide how I am giving away. We have some super nifty stuff coming up… if I would just find the time to plan it.

A Message from the Harlequin Mills & Boon ® Historical Team about how to submit and what they look for…

• Linda Fildew, Senior Editor
• Suzanne Clarke, Editor
• Mimi Berchie, Editorial Assistant

The Historical team are passionate about historical romances and want to see the same passion and excitement from historical submissions!

We publish a variety of periods each month, with Westerns and Regencies still the most popular with our readers. Other periods (Medievals and Romans for example) can be a harder sell and we currently have a strong author base fulfilling this publication slot each month. If you are writing a different period, it has to be exceptional, so do your research and let your unique voice shine!

We are looking for new writers who can give a fresh spin on popular historical themes, such as governesses, Cinderella/poor relations and debutantes in Regencies and outlaw and drifter heroes in Westerns.

We also welcome sexier editorial in any period and are planning an exciting new venture into eBook sexy historical short stories. We can fill you in a little more on this when we blog on site on 30th June. We have, of course, always had a variety of sensuality in our series ranging from sweet to super sexy, but what is of utmost importance is that the sensuality is appropriate for the characters and storyline. In our romances, we want the sex to be part of a developing loving relationship and not to be crude or gratuitous in any way. We still want these sexier Historicals to have compelling characters, an authentic sense of period and strong emotional conflicts – hot sex isn’t a substitute for any of these elements!

The Historical Team will be available on The Good, The Bad and the Unread blog site on Monday, 30th June – from 1pm – 5 pm UK time. We look forward to answering your questions. We have a lot of exciting books and projects coming up over the next few months and would love to let you know about them.

SUBMITTING TO MILLS & BOON:

1. Submissions should be typed in double-spacing on single-sided paper.
2. Please submit the first three chapters of your novel: we judge as much by writing style and ability to generate characters as by execution of plot.
3. We’d also like to see a 1-2 page synopsis of your complete story. This should give a clear overview of the conflict, setting and the characters.
4. Please send your hard copy submission to:
   The Editorial Department
   Harlequin Mills & Boon Ltd
   Eton House
   18-24 Paradise Road
   Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR
   United KingdomTelephone: (44) + (0)20 8 288 2800

NOTE: we do not currently accept queries or submissions by e-mail from authors who don’t already have a relationship with us.General Guidelines, including further information on how to prepare submissions, are available from here, or here.

We will have some of the Harlequin Historical Editors dropping in today. If you have questions for them, ask away. I am not sure about the timezone thing (it always confuses me) so it is possible they take questions later. But to start us out and just in case you haven’t read them before… Writing Guidelines for Harlequin Historical

Length: 70,000–75,000 words
Senior Editor: Linda Fildew
Editorial Office: UK

Historical Romances promise the reader richly textured, emotionally intense stories set in widely diverse historical time periods, from ancient civilizations up to and including the First and Second World Wars. Regency tales remain ever-popular and cover the range from drawing-room antics that scandalise the ton, to the salacious underworld inhabited by pickpockets and prostitutes, to the hazardous battlefields of the Peninsular War.

Other popular periods range from Viking invasions through to the turbulence of the Middle Ages, from Elizabethan England to 20th-century families at war. Western American and Australasian settings are also welcome, with highly dramatic and emotional stories unfolding in the wilderness at society’s edge.

The central relationship is the key driving force, set against an accurate backdrop. Readers should feel as if they are there. These novels are for born storytellers with a love of history, who have the ability to bring a period vividly to life, and to create characters that involve and absorb the reader from page one.

By Victoria Bylin

What makes a good love scene? Better yet, what makes a great love scene? That might be an odd question from a writer who’s moved from mainstream westerns to inspirational, but I think about it a lot. I especially considered love scenes when I was working on “The Christmas Dove,” my contribution to The Magic of Christmas (Harlequin Historicals, October 2008). Time to gush . . . I can’t help it! I am thrilled to be in this anthology with Carolyn Davidson and Cheryl St. John. It’s a dream come true for me.

Now where was I? Ah, yes. Love scenes . . .

We all know that romance novels are about deep emotion, that we read them for the relationships and the journey to HEA. Some subgenres have taken liberties with HEA, but I’m an old fashioned girl. For me, HEA means marriage or the promise of it. I want rings and vows, and I like epilogues that show the characters a few years down the road. I want to know they’ve stuck together.

Which leads us to sex . . . Not to get bizarre, but it’s glue. It binds men and women in a way nothing else can. It’s intimate. It makes us vulnerable. Once the thought is in our minds, it sticks. It’s powerful stuff, which is why I want to always treat love scenes with the utmost respect. That doesn’t mean idealizing a love scene, i.e., making things all perfect and pure. In fact, it means the opposite. My HHs all have what I call a “sex too soon” scene. It’s the place in the story where the characters make a big mistake. They either cross the final line and regret it, or they come close and back away, singed and stinging from their vulnerability.

One of the things I love about historical romance is that sex is dangerous. Without reliable birth control, pregnancy was a huge risk for women, far more so than today. Back then, a woman put everything on the line when she gave herself to a man. If she conceived, her life changed forever. Even if she didn’t get pregnant, she was in danger of losing her reputation. It’s my personal belief that risk inspires respect. It gives value to our accomplishments, actions and sacrifices. I wonder if, in our modern times, we’ve lost both the risk and the respect when it comes to sex. I’m personally troubled by books, movies, television and music that do less than honor something that’s truly amazing.

Whether I’m writing an inspirational or a mainstream, falling in love puts my characters at risk. Sex has to matter to the characters in profound ways. For some stories, the bedroom door needs to be opened. (This is true for my HHs, especially Abbie’s Outlaw.) For other stories, it doesn’t. Sometimes just looking at the door is enough to convey the risk and not opening it is a sign of respect. (This fits my Love Inspired Historicals.) No spoilers here regarding “The Christmas Dove,” but risk and respect are the key themes.

So what do you think? What transforms a good love scene to a great one? Let’s talk!

We have a bit of a tease for you today as part of our on-going Harlequin Historical extravaganza! An anthology I am already hotly anticipating, The Magic Of Christmas by Carolyn Davidson, Victoria Bylin and Cheryl St. John is due to hit stores in October 2008. We’ve already brought you an excerpt of Cheryl’s story, which you can read here. Today, we have a description of Victoria Bylin’s story, The Christmas Dove. Enjoy!

Plot Description: The Christmas Dove by Victoria Bylin

Dylan McCall, Crystal River’s resident bad boy, has changed his ways. He now wants respect for the McCall name and a wife to share his dream of making his run-down ranch a success. With Christmas in the air, he’s feeling particularly lonely when he finds a woman he once loved nursing her infant daughter in the livery stable . . .

A year ago, Maddie Cutler ran off with gambler Brodie Jones. Impoverished and ruined, she’s returned to Crystal River to beg her wealthy father for shelter for the sake of her baby daughter. When the first person she meets is Dylan McCall, a man she once treated shamefully, Maddie is filled with the deepest regrets. She also needs a ride to her father’s ranch. When Dylan offers to take her, she accepts. And when a blizzard leaves them stranded at this cabin, she discovers the greatest gift of all . . .

by Kathryn Albright

Thank you Sybil for having me on TGTBTU spotlight. I love to talk writing and especially about historicals so this is a treat.

My next book, The Rebel and the Lady, takes place during Texas’ fight for freedom from Mexico. What is it about times of war that lend itself to storytelling? So many stories are written around battles. Recent movies that come to mind are 300, Saving Private Ryan, Troy, and Kingdom of Heaven (all great historical movies BTW .) Is it that ordinary people are pushed to extraordinary limits in times of war? That acts of bravery or compassion or cowardice are magnified under extreme stress?

The inspiration for this book started several years ago when I visited the Alamo in Texas. Walking over the grounds and through the church, I’ll admit to feeling a shiver go through me as I stood in the same place where many had died for a cause they felt was greater than themselves.

Much like the United States’ Civil War, the war for Texas independence also split families. The Mexicans had to make the same choice: Whether they would side with the president/dictator Santa Anna or whether they would fight to secede from Mexico. Either way they would end up fighting their brothers, fathers, and cousins in the territory that is now Texas.

Besides movies, many books weave romance into the setting of war—Gone With the Wind, Dr. Zhivago, A Farewell to Arms, to name a few that are classics. Are there any books or movies you would recommend? (Not necessarily just classics.)

For one lucky person who posts a comment, if I draw your name, I’ll send you an autographed copy of The Rebel and the Lady which won’t be in stores until September 1st.

This just makes me sqqquueee so much because I don’t think I have ever seen a Texas Revolution setting in anything other than James Michener’s Texas and those wonderful books I had to read for Texas History in college. Yes, I had to take Texas History in college, to be a history teacher in Texas, you have to take Texas History. Anyway, one of the few interesting parts of Texas history is the revolution. And isn’t that cover beautiful?

Two weeks before the eventful day at the Alamo in San Antonio de Béxar, Victoria’s land on the Rio Grande is overrun by the Mexican army. She heads north to warn the Texians unaware that the very person who has helped her escape is now using her to spy on the Alamo’s defenses.

Jake Dumont is good with a gun, but he doesn’t care one whit about the fight for freedom happening in the Texas territory. He just wants to find his foolish brother and haul him back home. Yet when he meets the stunning señorita, Victoria Ruiz, and steals a kiss, he realizes she has bewitched him. Is she a traitor and with the Santanistas or does she mean what she says about helping the Texians? How can he leave when protecting her suddenly means more to him than protecting his heart?

E-X-C-E-R-P-T

Victoria walked down the street carrying a kettle of chicken soup and grumbling to herself. She had been to the edge of town that morning and still there were no soldiers posted as lookouts. Didn’t the officers understand how close Santa Anna’s army was? Why did they not prepare? It had been four days since she’d arrived in town. She’d expected to help Juan secure his house here and move into the fort–and perhaps prepare the women. No one took her warnings seriously except Diego and Juan.

She glanced down at the heavy iron pot she held. All she’d done so far was take food to the hospital in Maria’s stead—not nearly the action she’d desired. Juan had dismissed his cook after hearing the news Victoria brought and smartly the woman had packed her things and headed back to her home west of town to warn her husband. The soldiers might enjoy this soup after the rations of corn tortillas they’d endured but what would happen to the injured and ailing men once Santa Anna invaded the streets?

Again she worried about the lack of readiness. Shouldn’t people be doing something? Preparing? It seemed a few Tejanos were, but not the stubborn and blind Americanos.

She strode past the barracks, making a bee-line for the stairs to the hospital floor. Just as she mounted the first step, a dark blur of motion dashed out from under the stairway. The large mud-colored mongrel bounded toward her with its teeth bared, a rumbling growl in its throat.

“No!” she cried out, teetering on the brink of losing her balance as the dog dove into her skirt and between her legs.

“No! Eyiee!” Hot soup sloshed out from under the kettle’s lid and over the edge to burn her fingers. She would lose it all if she dropped it!

Suddenly a strong hand gripped the kettle and then grasped her elbow, steadying her. She looked up into a face that hadn’t seen the sharp edge of a razor in weeks. His beard was the color of rich coffee but it couldn’t hide the handsome contours beneath. Anglo, she reasoned. Easy to spot with the dark hair, streaked blond by the sun, and cobalt blue eyes. His body tensed as he held tight to a ruff of fur at the dog’s neck and pulled it away from her skirt.

“Guess the smell of that soup was more than the poor mutt could take. You got that now?”

“Gracias,” she said, gripping the kettle to her like a shield.

Juan had warned her against being too familiar with the soldiers, saying they saw few women and were as uncouth a lot as he’d ever known. She sniffed. This man reeked of horse and sweat and days on the trail—not exactly a heady combination.

He tipped his hat. “Name’s Jake. Jake Dumont.”

“Gracias,” she said again.

He was blocking her path. She started to side-step to go around him but then he side-stepped and was in front of her again.

His eyes narrowed under his dark brows. “You don’t speak English? A shame.” His gaze slid over her, moving from the heavy blue cloak that covered her head all the way down to the base of her gray skirt where the tips of her boots peeked out. Angry heat flushed through her. He had nerve, this Anglo!

She raised her chin and gave him the haughtiest look she could muster under the circumstances. Repositioning her grip on the kettle, she started up the stairs, surprised when the man shoved the dog purposely to the side and followed her. She stopped and turned, putting the hot soup between them. If he thought to annoy her, she had plenty of protection.
He glanced at the soup and then back up at her. A devilish look came into his eyes. “You think that would stop me?”

She tipped the kettle in warning. A drop of hot liquid splashed onto his pants.

Faster than lightening, he grasped her wrist. “Careful woman. There may come a day you won’t want that part of me scalded.”

Oh! He was a wicked man!

“Look. Let’s not start a battle where there doesn’t need to be one. I’m just going in the same direction as you–to see the doctor.”

“You are sick?” He seemed like the last man on earth who’d be ill. His firm grip revealed only quick reflexes and crushing strength. Too late, she realized her ruse was up. She’d spoken her thoughts out loud—in English.
He smiled slowly, his gaze knowing. “No. But my horse is.”

Captured momentarily by the deep blue of his eyes, her heart thudded in her chest. He was different than anyone she’d known before and so sure of himself. Was this an American trait? She wasn’t sure she liked it. It bordered on rudeness. They had not been properly introduced and here he was still touching her wrist.

As if he read her thoughts, he released her arm and took the kettle from her hands. “Relax, miss. Although you are the prettiest señorita I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting, I’ve got other things on my mind at the moment.” Then he passed by and continued up the stairs giving her a disconcerting view of his worn buckskin backside.

She frowned. She hadn’t expected him to suddenly turn charming. Drawing up the hem of her skirt, she followed.

by Cheryl St.John

Sometimes when I’m invited to write a novella, I pull out my binder of story ideas that haven’t come together and plots that didn’t pan out for a novel-length book. I select something that sounds fun and then I work in the theme. When I was invited to be in this Christmas anthology with Carolyn Davidson, she had chosen “babies” as the connecting theme.

I didn’t have an idea waiting.

The first thing that came to mind, however, was that I wasn’t satisfied with one baby. Oh no. I had to have two. Twins.

Now how do you give single characters babies? Well, you either have to kill off their spouse or give the heroine a cad lover who ran off or spring someone else’s baby on them. But what about an emotional connection? This person with the babies needs to be passionate about loving and wanting them. Ah ha. Family. And from there I came up with Gabby Rawlins, a misfit with a devil-may-care cousin who is her antithesis. Willow is obsessed with an outlaw lover, to the point of chasing him across the country while pregnant. Concerned, Gabby follows her cousin all the way to Ruby Creek, Colorado, where a stubborn blacksmith has discovered two newborns in his stable. Oh yeah. Turner Price is a brooding sexy alpha male. Need I say more about him?

But back to the babies. What was I thinking? One baby is a challenge in a romance; two were even more difficult. Which is which and where is each one in the scenes where they appear? New mothers out there know how tough it is to care for one newborn. Some of you might know about twins. But in primitive conditions—there were no Pampers or baby wipes—and with a budding romance to orchestrate? Well, it wasn’t easy, but writing A BABY BLUE CHRISTMAS sure was rewarding in the end.

Photographs always inspire me, so I search for photos that capture the essence or the spirit of the story or I find a character or something that portrays the theme. For this story I found a picture of a main street in a small town. Locations and setting take on a personality for me, and this town was no different. Ruby Creek had a personality I wanted to revisit, so I’ve already proposed a book in the same setting for a story I’m calling HER MAKE-BELIEVE HUSBAND. (Just a little teaser there.)

Now I’m looking forward to getting my author copies so I can read Carolyn and Vicki’s stories and see what they did with their babies! THE MAGIC OF CHRISTMAS anthology is an October release.

The Magic of Christmas (Anthology) by Carolyn Davidson, Victoria Bylin, and Cheryl St.John, coming October 2008.

It is shaping up to be a not fun day… I know excuses excuses… here is something to read while you wait *g*
The excerpt was first posted May 10, 2008. And most likely the guest post will go up about noon. Sorry! I promise a much more detailed post singing the praise of Cheryl St.John in a bit *g*. Or really just search her name here… there has to be 1, 2 or 100 posts already doing so

 E-X-C-E-R-P-T

THE MAGIC OF CHRISTMAS HH Anthology
Excerpt from A Baby Blue Christmas

October 2008

Chapter One

November, Ruby Creek, Colorado

There was always at least one rude traveler for the duration of a stage ride, and this time it was an overweight and cloyingly perfumed woman in a bright green traveling suit. She’d slept nearly the entire trip since Salt Lake City, snoring in snorts and whistles that punctuated every tedious, bone-jolting inch of the way.

Gabrielle couldn’t complain. She was exceedingly grateful it was Snore Lady beside her and not Whiskey Breath. From his seat directly across from her, the man with the bristly brown-stained beard gave her sidelong looks that made her skin crawl. The one time she’d erroneously met his gaze, he’d smiled. His teeth were brown and decayed. One of the rules of etiquette required that he offer to share the bottle, and he’d done so begrudgingly. Only one passenger had accepted his invitation. Gabby wouldn’t have touched her lips to that bottle if she’d been dying of thirst.

Gabby had taken only short trips with the Wells Fargo Overland in the past. Heat and dust were definitely worse during summer months, so late November was marginally better for a hasty and ill-planned trip. Being packed in like sardines was an advantage this time of year and in this unfamiliar part of the country.

The coach hit another rut and her teeth jarred yet again. Snore Lady gasped in her sleep and then lapsed back into vigorous and prolonged inhaling and exhaling.

The driver struck the side of the coach to gain their attention, and a gentleman in a gray wool suit opened the flap to listen to his message. A flurry of snow filtered in and dusted the buffalo robes.

Gabby stared at the flakes glistening on the dark fur. She was from the Steptoe Valley in eastern Nevada and had only seen snow in stereoscope slides. Having been forewarned about winter, she’d bought a warmer coat at a layover in Utah.

“Last bend before Ruby Creek,” the gentleman traveler conveyed.

Having been delayed most of the afternoon for wheel repair, they were finally reaching her destination in darkness. Gabby prayed the hotel would check her in at this late hour. To hurry her travel, she’d brought only one small satchel. All she needed was a place to lay her head for the night.

She’d been following her cousin for weeks, traveling by any means available and inquiring from town to town. She had learned that Willow had come to Ruby Creek only a day or two ago. This was the closest Gabby had come to finding her since starting out a month ago. She didn’t let herself think about what could happen if she was too late. Willow always landed on her feet, but the baby she was about to give birth to was defenseless.

With a final lurch, the stagecoach slowed, turned a new direction and came to a halt with a screech of springs. Snore Lady roused. “Where are we?”

“Ruby Creek,” Whiskey Breath replied.

The obese woman raised the flap and peered out into darkness. “It’s late! Nearly bedtime.”

Gabby exchanged a glance with the man in the gray suit.

The coach rocked as the driver and a passenger climbed down from the top seat. The door opened outward, a bitter cold draft and more fascinating white flakes swept inside.

“Ruby Creek!” the driver called. “Those goin’ on will have to find a room for the night on Well’s Fargo’s tab. We’re half a day behind, but we cain’t go no farther in the dark. Too dangerous for the horses.”

The reflection of the moon and stars on the snow lit the night with an odd silent brightness. Gabby stepped down into the freezing inch-thick blanket of white. Her thin-soled shoes made a squeaking sound with each step. Drat. She’d bought the coat, but hadn’t thought of warmer footwear.

Eager to be on the road, Gabby had been the first passenger aboard the coach that morning; her bag was buried between crates and trunks. Waiting impatiently as the driver and a man from the freight line unloaded, she turned to cast a look at the town.

Four gas lamps burning at uneven intervals lit Ruby Creek’s Main Street. She made out hanging signs for the hotel, a livery, mercantile and pawnshop. Other signs painted on windows were indistinguishable in the dark. Dissipating smoke curled from half a dozen chimneys.

Within minutes, the cold seeped through her shoes and chilled her toes. Beneath her coat and dress, frigid air encased her legs. Within seconds numbness set into her thighs.

By the time the men uncovered her satchel, she was the only one left standing at the station. She took her bag with a weary thank you and pointed herself toward the sign that read Friberger Hotel. The frosty layer that had settled on the boardwalk made her final steps treacherous. She slipped and slid and finally grabbed the doorknob as a lifeline. The door opened and she slid into a chilly lobby, relived to at last be indoors.

“Full up!” A wiry man with hair standing in pewter-colored tufts around his ears called to her as soon as she closed the door behind her.

Now what would she do? Her whole body ached, and she was so tired, she could have fallen asleep standing there.

Carrying a no vacancy sign, the proprietor limped toward the front door. The crown of his head was bald and pink. “Just let the very last room.”

He hung the sign in the front window.

Gabby set down her bag. “I need a place to stay.” Refusing to give in to desperation, she thought quickly. “I’ll share a room with someone and pay the entire cost.”

The man obviously wanted to get back to his bed, but he sighed and obliged her by plodding up the stairs. He was gone a long time, so Gabby looked around for a chair. There was only a long narrow bench beside the door. She remained standing.

At last he returned. “Won’t nobody share. The new arrivals ain’t payin’ their own way, so they don’t care.”

With her hopes in shreds, she closed her eyes against the discouragement crushing in. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Sometimes Miz Sims takes a border overnight. How long ya stayin’?”

She only wished she knew when she’d find Willow and be able to head home. When she’d made up her mind to do whatever she could to get to her in time, Gabby’d had no choice but to come on this trip alone. There was no other family besides her parents. Besides the fact that they’d given up on Willow, they had a business to run. “I’m not sure.”

“Other’n that, maybe the reverend. No, come t’ think of it, he’s a widow man and don’t take in no females on account of propriety. Sometimes Turner over t’ the livery lets a fella stay the night with his horse. ‘Specially in poor weather. Ya might ask ‘im.”

Tired, hungry, supremely frustrated, Gabby picked up her bag and tugged her collar around her neck. She forced herself to thank the man politely. In the morning half the travelers would move on and, if she hadn’t found Willow, she’d still be in need of a room by tomorrow night.

Long about three o’clock, Ruby Creek and the day closed in on Turner Price. He tended the horses as usual, did chores and ate simple meals, but come nightfall and the locked silence of the businesses along Main Street, he saddled his gelding and rode out, staying away from the hills and the creeks and finding clear moonlit trails.

Often, no matter the weather, he dismounted and walked, his Mexican spurs jangling and silencing night creatures as he passed.

This snowy November night made for a bitter cold ride and a colder walk, but he was accustomed to the elements and had dressed warm. With the stars spread overhead and the frigid air biting his lungs, it was easier to keep his thinking focused on the present.

Snow glistened in the moonlight and brightened the landscape. His horse didn’t care what Turner said or didn’t say, didn’t have an opinion or feel pity. Comanche just plodded along at his side with an occasional snort or soft whinny for companionship. Comanche didn’t demand Turner talk or feel or change, and Turner liked their relationship just fine.

Judging by the stars, it was time to head home. He mounted and urged the Appaloosa toward the livery. He reached the door, dismounted, and rolled the wood sideways to lead the gelding inside.

One of the other horses nickered from its stall and Comanche responded with a soft snort and a shake of his head.

Turner hung his coat and hat, unsaddled Comanche and picked up a blanket to dry him. “Hold on, I’ll get you dry and warm and you can settle in for the night.”

He was brushing the animal’s withers when a sound arrested his attention. His hand fell still. A cat? A pair of cats? Not impossible that felines had sought lodging in the warmth and safety of the building for the night. But why in tarnation were they making so much racket?

The sound registering more clearly, Turner rolled around additional possibilities. He was either losing his mind or….

Lying down the brush, he gave his horse a pat on the shoulder and grabbed a lantern that hung from a nail on a beam. His spurs jangled a beat as he strode down the long row of stalls.

The horses were agitated, stamping and moving restlessly. A bay he was boarding for a traveler pinned his ears back and rolled his eyes, a distinct reaction to a disturbing smell. More than Turner’s late return was exciting these horses. Something–or someone–had disturbed them.

The high-pitched sound had grown louder and was definitely coming from the back of the barn. These end stalls were always the last rented.

Turner’s gut clenched at the sound he now recognized as a baby’s cry. And not just one slender reedy trill–two.

The stall gate was unlatched, and he swung it outward to enter. Two impossibly tiny infants wrapped in bright-colored cloth lay on a mound of hay, their tiny fists flailing in the chill air.

For a full minute, he couldn’t make sense of what his eyes told him. He stopped breathing to simply stare and absorb.

Just looking at them hurt.

He’d been gone only a couple of hours at the longest. How could this be? Hesitant, but unerringly drawn, he stepped forward and knelt. Their eyes were squinched shut, their faces red with agitation. Turner touched one finger to the nearest infant’s matted damp scalp. Like newborn colts, these babies still bore evidence of their recent birth. They were mere minutes old, barely over an hour at the most.

An unsettling sense of trouble clawed at his nerves. Where was their mother? Unwilling to leave them alone, he glanced around as if their parent would appear or he’d find the answer in the wooden enclosure.

Both infants’ stiffly held arms trembled as they screamed. They kicked at the cloth covering their legs until the material pushed aside. Boys, both of them. Hungry, frightened, tiny boys.

Stricken by the unexpected sight and the tormenting effect on his mind and heart, Turner acted instinctively.

Shrugging out of his heavy flannel shirt, he knelt and–one at a time–gingerly placed the babies against the warm fabric and tucked the bulky garment around them. He folded back the excess, careful not to bury their faces.

He lifted the bundle gently and held it against his chest, his mind racing. Turning on his heel, he inspected the stall, the space leading to it, and each of the surrounding pens. Twelve contained restless horses. Eight were empty.

None hid a woman.

He checked the tack room and even walked back to his quarters. The room held everything he needed for his sparse existence: A bed, a small coal burner, a table and one chair.

Warmth and motion soothed the babies. Nestled against each other in the soft bundle of his shirt and against his heart, they grew silent.

He studied their miniature features, and a torturous ache weighted his chest. He didn’t want to look at them, didn’t want to add to his misery, but he couldn’t keep his gaze away. The child with the most hair had a hand splayed against his cheek, and his fingers were unbelievably tiny with perfect little nails. The other opened his heart-shaped mouth and turned his seeking face against the flannel. Turner couldn’t catch his breath for seconds. His head swam.

Tiny and helpless and alone. The fact that someone had abandoned them chafed Turner’s temper. The act was inconceivable.

And now what in blazes was he to do with them? They wouldn’t survive a day without milk and proper care. He stirred the ashes in the coal burner and added fuel to get the room warm.

The bell outside the entrance clanged once, then silenced abruptly as though someone had placed a hand on it. It was rare that anyone came for his mount or to leave a horse this late. He’d heard the stage earlier, though, and occasionally, if the small stable behind the freight station was full, the drivers boarded animals here overnight.

He placed the babies on his bed, making sure they were bundled snugly before he strode through the building. He hadn’t tethered Comanche. His horse had wandered to the other side of the open area and stood with his head lowered. “I’ll get you bedded down in a shake, boy.”

Two lanterns still burned on either side of the entrance. Turner opened the door and peered out.

A feminine form in a dark coat and fur-lined hat moved into the glow of the lantern. “Pardon me for disturbing you so late.”

So here she was. He looked her over, suspicion sending a warning signal to his senses. Her hat was pulled low so that it almost hid her eyes, and her nose was red. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Gabrielle Rawlins. I need a place to stay. The hotel’s full, you see. The man there told me–.”

“What were you tryin’ to pull?”

“Pardon me?”

“Takin’ off like that?”

She glanced over her shoulder and repeated, “Pardon me?”

“Looks like a mighty warm coat you’re wearin’ there.”

“It’s sufficient. What I need is–.”

At that moment, a thin wail rose from the back of the building and echoed through to the front. It was immediately joined by a second.

The young woman’s eyes widened and she stared at Turner.

“Had somewhere important to go?” he asked, narrowing his gaze.

“I told you, I–.”

“Tell me anything you like, but what kind of woman leaves two spankin’ new babies alone in a horse stall?”

The squall was unmistakable. Her shocked gaze traveled past his shoulder. Eyes a rich tawny color like dark honey widened.

“Yeah, I found ‘em. What did you think would happen?”

So quickly that he didn’t have time to stop her, she slipped past him and ran toward the source of the pathetic cries.

Taking note of her bag sitting in the snow, he moved it inside before he bolted the door and followed.

© Cheryl St.John. All rights reserved

I just finished, as in closed the book about 15 minutes ago, Bedded by Her Lord by Denise Lynn. It was fabulous. And I was all excited thinking maybe William of Bronwyn’s story was the novella.

Hey, I read the guest post a while back… needless to say this isn’t William’s tale instead it is…

Brigit of Warehaven danced toward the All Hallows’ Eve bonfire to placate her sisters. When she turned to look over her shoulder at the fire she’d expected to see a vision of her love – not an armed knight and his horse sailing through the flames to land at her feet.

Randall FitzHenry was sent to Warehaven by his sire to put an end to rumours of devil worship taking place there. While he’d expected to find Warehaven’s witch, never had he dreamed that’d she be so fair.

Nor had he thought to find an evil so dastardly vile, or dragons, or love…

Clouds streaked steadily toward the near-full moon like ghostly fingers reaching across the sky. Sir Randall FitzHenry, bastard son of the king, waited silently beneath the towering oaks.

Soon the pale glow would go dim. Then, under the cover of darkness, he and his men would swarm Warehaven Keep.

As he had done many times this last hour, he stared across the narrow field separating the heavy woods from the keep. Through the open gates Randall could see the still roaring blaze of the bonfire in the bailey.

For three successive nights the shouts and laughter of those dancing around the fire drifted across the field. Behind the voices beat the rhythmic pulse of the tabor drums.

The first part of his mission would be easy. There’d been no battles on the isle since his grandsire’s day, so the keep was lightly guarded – as evidenced by the open gates. Warehaven would be conquered before the inhabitants knew they were under attack.

His spies had done their jobs. They’d brought him the layout of the keep, the names and descriptions of those in charge and the plans for each night’s festivities.

He looked up at the sky. This task had been blessed – proof was in the clouds straining to douse the moon’s light. Randall knew his advance men were in place. As soon as darkness overtook the sky, they would see to the men guarding the gates.

He nodded at the joyous shouts of Warehaven’s celebrants. Let them make merry now. For this would be the last night they practiced their pagan rites.

No more would they shamefully cast aside their inhibitions to dance and mingle so brazenly in the open before the fire.

And no more would they enact some Wild Hunt. A shiver traced down his spine at the memory of gazing upon the woman they’d sacrificed. Bruised, torn and broken she’d died in agony, her unseeing eyes open wide, a scream frozen forever on her lips.

Aye, he would find this stag of the forest – this supposed pagan god and his followers. He would end the vileness plaguing Warehaven once and for all. Those tasks he would accomplish without fail and without remorse.

The last task his liege, his father the king commanded – the one that left a bitter taste in his mouth – he would begrudgingly fulfill. He would ensure the keep’s loyalty by forever binding Warehaven’s unwed witch to the crown.

Shadows inched across the field as the moon disappeared behind the encroaching clouds. Randall raised his hand, holding it steady above his head until darkness overtook the last glimmer of light.

He lowered his arm, silently waving his men forward.

Chapter Two

“Father will flay us alive if he learns of this.”

At her sister’s hushed rebuke, Brigit of Warehaven forced her attention away from the fire. Ailis the oldest wrung her hands, while Mathilda the middle sister kept looking over her shoulder.

At times Brigit could hardly believe she was the youngest of the three. The other two were far more timid than she could ever be.

While Ailis was correct, their father would be outraged by this reckless behavior, Brigit had no desire to run back to the keep like a coward. Instead, she advised, “Then perhaps, Ailis, we should not tell him.”

“He’ll find out.”

“What matter does that make to you? Besides Simon, I am the only one still living under his roof and rule.”

“True enough,” Mathilda countered, “but do you think our husbands would approve of this either?”

“None us will suffer censure if all goes well.” Brigit pulled Ailis’s hooded mantle tighter around her sister’s shoulders and tucked a wayward braid further inside the hood. “We need only stick to the plan. Keep your hood pulled low over your face and nobody will pay us the least bit of attention. If we’re not seen, there’ll be nothing to tell.”

“I don’t know, Brigit…”

She shot a glare toward Mathilda. “Not you, too? I thought you were set on casting your spell before the bonfire this night?”

When Mathilda dragged the toe of her shoe back and forth across the dirt without answering, Brigit prompted, “Does Daniel’s attention matter so little to you after all?”

Mathilda squared her shoulders. “Nay, I need see this through.”

It was all Brigit could do not to roll her eyes at her sisters’ indecision. They each had a mission tonight. Their father, brother and the two husbands were gone from Warehaven hunting and seeing to the nearby fields.

Sir Geoffrey, the man their father left in charge of the keep, took it upon himself to call for an early start to the annual harvest festival. A bonfire had been set in the middle of the bailey for the last three nights in a row now. With the lord absent, the people had taken advantage of the merriment until morning light broke the night’s darkness.

Each evening the three of them willingly locked themselves into the chamber they shared rather than fall prey to some rowdy guard who’d imbibed too much to remember his place.

She’d chafed at being so confined. So, yesterday morning she’d devised a plan to see if the spells she’d heard the midwife talk about for years would work. Her sisters had begged and pleaded with her not to be so foolish. When Brigit had refused to change her mind, they decided to accompany her and had chosen their own spells to cast.

Ailis carried her husband’s first child and she wanted to know how many babies they would have. She was determined to stand before the bonfire, twist an apple on its stem while counting the turns before the fruit snapped free. Supposedly, each turn represented a child for her and Robert.

Overly concerned that her new marriage seemed lacking, Mathilda was anxious to cast a spell of desire upon her husband. She’d plucked stray hairs from Daniel’s garments and braided them with some of her own. It was said that if she tossed the braided lock into the fire it would make the owners of the hair burn for each other.

Since Brigit was the only one still unwed, her sisters insisted that she must see a vision of the love that would come to her during this next year. To do so, she had only to walk away from the bonfire and glance over her shoulder to see his image in the flames.

She’d worked hard at restraining her reckless nature of late. The sheer excitement of doing something Brigit knew they shouldn’t was far too seductive to let pass.

“Are we ready?” Ailis didn’t sound eager, but Brigit knew if she gave either of them the slightest chance they would try to drag her back inside the keep.

“Aye, ‘tis time.” Brigit motioned for the others to adjust their hoods before leading them toward the fire. They stayed close enough behind her that she heard Mathilda’s nervous giggle and Ailis’s hiss of reprisal.

“What are those?” Mathilda’s half gasped question brought all three to a halt.

Brigit followed the direction of her sister’s trembling finger. Uncertain, she slowly moved toward the objects stacked a slight distance away from the growing fire.

Ailis’s reached past Brigit and fiddled with the loosely tied leather thongs, permitting the side to fall open. “Cages?”

Brigit picked up one and turned it around. Reeds were woven into the crude shape of… a cow… perhaps. Another appeared to be… a pig. She set the cage down, wondering, “Aye, but for what purpose?”

A woman unfamiliar to Brigit hurried toward the oddly shaped reed cages carrying a chicken by its neck. Without a word, she stuffed the squawking hen into a cage, tied it shut then carried it back to the fire.

Mathilda grasped Brigit’s sleeve. “They aren’t going to…”

The woman tossed the cage onto the roaring fire, stopping Mathilda’s question.

“Oh, Dear Lord.” Ailis crossed herself and muttered what sounded like a prayer before grabbing Brigit’s other arm. “We need leave this place.”

“This place?” Brigit shook herself free from her sisters’ hands. “This is our home.”

“I meant the bailey. Brigit, we shouldn’t be here.”

“You knew that before we left our chamber.”

“But we didn’t then know they were practicing pagan activities.” Fear sent Mathilda’s pitch higher, and louder.

“Keep your voice down.” Brigit leaned toward the other two. “What did you think they were doing? The two of you infants can run back inside if you wish. But I am going to finish this.”

The fire burned hot against her back. Shouts and laughter from the revelers rang loud in her ears. The steady beat of a tabor drum, along with the keening lull of a flute urged her closer to the devilish merriment.

While a part of her feared for the safety of her soul, curiosity to know what the people of Warehaven were doing was strong. The seductive pull of the music and wild, unrestrained dancing was stronger.

“I am not an infant.” Ailis huffed, then headed toward the fire. To Brigit’s relief Mathilda followed. They elbowed their way through the crowd to the edge of the roaring blaze.

Ailis opened the pouch hanging from her waist, retrieved her fruit then stepped forward. She twisted the apple on the stem and twisted and twisted again.

By the sixth time her eyes were nearly as large as the apple. “Oh, nay, please, nay.” She wailed before giving the apple one more hard spin.

The stem broke free and Ailis stumbled backward nearly screaming, “Seven?” before smacking Brigit’s arm. “This is your fault!”

“Aye, of course it is. I forced you to twist the stem so lightly that it took over long to break.”

Mathilda pushed between them. “Now ’tis my turn.” The flickering blaze gleamed in her eyes.

A finger of ice cut through the warmth of the fire to trail down Brigit’s back. The fine hairs on the back of her neck rose and she turned to glance over her shoulder. Red glowing eyes shimmered closer.

She tore her gaze from the horned head only to find herself staring at Warehaven’s captain. Taken aback by the hard-focused intent glimmering in Geoffrey’s eyes, Brigit stepped away from the unspoken threat.

Why was her father’s man looking at her as if he’d like to devour her… or worse? His heavy-lidded perusal was out of place and unwelcome. Instead of enticing, she found his silent invitation repulsive.

Even with the thrum of the music, the heat flowing through her veins and the rampant wickedness surrounding her, Brigit had no desire to be caught up in the throes of this wildness with Geoffrey.

She turned quickly back to her sisters, hoping he would understand the rejection.

A gloved hand grasped her shoulder. “I am honored that you have graced us with your presence.” His hot breath blasted against her ear. “But surely you did not come out here only to watch?”

Shocked by Geoffrey’s boldness, she fought to ignore him, hoping he would soon leave her alone. If she turned on him with the outrage burning in her chest it would only cause a scene and draw attention to her and her sisters. Thus far, no one else had made any comment about their presence and she wished to keep it that way. Brigit forced her attention on her older sister.

Mathilda and four other women seemed to compare their braided charms before tossing them into the bonfire with a joyous shout of glee before spinning away to giggle their way back into the crowd of onlookers.

Brigit shrugged Geoffrey’s hand off her shoulder and moved between Ailis and Mathilda. To her relief he did not follow. But neither did he move away.

“Well?” Ailis asked, her growing excitement obvious in her racing questions. “Did it work? Do you feel any different?”

Mathilda stretched languidly like a satisfied cat, inching her hands up her body then reached briefly for the star-dotted sky before crumpling into laughter. “Oh, aye. Yes, I’m sure it did. I feel… I feel… different. More alive. More alluring. I’m certain Daniel will burn for me.”

Brigit knew that with the music and dancing, the roaring fire and the general mood of the gathering, any woman would feel more alive and alluring. But she wondered if the spell casting had added to the emotions coursing through Mathilda.

“’Tis your turn, Brigit.” Mathilda grasped her wrist, pulling her from their circle.

Ailis laughed before pushing her forward. “I can’t wait to see who it will be.”

Brigit hesitantly approached the fire. Each step closer made her heart pound faster. The warmth flowing through her limbs grew hotter. As if of its own accord her body swayed to the beat of the incessant drums.

Two young women from Warehaven’s village joined her. The three of them laughed nervously then tossed their heads in unison before falling into a rhythmic step toward their vision of the future.

Brigit untied her red cloak and tossed it behind her to her sisters. Then she mimicked the woman on either side of her. Shoulders rolling suggestively, swaying hips and tapping feet drew ribald shouts from the men and encouraging cries from the women in the gathering.

Unable to ignore the heady sensation racing through her, Brigit closed her eyes, threw caution to the wind and gave herself over to the beat of the music.

Two steps forward, one back. A turn, a twist then a tap of the toe brought them to another step forward.

The crackling rage of the fire roared in her ears shutting out any other sounds. Its burning heat ate away her inhibitions. She ran her hands down her body. The curves and swells tingled to life beneath her touch.

They repeated their seductive moves and came another step closer to the fire.

Primal heat licked at her flesh. An unbidden longing to feel a man’s arms around her, to writhe naked beneath him flared to life with an intensity that drew a moan from her parted lips.

Another round of twisting and turn steps brought them to the edge of the fire. With a flourish, the two women from the village turned, swirled laughingly away from the blaze and into the open arms of their waiting men.

Left alone to finish the dance and complete the spell, Brigit tossed her head. Curious to see who the fire would show her, she looked over her shoulder.

The shouts of the gathering turned suddenly to screams of fear and horror, freezing her in place.

The pounding in her chest was no longer from excitement. A bone chilling cold crashed into her stomach as a horse catapulted through the flames to land then rear up before her…

Harlequin Historical is a registered trademark of Harlequin Enterprises Limited. As such all excerpts are copyrighted © and all rights are reserved.

by Denise Lynn

Usually, when I’m writing a story I’m in love with the hero. However, in Falcon’s Heart (January 2007 HH release) I fell in love with a secondary character—Jared, the Dragon of Warehaven. To my shame, I was committing adultery. It wasn’t meant to happen, it just did. Then, to make matters worse, I was struck by the dreaded author disease…the incurable “what if” malady. Question after question filled my mind. Who was Jared? Why was he called the Dragon? Why did people fear him? How did he get such a smart mouth?

I knew that Warehaven was set on the Isle of Wight. Why? (ok, I dare you say ‘Wight, Why’ 5 times fast…) I needed an area of land that was not under direct control of King Stephen or the Empress Matilda. Since Lordship of the Isle had been given to de Redvers (the only high ranking lord totally against Stephen from the word go) the Isle was my most logical place setting.

So, what was the terrain like? I started digging around and at one point in time ended up here, fossil collecting in the Isle of Wight. BINGO! In my mind if a medieval warrior came across the skeleton of a prehistoric beast what might he think? Dragon? Oh, heavens yes. Dragons, dragons and by gosh more dragons.

I was dying to write the story, but I still had to finish a Nocturne (Dragons’ Lair – title to be changed – January 2009 and yes, these 21st century characters are related to Jared) and three more medievals (Commanded To His Bed – HH April 2007, Bedded By Her Lord – HH November 2007, and Untitled WIP – HH March 2009). So when my editor asked if I’d be interested in writing a story for a Halloween Anthology (Hallowe’en Husbands to be released in 1 Oct 08), it was all I could do to keep from screaming YES!

While “Wedding at Warehaven” [Ed.: Denise's story in Hallowe'en Husbands] isn’t Jared’s story, it is his parents’ story. Brigit of Warehaven dabbled in herblore…making her the witch of Warehaven. Randall FitzHenry was sent by his father the king to wipe out the wickedness taking place on the Isle of Wight. Timing is everything—for the annual harvest festival Brigit decides to use an ancient rite to see her true love – she walks away from the bon fire and looks over her shoulder…just as Randall and his horse sail through the fire to land literally at her feet.

Isn’t that a fine way to see your future? Just have it land at your feet.

Better yet, while on the run from the evil villain the two take refuge in the caves. What do they discover? Dragon bones of course!

Man, I love research.

Take care and happy reading!

Hallowe’en Husbands by Denise Lynn, Christine Merrill, and Lisa Plumley
October 2008

Marriage at Morrow Creek by Lisa Plumley

During an unexpected stopover in Morrow Creek, Arizona Territory, sassy medicine show assistant Rose Tillson decides to indulge her longtime infatuation with her driver, Will Gavigan, unaware that the rugged bagman plans to pair her up with a suitably straitlaced suitor of his own choosing before they leave town. But mysterious forces have other plans for these two longtime friends…plans that just might lead to love beneath the Hallow-e’en stars.

read on for an excerpt…

At the sound of her father’s gravelly voice, Rose Tillson jumped. Hastily, she pressed her finger to the account book on her lap, trying to keep her place in the column of penciled figures she was supposed to be tallying.

“Hmmm?” Trying to appear wholly innocent, Rose glanced up.

She felt immediately dismayed at the sight before her. Her father stood grumpily just outside the medicine show wagons that housed their belongings, his gray hair on end and his clothing askew. Typically, Dr. George Tillson prided himself on his dapper appearance. Today though, Viola’s latest escapade seemed to have upset him too much to bother.

“Oh Papa! You haven’t even buttoned your coat.” Rose nodded at the fallen leaves swirling in the autumn breeze nearby. “It’s cold! You’ll catch your death outside. Here, let me help you.”

Clambering down from the wagon—an enclosed affair with the words TILLSON & HEALY’S PATENTED MIRACLE ELIXIR & CELEBRATED PANACEA painted in vibrant lettering on its sides—Rose buttoned her father’s coat. Then she smoothed his hair and fixed his scarf.

“There.” Satisfied that he’d be warm enough, she gave him an affectionate pat. “Now then. You say Viola’s not in camp?”

“Not since sunup, near as I can tell.” Her father shook his head, peering into the ponderosa pine and oak-filled forest surrounding their campsite. A short distance from their doused fire, their four horses nosed aside the frostbitten leaves, searching for breakfast. “She didn’t feed or water the horses either. I told her we were leaving straightaway this morning.”

“I know you did. Don’t worry. I’ll go look for her.”

“Probably off woolgathering again.” He hunched his shoulders. “That girl doesn’t have the sense God gave a goose. Or that mangy mouser that’s been hanging around here lately.”

He pointed. Rose looked, but caught only a glimpse as the small black cat raced into the trees. She had yet to get a good view of the creature. But with All Hallow’s Eve only a few days away, the appearance of a black cat did make her wonder…

“If I find out Viola’s been mooning over some ‘dashing’ customer instead of doing her chores,” her papa said, “I’ll set her to shoveling horse patties for a week to make up for it!”

“Shh. Mind your temper, Papa.” Sympathetically, Rose patted her father’s shoulder. “Remember what Sheng Li says—staying calm promotes wellness. Whenever you feel agitated, you’re supposed to breathe deeply and—”

“Don’t you start on me. Sheng Li is smart as a whip with those Celestial herbs of his, and his elixir has been a godsend to me, that’s for certain. But if that Chinaman got close to the sun, he’d give it advice on how it could shine brighter.”

“He can be a bit of a know it all.” Rose pulled her wrap tighter. “No wonder the two of you get along so well.”

“Indeed we do.” A moment passed. “Now hang on a minute—”

“Except you’d tell the sun to be both brighter and warmer.”

“Cheeky girl.” Her father’s gaze softened as he touched his palm to her cheek. “At least you’ll never worry me the way Viola does with her shenanigans, Rose. You’re as dependable as the day is long and twice as prone to regularity.”

“Papa, please.” Rose made a face. “You make me sound like a dose of Lintel’s castor oil!”

“That’s not such a bad thing to a person who needs it.” Her father stuck his hands in his pockets, visibly cheered. “Now quit making that face at me. As your poor dear mother would have said, you don’t want it to freeze that way. And when you find Viola, tell her there’s no use trying to sneak in under my nose. I won’t be gulled by her tomfoolery. I’m old, not blind.”

“I’ll tell her. I promise.”

“See that you do. And no lollygagging either.”

Rose agreed, watching fondly as her papa headed for their second wagon with his coat still crooked. An energetic man, Dr. George Tillson was also fiercely loving, famously intelligent, and occasionally eccentric. He’d abandoned a lucrative medical practice in San Francisco to spread the word about Sheng Li’s medicinal elixir, which had restored his own health years ago. Now Rose couldn’t
remember the days when they’d lived in the city. She only recalled trails and towns and days on the road.

Her sister, however, did remember their more sophisticated existence—and she yearned for it all the time. Even now, Viola was probably gazing into Morrow Creek’s general store windows, watching trains arriving at the depot, or spending part of her savings on tea at the town’s fanciest hotel, the Lorndorff.
Viola had a hunger for the bustle and flash of town life, and Morrow Creek—where they’d finished making elixir deliveries to accounts and conducting their popular medicine show yesterday—had captured her imagination more than most. It was one of Rose’s favorite places on the medicine show’s circuit too, bordered by a protective mountain and filled with friendly townsfolk, charming houses, and western-style shops.

But that friendliness couldn’t compete with their father’s rampaging protective streak. As far as Papa was concerned, all unknown men were potential degenerates, just itching to take advantage of a woman alone. Which was why Viola usually sneaked out to gain her freedom…and why Rose typically brought her back before their father realized anything was amiss. Today Rose had gotten distracted—disastrously so for Viola’s sake. After all, nobody liked shoveling meadow muffins.

Resigned to her mission, Rose reached in the wagon for her gloves. Instead, her gaze fell on the bottle of Lintel’s castor oil in a nearby basket. She glowered. Everyone she met thought of her in those castor oil terms—dependable, reliable, and easy to digest.

She’d had just about enough of it too.

Although Rose had been travelling with her papa’s show almost from the day she could toddle up to the wagons, she made it a point to stay out of the spotlight. She was the mousy assistant—the person who kept the accounts, mended the costumes, cooked meals, and circulated among the crowd to sell bottles of Tillson & Healy’s Patented Miracle Elixir & Celebrated Panacea.

She was not an exciting performer like Viola, eager to sing and dance with all eyes on her…or to skedaddle to town on a whim. But for one fleeting moment, Rose dared to imagine herself in her sister’s place, doing something brash and scandalous.

Her imagination stuttered at the very notion.

With a sigh, Rose plucked up her gloves, then hoisted her skirts and petticoats. Thirty seconds later she was on her way into the forest, searching for her wayward sister…and for her own path to undependable, unreliable, uncastor oil-like living.

If only she had the first notion where to look.

~ ~ ~

The dried grass crunched beneath her feet. The scent of pine sap filled her nose. So engrossed was Rose in searching for Viola that she nearly missed the sight she savored the most every morning: Will Gavigan, their medicine show’s driver, bagman, and all around Johnny helper, striding into the camp as he returned from wherever he’d made his bed for the night.

Riveted, Rose stopped in her tracks to stare shamelessly at him. Even tousle-haired and focused on some other task, Will appeared magnificent. He’d outfitted himself in brown trousers, a white shirt, a brocade vest, a suit coat, an outer coat, a knit scarf, and a flat-brimmed hat. He carried a bedroll beneath his arm. He strode with authority and purpose. He needed to shave. He wouldn’t go amiss with a haircut either. But his features were perfect and his teeth were beautiful, and there was something intriguing about him. Something so masculine, so thrilling, so…so headed straight toward her this very minute.

Sakes alive. Will Gavigan had caught her ogling him.

“Rose. What are you looking at?” he asked.

His deep voice shook her, making her yearn for a way to keep him talking. Especially since he so rarely moved in the direction he did now…closer to her.

Startled, Rose blurted the truth. “I’m looking at you.”

A baffled silence greeted her admission.

Rose scarcely noticed. She fancied she could feel the warmth emanating from Will’s brawny, fascinating body, and she wanted to snuggle nearer to him—maybe touch his shadowed beard. Those bristly hairs looked as dark as those on his head…and on his eyebrows, which were currently raised in query.

I’m looking at you, she remembered herself saying. Oh no. Rose whipped her gaze upward, feeling her cheeks heat. “Your, er, walk is odd this morning,” she prevaricated.

“Ah. That’s the greenbacks in my boot.” Appearing more easygoing now that she’d explained herself, Will dropped his bedroll. He slipped off one big boot, then withdrew the hidden currency from inside. “God bless fools and gamblers.”

“Oh.” Brilliant. Rose stifled a nervous titter. She’d loved Will Gavigan for days, months, years on end. For equally as long, he’d been insensible to her infatuation. “You say that as though they’re one and the same. Fools and—”

He smiled. “In my experience, they usually are.”

“But if you’re wagering, aren’t you a gambler too? And therefore a bit of a fo—”

“Touché.” Folding the bills, Will tucked them securely in his boot again. He replaced his footwear, then grinned at her. “As usual, you’re my conscience, Rose. It’s a good thing you can’t play Faro, else I might never add a thing to my bankroll.”

She wrinkled her nose. “First castor oil, now a conscience. At this rate, I’ll be downgraded to a pinworm by lunchtime.”

He gave her a puzzled look. “A pinworm?”

“Never mind. It’s not important. Especially not since—”

“Your sister is missing again. I know. I just saw your father a minute ago. He asked me to be on the lookout.” Hoisting his bedroll, Will shook his head. “If it’s not one thing, it’s another with Viola. That girl’s a passel of trouble sometimes.”

To Rose, his tone sounded approving—almost admiring. It galled her more than she cared to admit. As usual, Viola was audacious and attention grabbing…while Rose was a walking, talking, helplessly smitten deterrent to Faro playing. “—not since I have such an important question to ask you,” Rose barreled on, determined to change the subject. She crossed her arms and arched her brow, trying to appear an adventuress in her own right. “You’ve been traveling with the show for three years now, Will. When are you going to stop keeping to yourself so much? You sleep apart, take your meals apart—”

“Sometimes a man’s better off alone.”

“No one’s better off alone. If only you’d try—”

His upraised hand stopped her. “Right now, I’ve got to try to find that foolhardy sister of yours.”

He touched his hat brim, then loped off in the opposite direction. Rose was left with only the sage and leather scent of him, the fleeting warmth of his nearness…and a desperate urge to bring him back.

“Will, wait!”

He turned. The sunshine highlighted his jaw, outlining its strength and stubbornness. My, he was splendid. If only he’d look at her with a little of the dedication and possessiveness he applied to his work for the medicine show. If only he’d see her for the independent woman she was, instead of the tagalong Tillson she’d been when he’d joined them on the road. If only…

“We could…search for Viola together?”

He shook his head. “Not this time.”

“I could”—hold your hand, gaze into your eyes, say something witty so you’d smile again—“make you breakfast?”

Her offer earned her another of his delectable smiles. “Burned biscuits again?”

“They’re well-browned,” Rose pointed out with a lift of her chin. “Just like the cookery book says.”

“Thank you, but right now your sister is more important.” Will lifted his hand in farewell. “Stay on the lookout, Rose.”

Watching him leave, his broad shoulders marching against those shafts of sunlight as he moved between the trees, Rose sighed. Your sister is more important. Wasn’t that the story of her entire life? What did she have to do to make Will see her?

To make him, if she were lucky, fall in love with her?

Before Rose could reason out a solution, a noisy splash sounded from nearby. The creek! Had Viola fallen while crossing the flat stones used as a footbridge? Had she sneaked back to their camp, only to be waylaid by a freezing, watery fall?

Holding her wrap tightly, Rose ran toward the water.

Harlequin Historical is a registered trademark of Harlequin Enterprises Limited. As such all excerpts are copyrighted © and all rights are reserved.

by Carol Townend

His Captive Lady was not a book I planned to write. I was about to start writing another novel (my current work in progress) when out of the blue the hero of His Captive Lady barged into my mind. Wulf told me in no uncertain terms that his story had to be told next! Wulf is a warrior and at times he is most persistent, this was one of those times. There was no escape for me, just as in the story there was no escape for Lady Erica. These alpha males, it doesn’t seem to matter whether they are living in the eleventh century or the twenty-first, they are pretty determined characters.

And that is one of the things I adore about writing medieval romance. It’s about people, people who are just like us. They have loves and hates and goals and ambitions. There are differences, of course. Eleventh century attitudes to sex were not the same as ours. How could they be? Birth control was practically non-existent, and there were strict ideas about morality and marriage. For a woman to have a child out of wedlock was thought most shocking.

Human beings being what they are – well, human – it did happen! Quite a lot. But it was increasingly frowned upon by the early Norman Church, and the children of unsanctified unions often bore the stigma for the rest of their lives. Illegitimate. Wulf was such a man, born on the wrong side of the blanket, he is set on overcoming his inauspicious background.

His Captive Lady is a stand-alone book, but it is also the third in the Wessex Weddings Series, which focuses on the early Anglo-Norman period. It was a turbulent time, with Norman incomers trying to grab as much land as possible, while Anglo-Saxons fought like demons to keep what had been theirs for generations.

All of which goes to explain how, when Seawulf Brader meets Lady Erica, romance is the last thing on his mind…

by Jenna Kernan

Writing romance is such a glamorous business. I thought I’d give my fans a little vignette of how alluring my life can be.

This photo is of me, in one of my glamorous oversized flannel shirts, working on a story. You might notice that I have a bird on my arm. That’s Mango. She used to be Captain Mango, until she laid thirteen eggs and I had to concede that he was, in fact, a she. Now I call her, Mango, Buttercup or ‘Stop Chewing My Keyboard Wire!” depending on the situation.

She is suppose to sit on my chair or my shoulder, but recently has begun climbing down my arm to sit on my arm or, on one memorable occasion, to pop the return key off my keyboard. But usually, she just tries to encourage me to scratch her head, and I try to encourage her to take a nap.

In March, she decided that the area behind my keyboard would make a sung little nesting box. As you can see in the photo, she has made a fine little nest by chewing up my manuscript pages. Everyone’s a critic!

There is no Mr. Buttercup in my home, so she sat on her eggs for some time, in vain. The annoying part for me is that she is so quiet, and I am so distracted when writing, that I forget she is there until I try to use my mouse. She considers this a threat to her brood and so comes shooting out from behind my keyboard like a moray eel, screaming and lunging at my fingers as I scream and throw my weight into my wheeled chair to flee in the opposite direction.

Sometimes her tail crosses over my typing area, at which times I feel it is just to try to pin it to the keyboard with my fingers. She hates this game as much as I hate the ‘defend the mouse’ game she has invented, but turnabout is fair play.

She is currently chewing my stack of important emails into tiny little bits of confetti, including the one from Sybil asking me to write a guest blogger in June. I fear my moray eel is returning.

So when you wonder why it takes so darn long for a writer to finish a book, please recall the gremlin behind the keyboard.

When not defending my keyboard from attack, I’m hard at work on my next Western and awaiting the July RITA contest results. My first Christmas novella in the collection A WESTERN WINTER WONDERLAND is a finalist. Cheryl St John’s story, in the same anthology, is also a finalist. Two RITA finalists in one story, if that is not enough to make you run out and buy it, I don’t know what is! Excerpts and news on Mango can be found here.

Kogg]638[uii

Mango wrote that last line for you.

So, what does your pet do to get your attention?

I you missed Wendy’s review of Outlaw Bride by Jenna Kernan yesterday… quick go read it.

And then come back and learn about what Jenna is up to now…

Jenna Kernan’s next Harlequin Historical is in such an early stage it doesn’t have a title or a release date yet. But she did share that this info about it

Kate Wells sold herself in marriage once and will be damned if she’ll do it again, but when her family’s home is threatened she is left with a choice between betray the man she’s come to love or enduring the shame of becoming his mistress.

As well as she shared that she is currently working on a…. Nocturne that sound very interesting!

DREAM STALKER
Silhouette Nocturne
Release date TBA

A Native American healer thinks her escalating nightmares signal madness but the truth is far worse. Her dreams are real. She is being stalked by the ruler of the ghosts and the only thing standing between her and destruction is a savagely beautiful shape-shifter who can change from a grizzly to man. But is he willing to defend a wounded human from death, himself?

Just in case you are worried like I was, Jenna has no plans to leave HH, or was just afraid to admit that too me.

by Julia Justiss

Okay, so I stole the idea from Karen Templeton’s very informative description of SSE. I’ll get ready to duck and run for cover on this one, but I have to say it:

I am bored, bored BORED by the plethora of (admittedly, alas) very popular current historical romances in which the hero/heroine (even a virginal one who has no experience with sex) meet and, with little regard for historical accuracy, hop into bed and return there. And return there. And RETURN THERE. Well, maybe there’s a garden bench or an unoccupied library table in the mix, but you get my drift.

I realize the whole trend was sparked (if you will) by the erotica/paranormal craze and that fantasy is a big aspect of it… probably most women don’t actually want to experience a ménage-a-trois with a hunky guy and a werewolf. However, even as a kid I was never interested in fantasy. Nope, no Lion, Witch and Wardrobe for me. **I** read about World War II submarines and Egyptology.

Besides my underdeveloped fantasy genes and lamentable preoccupation with real life, I’m just not into spectator sports. Not that I begrudge the success of fellow authors, some close friends, who write the hotter books — I cheer for them happily while I try to weasel invitations to lunch. It’s just I miss, well, REAL stories about believably REAL historical people.

As a writer, what makes ME passionate is weaving tales about the emotional relationships between heroes and heroines who have family and friends as well as lovers. Who have tragedies to overcome and difficulties to shoulder that can’t always be solved by a little hot sex. But who discover that, despite their problems, their faults, their doubts and their fears, having a deep abiding love for one special person can make any situation bearable and illumine one’s life with joy.

Such is the case with my upcoming Regency historical, A MOST UNCONVENTIONAL MATCH. Elizabeth Wellingford Lowery has just lost her husband, an older man she sincerely loved, who treated her as a precious object, taking care of all the details of everyday life so she could immerse herself in her painting. Suddenly thrust unprepared into bitter reality, left with no one to turn to as all her family is currently abroad, she is floundering when Hal Waterman arrives at her door.

Possessed of a demanding, Society leader Diamond of a mother, Hal has always carefully avoided Beauties, particularly Elizabeth Wellingford, sister-in-law of his best friend Nicky, to whom he had an immediate, instantaneous attraction when they first met seven years ago. But with her family out of reach, when he hears of Elizabeth’s loss, he feels obligated to call and offer his assistance in Nicky’s stead. He intends to help her settle her financial affairs and make a quick exit…until he encounters her little boy, desolate with a grief that Hal, who lost his own father at an early age, recalls only too well.

So cautiously begins the dance of attraction between a gruff man’s man and a china-doll beauty who initially seem to have nothing in common…but come in time to realize they are each other’s perfect complement. I hope readers will agree.

And yeah, there is some pretty hot sex. (Don’t want you to think I don’t know how.)

So tell me what you think: am I the only coyote howling in the wildness on this issue? Do you want more, more, more of the hot stuff…or would you like to see a larger variety of stories not so preoccupied with the physical?

BTW, I have a monthly contest on my website where you can win books and other cool prizes, so stop by.

Our guest today is Julia Justiss and she has a very interesting post that will go up at 11am you should make sure you come check out.

She has one book and one novella coming out, A Most Unconventional Match is her full length July Harlequin Historical and is a sequel to The Wedding Gamble. If I remember the notes correctly.

As well as she will have a Christmas novella, Christmas Wedding Wish, in the November Harlequin Historical One Candlelit Christmas. I don’t have any info on this yet but read on for the summary and an excerpt from her July HH.

A Most Unconventional Match by Julia Justiss

Hal Waterman’s calling on the newly widowed Elizabeth Lowery is the caring act of a gentleman. And with her household in turmoil and a young son to support, she is certainly grateful for his help. Hal finds Elizabeth even more lovely than when they first met, but
knows that she will only ever see him as a kind and often taciturn friend.

Elizabeth finds comfort and companionship in Hal’s caring of her. But then a tantalizing desire starts to simmer. His reassuring strength and presence have become so very attractive…so alluring….

Leaning one broad shoulder against the wall, Hal Waterman exchanged an amused glance with Sir Edward Austen Greeves as they watched the bridegroom pacing in front of the hearth. “Wearing out the carpet, Nicky,” Hal pointed out. “Give the bride’s family a distaste of you. Best get the ring on her finger first.”

Nicholas Stanhope, Marquess of Englemere and Hal’s best friend since their Eton days, sent him an irritated look. “I can’t imagine what’s taking so long. The priest arrived half an hour ago.” Halting before a side mirror, he straightened the white rose in his buttonhole and tugged on his cravat.

“Adjust that once more and you’re going to ruin it,” Ned said. “I expect the ladies will be here shortly. Patience, my man! Every bride wants to look beautiful on her wedding day, even if she’s being married by special license in a parlor instead of in church after a calling of the banns.”

Nicholas swung his gaze around to glare at Ned. “Don’t you dare imply there’s anything havey-cavey about this! You both know—“

“We do,” Hal interrupted. “Mortgage foreclosure and all that. Had to rescue her. Great lady, Sarah. Good choice.” He nodded approvingly.

“Must be eagerness for the wedding night that makes you so testy,” Ned said. “You know we fully support your marrying Sarah and understand the necessity to do so immediately. And her family’s parlor might not be a church, but it’s just as handsomely appointed.”

Ned gestured around the room, indicating the side tables covered with lace cloths surmounted by silver candelabra, the large vases filled with greenery and white roses set beside the rows of chairs facing the fireplace, the mantel where a cross flanked by candles and more rose sprays created an improvised altar. “The ladies have outdone themselves.”

Though he’d resumed his nervous pacing, the tightness in Nicholas’s face loosened. “I want this day to be beautiful—for Sarah.”

“Great lady,” Hal repeated. “Wouldn’t mind marrying her m’self. If I wanted to marry. Don’t,” he added.

“Your mama still after you with her latest heiress in tow?” Ned asked. “As much as she disparages you, you’d think she wouldn’t be so eager to try to drag you into the parson’s mousetrap.”

“Wants to ‘improve’ me,” Hal said glumly. “Escaped her house, live in rooms, can’t work on me. Thinks a wife could.”

Nicholas halted long enough to thump Hal on the shoulder. “As if you needed improvement! You’re already the most stalwart companion a man could want.”

“Hear, hear,” Ned seconded and then shook his head. “Women.”

Giving his loyal friends a grateful smile, Hal gazed up at the altar. If he were forced to marry, Nicky’s soon-to-be bride would be almost his ideal choice, he thought. Lovely but not terrifyingly beautiful, competent, accomplished—and kind, Sarah Wellingford never made him feel clumsy, tongue-tied and thick-witted like the sharp-eyed, disdainful Diamonds of the ton his mother kept trying to foist on him.

Like his beautiful, self-absorbed, Society leader of a mother still did.

Since he had no intention, if and when he ever married, of wedding the sort of woman his mother preferred, he supposed he was fated to remain a disappointment to her. He shrugged off the dull ache produced by that old hurt.

“Ah, here they come at last!” Ned exclaimed as the parlor door opened.

The three men turned to watch as, led by the priest, the bridal party entered. First came the bride’s sisters, all adorned in white gowns trimmed with gold ribbon and cream rosebuds.

Meredyth, Cecily, Emma, Faith, Hal silently counted them off as they entered, trying to match faces to the names Nicky had given him. He’d just caught a glimpse of Nicky’s Sarah, resplendid in a gown of shimmering gold that made her silver-blond hair glow, when the last sister in line turned toward him after easing the bride’s long skirt through the door.

Elizabeth, Hal thought, before his breath whooshed out and his brain stuttered to a halt.

She was an angel come to earth. Nothing else could explain such perfection, the beauty radiating from her so intensely, as if she were lit from within, that Hal could feel the warmth of it all the way across the room.

His stunned senses took in the pure spun gold of her hair, the pale coral of her cheeks, the rose-petal-soft look of her skin, the pink bow of a mouth with its full lower lip. A slightly pointed chin imbued her face with character, saved it from a mere oval’s bland symmetry.

And her eyes—blue as the summer waves of the lake on his country estate, they impelled him to approach, as if he might discover the purpose of his life mirrored in the depths of those indigo pools.

An angel, his numbed wits repeated, or the reincarnation of the Botticelli Venus he’d seen in his well-traveled tutor’s pastel sketches.

Without conscious volition he walked toward her. She turned to him and smiled. A shock raced along his nerves from the top of his head to the soles of his feet.

She was the loveliest thing he’d ever beheld. Flawless. More beautiful even than his mother. His senses clamored to touch her, taste her.

The realization halted him in mid-stride.

Beautiful. Like his mother.

Lord in heaven, what was he thinking?

“Hal, you escort Elizabeth,” Ned murmured at his shoulder.

Escort her? Panic filled him and a cold sweat broke out on his brow, dampened his fingers. “Can’t!” he replied in a strangled voice. Turning on his heel, he hurriedly paced to the farthest corner of the room.

CHAPTER 1

Seven Years Later

Elizabeth Wellingford Lowery stood in her studio, brush in hand as she focused on the play of light across the flower in the vase on her worktable.

If she blocked out everything but the change of hues painted across the flower’s surface by the ebb and flow of the clouds in the sky outside her window, she might be able to keep out of consciousness for a bit longer the bitter awareness that her life had crumbled into pieces.

She should be able to concentrate. She always painted this time of the morning, while the northern light remained steady, often becoming so absorbed in her work she forgot to stop for nuncheon.

How often had Everitt had to knock at that door and come in to collect her? Her heart squeezed in another spasm of grief as she recalled how he’d approach her, a teasing smile on his careworn face as he coaxed her to put down her brush and join him and their son David for a light midday meal.

She needed sustenance lest she slip away, as ethereal as the angel she appeared to be, he’d tell her, giving a loving tug to whichever strand of golden hair had escaped from the careless chignon into which she always twisted it.

But he was the one who had slipped away unexpectedly, taking her secure world with him.

She didn’t want to leave her studio, didn’t want to emerge into the tangle of duties beyond that door where she would have to face how much everything had changed. Even after a month, it was still too much to deal with, losing the kindest man who’d ever lived, who’d cared for her as if she were a precious object too fine and delicate for life on earth. Having Amelia Lowery, his elderly cousin who’d run their household with great efficiency, so incapacitated by the shock of Everett’s death that despite her own dismay and grief, Elizabeth had insisted the older woman give up her work and rest. Having been therefore compelled to supervise tasks she’d never before had to oversee, and all of that with her entire family gone on a long-delayed Grand Tour of the continent barely a week before Everitt’s untimely death.

Aside from Amelia, Everitt had no other close relations, so with her own family out of reach, she’d had no one to turn to, no one to help her bear the agony and the crushing responsibility. The only thing that made life endurable was being able to escape for a few hours every morning into this haven where she might blank from her mind all but the task of capturing with her brush the shape and substance and hue of the subject on her worktable.

Leaving David confined upstairs with his Nurse. Her chest tightened again with grief and guilt. He was suffering too, her precious son, missing the Papa who had doted on him as lovingly as he had doted on her. How could she help him when she couldn’t even help herself?

Tears welled in her eyes. Angrily she dashed them. Enough! She must pull herself out of this mire of grief and self-pity.

Someday soon she would do better, she promised herself. She’d wake in the new day without the constant, crushing weight of sadness on her chest. But for now, she would fix her mind only on the pure intensity of the hue in the flower before her.

A soft rap sounded at the door. For an instant, her spirits soared before the realization settled like a rock in her gut. It couldn’t be Everitt. It would never again be Everitt.

She took a deep breath as Sands, her butler, bowed himself in. “Sorry to disturb you, mistress, but…well, ‘tis nearly a month since the beginning of the quarter and none of the staff have yet been paid. I’ve tried to stifle their grumbling, knowing how overset you’ve been, but it would be best if you would take care of compensating them.”

Elizabeth stared at Sands as if he’d been speaking in tongues. “Compensating them?” she echoed blankly.

“Normally the staff are paid at the start of every quarter,” he explained patiently. “From a cache of coins the master kept in the locked chest in the bookroom.”

Naturally the servants would be wanting their money. But she’d had no idea about quarter day, nor had she the faintest notion what amounts were owed to the various members of her household.

Where could she find such information?

“Mistress?” Sands prompted, recalling her attention. “I suppose I could go ask Miss Amelia—“

“No, you were right to come to me,” Elizabeth interrupted. “Miss Lowery must have absolute rest, the physician said, if she is to recover from her attack. Of course everyone must be paid. Thank you for bringing the matter to my attention.”

His task accomplished, the butler turned to leave. “Oh, Sands!” she recalled him. “Are there…any coins in the master’s chest at present?”

“I have no idea, ma’am.”

“Very well. And…do you know where my husband kept the key?”

“I believe it is in the top right drawer of his desk, Mrs. Lowery.”

“The…the amount of each person’s salary,” she continued, painfully embarrassed by her ignorance. “Where might I find that?”

“I expect it would be recorded in one of the ledgers on the master’s desk. Or his man of business might have a list. Would you like nuncheon served in an hour?”

Numbly she nodded. “In an hour. Yes, that would be fine.”

Sympathy in his eyes, the butler bowed again and went out, softly closing the door behind him. Elizabeth put down the brush she was still holding and sank into a chair.

What if she could not find the right ledger? What if there was no more money in the chest? How was she to obtain more? Oh, she did not want to deal with this!

If only, after her marriage to Everitt, she had insisted upon taking over some of the housekeeping duties Miss Lowery performed so well, she wouldn’t be this lost and unprepared. But one look at Amelia’s anxious face as she curtsied to Elizabeth when the newly-wedded couple arrived in London, the elderly spinster’s fingers twisting nervously in the fabric of her gown as she assured Elizabeth she quite understood the new bride would want to assume the management of her own household, and Elizabeth knew she could never wrest away from her husband’s poor relation the task which gave her such satisfaction. Especially not after Everitt confided to her that, the Lowery family possessing few close kinsmen, Amelia Lowery really had nowhere else to go.

Which brought her back to her present problem. She drew a shuddering breath.

It was only a list of employees. It was only a supply of coin. She could manage this. She could.

She’d look in the bookroom later. After nuncheon. For now, it was still painting time. She would remain here in this tranquil space for just a little longer. Smoothing her dull black skirts with a trembling hand, she rose and walked to her easel.

Before she could pick her brush back up, there was another knock at the door and Sands peeped in. “Sir Gregory Holburn to see you, mistress. Do you wish to receive him?”

Her immediate response was to refuse, but she bit it back. She’d not met her late husband’s closest friend since the funeral more than a month ago, an event that, transpiring as it had in a blur of shock and misery, she scarcely remembered.

She hadn’t stepped a foot outside the house after returning from the interment. And since Everitt had cared more for collecting his antiquities than for mingling with society and she had cared about mingling in society not at all, with her family out of England, she’d not had any callers.

Sir Gregory had always treated her kindly, almost like an avuncular uncle. He would worry if she refused to meet him.

With a sigh she stripped off the full-length apron she wore to save her gown from the worst of the paint spatters. “Very well. Show him to the blue salon and tell him I’ll join him shortly.”

She walked to the small mirror over her workbench, frowning as she scraped back the loose strands of hair and tucked them into the chignon. Her face was pale, her eyes dull. Everitt would say she looked like she was going into a decline.

And so I am, without you, my dear, she whispered softly. Gritting her teeth against another swell of useless grief, she forced a smile to her lips and headed for the blue salon.

Sir Gregory jumped to his feet as she entered. A tall, well-built man in his fortieth year, his light brown hair as yet showed no trace of gray…unlike the silver-tinted locks of Everitt, who’d been five years his senior. Friends from their youth, the two men had grown up in the same area of Oxfordshire and attended the same college.

His light brown eyes lighting with pleasure, Sir Gregory took the hand she offered and kissed it. “How have you been getting on? I’m sorry not to have come sooner; estate business at Holburn Hall kept me tied up longer than I’d expected.”

“I hope everything is going well there,” Elizabeth said politely. Absently she wondered how Everitt’s neighboring property, Lowery Manor, was faring. Since their marriage, they’d spent little time there, her husband preferring to reside in London where he might more easily acquire items for his collection.

“Some difficulties with the planting, but well enough.” Eyeing her more closely, he shook his head. “You look tired and care-worn. Is Miss Lowery still confined to her bed and unable to assist? My poor Lizbet, I knew I should have come back sooner to check on you!”

“How kind of you,” Elizabeth replied, acknowledging his concern. “I’m afraid Miss Lowery is so far from recovered she must not even think of returning to her duties. I get on well enough, I suppose, though it is…difficult.” She attempted a smile. “So many things to do! Reviewing menus, inspecting linens, checking silver, ordering coal—I had no idea how much was required to run a household. Did you know there are at least seventeen different recipes for preparing chicken?”

“Seventeen?” He chuckled. “Who would have thought?”

“And where does one obtain the coin to pay one’s servants?” She shook her head and sighed. “Miss Lowery and Everitt spoiled me dreadfully, I’m discovering.”

Holburn took her hand and patted it. “Dear lady, you are too young and lovely to trouble yourself with such trivialities! Now that I’ve returned to London, I do hope you’ll allow me to lift some of those burdens from your shoulders.” Letting go her fingers, he extracted a small purse from the pocket of his coat. “How much coin do you need for the servants?”

Tempting as it was to transfer all her tiresome duties into his willing hands, Elizabeth hesitated. Husband’s best friend not withstanding, there was no link of kinship between them whatsoever. She could not but feel it went beyond the limits of what was proper to accept any of his kindly-offered assistance. Without doubt, she knew she must not take money from him, even as a temporary loan.

“That won’t be necessary, Sir Gregory, although I do thank you for offering. You must ignore my hen-hearted complaining! I shall learn to manage soon enough.”

“You are sure?” When she nodded, he continued, “Very well, I shall do nothing—this time. But my offer stands. I should be honored to assist you in any way, at any time.”

As the mantle clock chimed the hour, she rose. David would be waiting for her, anxious for his nuncheon. “Should you like to join us for some light refreshment?”

“You will take it with your son?”

“Yes. By noon he’s grown quick peckish.”

“I fear I must decline. Another time, perhaps?”

“Of course.” She escorted him from the parlor, secretly relieved he’d refused the invitation she’d felt obligated to offer. But Sir Gregory did not enjoy children—and David, perhaps sensing as children often do the attitude of the adults around them, most decidedly did not like Sir Gregory.

Sometime this afternoon, she still must solve the riddle of paying her servants. Turning her visitor over to Sands, with a longing glance in the direction of her studio, Elizabeth walked upstairs to find her son.

In his bachelor quarters on the other side of Mayfair, Hal Waterman frowned at the notice printed in the newspaper. Having returned to London just last evening after spending two months monitoring a new canal project in the north, he was still sorting through the journals and correspondence that had accumulated in his absence.

Carrying the paper with him, Hal dropped into the chair by the fireplace where his valet Jeffers had left him a glass of wine, gratefully settling back against its wide, custom-designed cushions. Taller and more powerfully built than most of his countrymen, after his sojourn in assorted inns over the last weeks, he was thoroughly tired of trying to sleep in beds too short for his long legs and sit in wing chairs too narrow for his broad shoulders.

Scanning the notice again, he sighed. Mr. Everitt Lowery, it read, of Lowery Manor in Oxfordshire and Green Street in London, unexpectedly expired in this city on the seventh inst.–almost six weeks ago now. Surviving him are his widow, Elizabeth nee Wellingford and one son, David.

Elizabeth. Even now, seven years after his first glimpse of her at the wedding of his friend Nicholas to her sister Sarah, the whisper of her name reverberated through his mind, exciting a tingling in his nerves and a stirring in his loins.

Despite knowing Nicky’s wedding service had been about to begin, he’d barely been able to keep himself from bolting from the room that long-ago day. As it was, drenched in panic, he’d had to station himself as far from the enchanting Elizabeth as the confines of the parlor allowed, remaining at the reception afterwards only until he deemed it was politely possible to excuse himself.

Until he encountered Elizabeth Wellingford, armored by a lifetime of scornful treatment at the elegant hands of his beautiful mother, he’d thought himself immune to those pinnacles of perfect female form who so easily enslaved the men around them. Which, for Hal, made Elizabeth Wellingford the most dangerous woman in England. Even knowing what she could and probably would do to him, he’d still been…mesmerized.

The only sensible response was to stay as far away from her as possible. Over the intervening years, keeping that resolve turned out to be easier than he’d first feared, given that her sister had married his best friend. A few months after Nicky’s nuptials, shunning a Season, Elizabeth Wellingford had chosen to wed a family friend she’d known all her life, a gentleman more than twenty years her senior.

So fortunately for his piece of mind, the bewitching Elizabeth had never joined the ranks of the hopefuls on the Marriage Mart, that small section of ton society in which his mother took greatest interest. Each Season Mama inspected the new arrivals, choosing those she deigned to honor with her friendship—and whom she would then parade before her son in the hope, mercifully thus far unrealized, of enticing—or coercing—him into marrying some woman of fashion who might be trusted to try to remake her overly tall, totally unfashionable, monosyllabic only child.

A hopeless task, if Mama would just cease stubbornly refusing to concede the fact. In a society that prized dark, whipcord slender men like that lisping poet Lord Byron, Hal was too big, too fair-haired, and from his years of fencing and riding, too thickly muscled to ever to be considered one of ton’s dashing young blades.

Prizing comfort and utility above all, he had no patience for coats that required a valet to wrestle him in and out of them, shirts with points so high and stiff they scratched his chin or fanciful cravats that threatened to choke him whenever he swallowed.

And though, with Nicky’s help, he’d overcome the stuttering that had made his school years a misery, he would never be capable of uttering long flowing phrases full of the elegant compliments so beloved by ladies.

He sighed. He would always be an embarrassment to Mama and there was nothing to be done about it.

Shifting his gaze to the matter at hand, he looked back at the funeral notice he still held. So Elizabeth was now a widow. Too young and lovely a lady to be wearing black, he thought, a touch of sadness in his chest at the premature loss she had suffered. Then a startling, highly unpleasant realization brought him out of his chair and sent him rushing to his desk.

Impatiently he flipped through the papers until he found Nicky’s note. As he reviewed it, a scowl settled on his face.

Hell and damnation! He had remembered the dates correctly. Nicholas, Sarah, their children and all the rest of the Stanhopes and Wellingfords—all of Elizabeth’s family–had departed for Europe, it appeared, barely a week before Everitt Lowery’s passing. The family party was not due to return to England for another three months at the earliest.

There was no help for it. Despite his vow never to willingly place himself again in the same room with the lady who had so shaken his world, that lady was Nicky’s sister-in-law. With her family out of reach, Nicky would expect Hal to call on the widow, insure that her husband’s lawyer and man of business had her financial affairs well in hand and, in Nicky’s stead, offer to assist her with anything she required.

Going back to his chair, Hal sighed and downed a large swallow of the wine. Please heaven, let Lowery have left a decent will and employed a competent man of business. The Wellingfords had been nearly penniless when Nicky married Sarah, so Hal knew Elizabeth probably hadn’t brought much of a dowry to her marriage. He hoped Lowery’s finances were such that he’d been able to leave his widow a comfortable jointure.

Of course, that didn’t mean she couldn’t easily run herself into dun territory. As Hal recalled, a woman’s response to both joy and calamity involved the acquiring of a large number of new gowns, bonnets, pelisses, footwear and the nameless other fripperies females seemed so fond of. That had always been his mother’s way and he had no reason to expect that a woman as stupendously beautiful as Elizabeth Lowery would react any differently.

With it having been six weeks since her husband’s demise, he’d best gird himself to call on Mrs. Lowery immediately to make sure she wasn’t already having to outrun the constable. Lowery’s fatherless son didn’t need to have his mama land them in debtor’s prison.

Taking another deep draught of wine, he recalled sardonically the bulging armoires in his mother’s several dressing rooms. Only the gigantic size of his father’s fortune had allowed Hal to achieve his majority—and assume control of his mother’s finances– with that lady still possessing a sizeable portion. Unless Lowery had tied up his funds carefully and appointed a vigilant trustee, if she spent her blunt as freely as Letitia Waterman, Lowery’s lovely widget of a wife could swiftly exhaust a modest competence.

Fulfilling his duty as Nicky’s stand-in shouldn’t be that burdensome, he reassured himself. He’d probably only need to visit the widow once, after which he’d be able to deal directly deal with Lowery’s man of business. Besides, it had been a very long time since he’d seen Elizabeth.

Having weathered seven Seasons’ worth of Beauties posing, posturing and pouting before him, he was doubtless no longer as impressionable as he’d been that long-ago afternoon. Besides, ‘twas likely that over the years, memory had exaggerated the incident. Wary as he was of winsome women, surely when he met Elizabeth now he’d experience only a mild appreciation for her striking loveliness.

After all, a man could appreciate a masterpiece of art without aching to possess it.

Hal took a deep breath. He could do this. And he would…tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow he would meet Elizabeth Wellingford Lowery again.

Harlequin Historical is a registered trademark of Harlequin Enterprises Limited. As such all excerpts are copyrighted © and all rights are reserved.

by Terri Brisbin

I got the idea for this posting from Deb Marlowe’s about breaking the rules in Regency romances. In reading that and thinking about my own books, I realized that most of my books have broken rules that lots of readers and writers think apply to Harlequin Historicals. What do you think?? Have you heard these before?

Rule #1 – Heroines must be the virginal type.

No one told me about this one, so the heroine of my first HH book (The Dumont Bride – 2002) is pregnant with another man’s child when she marries the hero. Of course, he doesn’t know it and is none too pleased when he finds out and, of course, it’s at the worst possible time. As I think about it, the first three heroines I wrote for HH were all non-virgins, only to be followed by one who was the village harlot and another who was the king’s mistress!

Rule #2 – Heroes must be heroic.

Does that mean that they can’t be bent on revenge, reformed rapists or out to teach the heroine a lesson or two? Can they not take a castle away from the fair maiden or hold her siblings hostage? Can he not be a man who’s already killed his first wife or one who meant to marry another woman? I’ve written award-winning stories that have had all of the above and are some of my most emotional books and my readers’ favorites.

My Rule: An author can break any and all of the supposed rules if they make it work in their story.

Being true to the characters, to their time period, to their journeys is the key to creating emotionally-satisfying romances where even heroes can begin the story as less than heroic. Christian, Royce, Geoffrey, Sebastian and Connor all begin their journeys as less-than-perfect people, but learn and grow through the power of love and through the strength of the woman they each love.

I should be candid though — I have fallen prey to the some of the rumored and reader-loved characters that seem to be related to Harlequin romances. . . yes, I have had amnesiac brides and secret babies! Oh my! And do you know why? Because they work! They challenge me to write an intense, believable characters and a plot that makes sense while ratcheting up the sexual tension and the moving the romance along, too!

So, I think it’s all in the delivery. What do you think?

by Louise Allen

I only wish I knew. I’m working on my 28th Historical and while I can usually spot the origins of a plot idea, and heroines make themselves known in an orderly, well-mannered way, I can never tell where my heroes have come from. Sometimes I’m convinced they exist in a parallel universe, all ready to step out and take over my book, just when I’m deluding myself that I’ve got it all under control.

That certainly happened with Lord Sebastian Ravenhurst, aka Jack Ryder, inspiration for my series Those Scandalous Ravenhursts.

The hero of No Place For A Lady needed a discreet enquiry agent to trace his long-lost wife. I was confidently expecting a retired Bow Street Runner to turn up, but no, in strolls Jack Ryder with his grey, swordsman’s, eyes, his skills as a card sharp and his very mysterious background. After I’d finished fanning myself and struggling to keep the man under control and stop him taking over the book, I knew I had to tell Jack’s story.

I didn’t mean to write a series, but Jack/Sebastian was not going to retreat from the stage once he had found his true love. Oh no, he had every intention of settling down at the desk with me and telling me all about the rest of his family, his sister and an extended network of cousins. Before I knew it, I had a series on my hands and the men were all very positive about who they were and what their names were.

Bad Boy Theophilus (well, his father’s a bishop) became assertive about his red hair, however much I tried to make him a blond, Gareth was quite clear that I was wrong about him being respectable, sensible and responsible, Eden dug his heels in and showed alarming signs of never admitting that love existed, Ashe was far too much of a flirt for what I had in mind, and as for Nathan – I’m bracing myself now for him to appear.

Are my heroes responding to what my subconscious is telling me is right for my heroines, all of whom I know very well before I type the first word? Logic tells me it must be that, but experience makes me wonder. And it isn’t just my heroes either. I’ve lost count of the emails from fellow writers, all bemoaning their hero’s latest blow for independence. “He’s kissed her!” they complain. “He isn’t meant to, not yet!” “He’s been married before,” they gasp. “I never knew that!”

My heroines, on the other hand, all have sensible discussions with me if they don’t agree with something, pointing out the roots of their motivation, explaining why they feel as they do. But my heroes? Independent, assertive and downright difficult to a man – mind you, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

The Dangerous Mr. Ryder by Louise Allen releases 1 July 2008.  Read on for more on a whole family of notorious goodness…

It is whispered about the ton that one Mr R-, long known for his ability to escape the honest bonds of matrimony in favour of a dishonest day’s work – has finally met his match! Jack Ryder, spy and adventurer knows that escorting the haughty Grand Duchess Eva to England one step ahead of Napoleon’s forces will not be an easy task. But then what started as just another mission becomes something far more personal…

Summary:

He knows that escorting the haughty Grand Duchess of Maubourg to England will not be an easy task. But Jack Ryder, spy and adventurer, believes he is more than capable of managing Her Serene Highness.

He’s not prepared for her beauty, her youth, or the way that her sensual warmth shines through her cold facade.

And what started as just another mission is rapidly becoming something far more personal….

E-X-C-E-R-P-T

From Chapter One…

No-one had told him that she was beautiful. Jack Ryder crouched precariously in a stone window embrasure two hundred feet above the ravine river bed and stared into the candlelit room. Inside, the woman he had been sent to find paced to and fro like an angry cat.

It was definitely time to get off this widow ledge. He grasped the frame, put his feet through and swung himself down into the room. There was no way he could land silently, not dropping eight foot onto a stone flagged floor in nailed boots. She spun round on her chair, gripping the back of it, her face reflecting the gamut of emotions from shock, puzzlement, fear and finally, he was impressed to see, imperious anger masking all else. They had not told him about her courage.

‘Who the devil are you?’ she demanded in unaccented English, getting to her feet with perfect deportment, as though rising from a throne. Her right hand, Jack noted, was behind her: he searched his memory for his survey of the room. Ah yes, the paper knife. A resourceful lady.

‘You speak English excellently,’ he commented. He knew from his briefing that she was half English, so it was only to be expected, but it was a more tactful beginning to their conversation than Put down that knife before I make you! might be. ‘But how did you know I would understand you?’

She looked down her nose at him. Jack registered dark eyes, thinly elegant eyebrows arched in distain, a red mouth with a fullness which betrayed more passion than she was perhaps comfortable with and one deep brown curl, disturbed from her coiffure and lying tantalisingly against her white shoulder. He focused on those eyes and banished the fleeting speculation about just how the skin under that curl would feel.

‘You will address me as Your Serene Highness,’ she said coolly. ‘I was thinking in English,’ she added, almost as an afterthought.

‘Your Serene Highness,’ he swept her a bow, conscious of his clothing as he did so. He was dressed for the purpose of shinning down castle walls, not making court bows, but he managed it with a grace that had one of those dark brows lifting in surprise. ‘My name is Jack Ryder.’ He had wrestled with whether or not to tell her his real name and decided against it. His nom de guerre would be safer in the event they were captured.

‘Then you are English Mr Ryder?’

‘Yes ma’am.’

‘So you have not come to kill me?’

www.louiseallenregency.co.uk

Louise Allen – Those Scandalous Ravenhursts. Seven close cousins, six very different love stories:

The Dangerous Mr. Ryder – July 2008

The Outrageous Lady Felsham – August 2008

The Shocking Lord Standon – September 2008

And in 2009:

The Disgraceful Mr. Ravenhurst

The Notorious Mr. Hurst

The Piratical Miss Ravenhurst

by Nicola Cornick

It’s a huge pleasure to be here today as part of the spotlight on Harlequin Historicals! And now I have a question for you… Why aren’t there more Edwardian-set historical romances?

I asked a friend this question the other day and she looked at me for a moment and then said: “I think it’s because we know what happens next.”

She wasn’t talking about the HEA ending, of course. She was talking about the First World War, which swept away the structure of Edwardian society and with it a generation of young men, the “lost generation”. Can this really be the reason why so few authors set books in this period?

Historical hindsight can be a wonderful thing but sometimes, as in this case, it may be a problem as well. But I don’t think it has to be. One of my favourite historical heroines is Anne Boleyn. I’m fascinated by her life and will read any number of books about her even though I know her story doesn’t exactly have a happy ending. Marrying King Henry VIII was a risky business but it makes for a great piece of storytelling. And then there’s King Richard III, another of my dream dinner party guests but not exactly a man looking forward to a long and happy life. Strangely the fact that I know what happened to these people in the end doesn’t spoil my enjoyment of their story. Far from it.

My book The Last Rake in London is set in 1908 against the background of Edwardian high society. It’s a fabulous era in which to set a historical romance. The upper classes were extravagantly rich and conspicuous in their consumption but their entire way of life could only be sustained through employing an army of servants. The servant class were the ones who worked their fingers to the bone to keep life ticking over on the huge country house estates. Some women were actively campaigning for the right to vote. Others opposed it.

Developments in science and technology were breathtaking. This gave me the opportunity to make my hero, Jack Kestrel, not only the last of an aristocratic line but also a self-made man with interests in the aviation business. In some ways I was tempting fate here. Jack, being the kind of man he is would be bound to be at the forefront of developments in flying when the First World War begins. Actually I see him as one of the founder members of the Royal Air Force, a flying ace, a total hero. But that’s another story…

So let’s hear it for Edwardian-set romances. As with other historical romance we can let our imagination go wild. We might know what happens next in history but within that we can imagine a story for the characters that is all their own.

Contest Alert! Join in on the discussion for a chance to win a signed copy of The Last Rake In London!

It should just be said… expect sybil to be late… really late on Saturdays. Hey it is 9am somewhere *g*

Today’s guest is Nicola Cornick, who has a couple of books coming out in the US this year as well as a few more in the UK.

The Last Rake in London has been reviewed by the ever fab Wendy. Do check it out! And then read on for the summary, excerpt and a touch on what to look for in July.

Sally Bowes is a scandalous figure in Edwardian London. The owner of the outrageously fashionable night club, The Blue Parrot, Sally guards her business and her heart well. But when she meets Jack Kestrel, both come under threat…

Jack Kestrel is known as the last rake in London. Descended from the ancestral line of the devastatingly attractive Dukes of Kestrel, Jack is dangerous and dissolute and irresistible. When Jack and Sally start a passionate affair, neither of them think that the last rake in London might finally lose his heart.

You can find another nifty excerpt at her site here don’t miss it…

E-X-C-E-R-P-T

The Last Rake in London by Nicola Cornick

‘Miss Bowes?’

The voice was low, mellow and familiar. It spoke in Sally’s ear and she came awake abruptly. For a moment she could not remember where she was. Her neck ached slightly and her cheek was pressed against something cold.

Paper.

She had fallen asleep in her office again. Her head was resting on the piles of invoices and orders that were on the desk. She half-opened her eyes. It was almost dark. The lamp glowed softly and from beyond the door drifted the faint sound of music, the babble of voices and the scent of cigar smoke and wine. That meant it must be late; the evening’s entertainments at the Blue Parrot Club had already begun.

‘Miss Bowes?’

This time the voice sounded considerably less agreeable and more than a little impatient. Sally sat up, wincing as her stiff muscles protested, and rubbed her eyes. She blinked them open, stopped, stared, then rubbed them again to ensure that she was not dreaming.

She was not. He was still there.

Jack Kestrel was leaning forward, both hands on the top of her desk, which brought his dark eyes level with hers and put him approximately six inches away from her. From such an intimate distance Sally could not focus on all his features at once, but she remembered them clearly enough from the previous night. He was not a man one would forget in a hurry, for his appearance was very striking. He had dark brown hair, very silky looking and a little ruffled from the summer breeze, a nose that was straight and verging on the aquiline and a sinfully sensuous mouth. Sally was not generally impressed by good looks alone. She was no foolish débutante to lose her head over a handsome man. But Jack Kestrel had had charm to burn and she had enjoyed talking to him the previous night. She had enjoyed his company too much, in fact. Spending time with him had been dangerously seductive. It would have been all too easy to accept his escort, and then, perhaps, to accept an invitation to dinner…

Sally had not been so tempted in a very long time and had known she could not afford to get to know Jack Kestrel any better. As soon as he had told her his name she had been wary, for all of Edwardian society knew who he was. The ancestral line of the Dukes of Kestrel had bred rakes and rogues aplenty in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries and there were those who said that this man was the last Kestrel rake, cut from the same cloth as his ancestors. Cousin to the present Duke, eventual heir to the dukedom, he had been banished abroad in his youth as a result of an outrageous scandal involving a married woman and had returned ten years later having made an independent fortune.

Sally could see why he had gained the reputation he had. There was certainly something powerfully virile about him. Women were supposed to swoon at his feet and she had no intention of joining their ranks and littering his path.

She realised that she was still staring at him. Suddenly hot, she dragged her gaze away from Jack’s mouth and met his eyes. His expression was distinctly unfriendly. She drew back immediately, instinctively, and saw his gaze narrow at her reaction. He straightened up and moved away from the desk.

He was not in evening dress tonight and Sally thought that looking as he did, he could not be mistaken for a member of the Blue Parrot’s usual clientele. The club catered for the filthy rich members of King Edward’s circle who were mainly fat, pampered and accustomed to soft living, and to the sophisticated American visitors whose money and influence increasingly held sway in London. Occasionally the club also hosted the soldier sons of the old aristocracy, roistering it up on leave. Jack Kestrel looked as though he might have been a soldier once—he had a long scar down one lean cheek—and he certainly looked as though he would be more at home on the North-west Frontier or in southern Africa than in a club off the Strand. He was very tall, broad and sunburnt and Sally guessed he was about thirty. Instead of evening dress he wore a long driving coat in dark brown leather over a suit that was as carelessly casual as only Savile Row could make, and he carried his height with a lounging grace that was compulsive to watch. He turned back towards her and Sally felt her breathing constrict. She could not deny that Jack Kestrel had a dangerously masculine appearance. His features were hard and uncompromising.

‘I apologise for waking you,’ he drawled. ‘I suppose that in your profession you must snatch your sleep where you can.’

Sally was not quite sure what to make of that. Although she enjoyed accounting, she did not normally find it so riveting that it kept her from her bed. She was tired that evening only because she had been out late at the Wallace Collection the night before and then up early supervising the final redecorations of the Crimson Salon, which was to open to the public in two weeks’ time. The renovations had taken six months and the new developments were going to be the talk of London.

Even the King himself had promised to attend the unveiling.

‘You are Miss Bowes?’ Jack added, for a third time, when Sally still did not speak. Now he sounded downright impatient.

‘I…Yes, I am. I told you that last night.’Sally cleared her throat. She realised that she did not sound very sure. She certainly did not sound like the authoritative owner of the most successful and avant-garde club in London. Once, long ago, in the genteel drawing rooms of Oxford, she had indeed been Miss Bowes, the eldest daughter, sister to Miss Petronella and Miss Constance. But a great deal had happened since then.

Under Jack Kestrel’s pitiless dark gaze she felt younger than her twenty-seven years, young and strangely vulnerable. She straightened in her chair, brushed the tangled hair out of her eyes and hoped desperately that the ink-stains she could see on her fingers did not also adorn her face. It was infuriating that she had been caught like this. Normally she would change into an evening gown before the club opened, but because she had fallen asleep she had not had time, and no one had come to wake her.

‘What can I do for you, Mr Kestrel?’ She assumed her most businesslike voice. She had already realised that this could not be a social call to follow up their meeting the previous night. No matter how brief and sweet their encounter had seemed at the time, something fundamental had changed. Now he was angry. ‘I think you must know perfectly well why I am here, Miss Bowes.’ Jack’s tone was clipped. ‘Had I known who you were last night, I would have broached the matter then. As it was, I realised your identity too late. But you must surely have known I would seek you out.’

Sally got to her feet. It made her feel stronger and more capable. ‘I am sorry,’ she said politely, ‘but I have no idea what you are talking about, Mr Kestrel, nor why you are here, unless it is to enjoy the famous hospitality of the Blue Parrot.’

She had heard that Jack Kestrel had once spent a thousand pounds on champagne alone in one sitting at the gambling tables in Monte Carlo. Sally wished that he would do the same at the Blue Parrot. But it seemed unlikely, given the hostile expression on his face.

Jack’s mouth twisted with sarcastic appreciation at her words. ‘Legendary as I understand the Blue Parrot’s hospitality to be, Miss Bowes,’ he drawled, ‘that is not what I came for.’

Sally shrugged. ‘Then if you could perhaps enlighten me?’ She gestured to the papers on the desk. ‘Stimulating as your company is, Mr Kestrel, I do not have the time to play guessing games with you. As I mentioned last night, my work is my passion and I am keen to return to it.’

Some emotion flared behind his eyes, vivid as lightning. Sally could feel the anger and antagonism in him even more powerfully now, held under tight control, but almost tangible. She wished the lamps were turned up. In the semi-darkness she felt at a strong disadvantage.

‘I can quite believe that you have a passion for what you do, Miss Bowes,’ Jack said, through his teeth. ‘You must possess a great deal of nerve to pretend that you are unaware of my business with you.’

Sally did not reply immediately. She moved out from behind the shelter of the desk, turned up one of the gas lamps, struck a match and lit the second and the third. She was pleased to see that her hands were quite steady, betraying none of the nervousness she was feeling inside. She could feel Jack Kestrel watching her, his dark eyes fixed on her face. She wished the room were a little bigger. His physical presence felt almost overwhelming.

She turned to find that he was standing directly behind her. There was something close to a smile lurking in his eyes, but it was not a reassuring smile. Now that she was standing she found that her head reached only to his shoulder, and she was a tall woman. It was unusual for her to have to look up in order to look a man in the eyes.

‘Well?’he said softly. ‘Have you changed your mind about this unconvincing little game of pretence that we are indulging in?’ His appraising dark gaze travelled over her. ‘I must confess that you are not quite as I imagined,’he added slowly. He raised a hand and turned her face to the light. ‘When we met last night I thought your looks unusual, but when I found out who you were I was surprised. I was expecting someone a great deal more conventionally pretty. After all, they call you the Beautiful Miss Bowes, do they not—’

Sally slapped his hand away. Despite her anger, his touch had made her skin prickle. His gaze made her acutely aware of her body beneath the plain brown shirt and skirt she was wearing. She felt very strange… She paused to think about the hot, melting feeling within her. She felt as though she was bursting out of her corset and coming unlaced. Not a single one of the gentlemen who frequented the Blue Parrot had ever made her feel that way, although plenty had tried.

‘Mr Kestrel…’ she kept her voice steady ‘…you speak in riddles. Worse, you are boring me. My good looks, or lack of them, are something about which I alone need be concerned. As for the rest, unless you explain yourself I shall have to call my staff to remove you.’

He laughed and his hand fell to his side. ‘I’d like to see them try. But I will explain myself with pleasure, Miss Bowes.’He spoke with deceptive gentleness. ‘I am here to take back the letters that my foolish cousin Bertie Basset wrote to you. The ones you are threatening to publish unless his dying father pays you off.’

His words made no sense to Sally. She knew Bertie Basset, of course. He was a young sprig of the nobility, charming but not over-endowed with brains, who came to the Blue Parrot to play high and drink with the girls. When last she had seen him, her sister Connie had been sitting on his knee as he played poker in the Green Room.

Connie… Of course…

Sally rubbed her brow. Jack had called her the Beautiful Miss Bowes, but it was Connie, her youngest sister, who was known by that title. If she had not been so distracted by Jack Kestrel’s touch, she would have realised sooner that he must have confused her with Connie. Miss Constance Bowes was indeed so beautiful that the gentlemen wrote sonnets to her eyebrows and made extravagant promises that she was quick to capitalise upon. But Sally had never envied her sister’s looks, not when she had the brains of the family.

Jack Kestrel was watching the expressions that chased across her face.

‘So,’he said thoughtfully, ‘when I first mentioned the matter you had no idea what I was talking about, did you, Miss Bowes? And then, suddenly, you realised.’

‘How on earth do you know?’ Sally snapped. She was annoyed with herself for having given so much away.

‘You have a very expressive face.’Jack sat down on the edge of her desk and swung his foot idly. ‘So you are not Bertie’s mistress. I might have guessed. He would be too young and unsubtle to be a match for you, Miss Bowes.’

‘Whereas you, Mr Kestrel,’Sally said, very drily, ‘no doubt claim, quite truthfully, to be far more experienced.’

Jack shot her a sinfully wicked grin. For a second it reminded her forcibly of their meeting the previous night. Sally’s knees weakened and her toes curled within her sensible shoes. ‘Naturally,’ he said. ‘And please call me Jack. I doubt that this place operates on formality.’

It did not, of course, but Sally was not going to let Jack Kestrel tell her what to do in her own club.

‘Mr Kestrel,’ she said, ‘we digress. As you so perceptively pointed out, I am not your cousin’s mistress. I know nothing of this matter. I believe there must have been a misunderstanding.’

Jack sighed. His expression hardened again. ‘There usually is in cases like this, Miss Bowes. The misunderstanding is that my uncle is going to part with a large sum of money.’

This time the angry colour stung Sally’s face. ‘I am not attempting to blackmail anyone!’

‘Perhaps not.’ Jack came to his feet in a fluid movement. ‘But I also believe that you know who is.’

Sally stared at him, her mind working feverishly. If her guess was correct, then her sister Connie, the toast of London, had done a monumentally foolish thing and was trying to blackmail a peer of the realm. Unfortunately it was all too easy to believe because, though Connie might be incredibly pretty, she was not over-endowed with intelligence. And she was spoilt. If she did not get what she wanted, she would stamp her foot.

Harlequin Historical is a registered trademark of Harlequin Enterprises Limited. As such all excerpts are copyrighted © and all rights are reserved.

And here is a something you should check out. It isn’t a Harlequin Historical but will publish under the HQN line 1 July 2008 (don’t ask me what that means I am guessing it stands for “Harlequin”). The line does both historicals and contemps. This is historical.. YAY!
Unmasked by Nicola Cornick

Over the wild hills and valleys of North Yorkshire the notorious gang of highwaywomen the Glory Girls ride, to right the injustices of society. When Major Nick Falconer is sent to unmask Glory he finds instead the very proper widow Marina Osborne.

Nick never expected that Mari would be so intoxicatingly beautiful or so disturbingly luscious. Determined to have her—body, soul and secrets—at any cost, Nick sets out to seduce her with a passion that inflames them both.

But Mari holds much deeper, darker truths than Nick could ever imagine. Despite her fierce resistance, she can’t stop her body from yearning for his touch. Can she hide her sinister past from him much longer? Or will trusting the one man she so desperately wants lead her straight to the hangman’s noose?

You can find an excerpt here.

by Georgina Devon

Thank you, Sybil, for inviting me to participate in your Harlequin Historical spotlight. I’m really excited by this opportunity to talk about one of my favorite subjects – Regency England.

Betrayal, my July 2008 release, is the third and final book about the St. Simon brothers. Deverell, the youngest brother fights at Waterloo and is wounded. Pippa LeClaire finds him on the battlefield while searching for her lost twin, Phillip.

The idea to open BETRAYAL at Waterloo came to me while doing general research (one of my favorite pastimes).

Carolly Erickson’s book Our Tempestuous Day talks about the battle and it’s aftermath. What struck me particularly was the fate of Frederick Ponsonby (Lady Caroline Lamb’s brother). Ponsonby was injured in both arms, had a lance driven through his lungs, was ridden over by horses as the battle raged around him and laid on the battlefield wounded and near death for eighteen hours – and he survived to write his story! I was caught.

Next, I went to John Fisher’s book, 1815:An End and A Beginning to research the actually field conditions and military layout for Waterloo. It was also a great source for Wellington.

From this information, I built my prologue and opening chapters. Pippa finds a wounded Deverell while searching for her beloved twin. Neither realize that later Wellington will order Deverell to find Phillip LeClaire, a suspected spy for France, and bring the traitor to justice. Even as Dev falls in love with Pippa, he knows his honor will demand that he betray her.

BETRAYAL was great fun to write. Not to mention the research!

Along the lines of research, who better to help than the readers? Tell me, what are the top three things are that you look for in a romance? And I will pick someone from the comments to win a citrine and silver pendant for Her Rebel Lord and an autographed copy of the British issue of BETRAYAL.

Georgina Devon‘s book Betrayal will be released in the US in July 2008 and was first published by Mills & Boon in 1999 (you can see the cover here, unless Gwen comes along and adds it… hint hint). You can also find the summary to her last HH, Her Rebel Lord, under the excerpt below. Georgina is currently working on her next Regency but sadly it is too early for me to get too much info out of her… of course don’t let that stop you from asking her again at 11am this morning. read on for more info on Betrayal…

Lady Pippa LeClaire was desperate to find Philip, her twin, even posing as a boy to search the battlefield at Waterloo for the wounded. As a healer, she couldn’t ignore the devastation, and did her best to help, saving the leg of Deverell St. Simon.

Given the task of nursing Dev, Pippa couldn’t reveal her true self to him, especially when he was told by the Iron Duke to find Philip, believed by them all to be a traitor. She had to clear her twin’s name, even if it meant losing Dev, the man she’d grown to love….

Pippa’s gaze darted around Brussels’s crowded, stinking streets. Wounded men lay everywhere. She could only be glad she was here. The times she had helped the local midwife and the county surgeon had given her skills which might save lives, or at least ease the passing. Her twin might even be here. Wellington’s letter saying Philip was dead had been sent from here. Philip might be amongst the British fighting Napoleon, and Wellington might not even know.

Her mouth twisted. It was a far-fetched idea. The note was dated weeks ago, and everything pointed to her twin being dead. But she knew her twin was alive, she felt it, and this was the only place she had to start.

A cry of pain caught her attention. It was from a man, his head wrapped in bandages turned brown by dried blood. Flies buzzed around him. His cracked lips opened, and his tongue ran over them, searching for moisture that was not there.

Pippa rushed to him. Kneeling, she felt the heat of fever emanating from him. She took a dipper of tepid water from a nearby bucket and, supporting the soldier’s head with one arm, tipped the liquid into his mouth. He gulped greedily.

‘Thank ye, lad,’ the man said, his voice a hoarse whisper.

‘Twas nothing,’ Pippa murmured, for the first time regretting her decision to disguise herself as a youth. She had done so because young men were allowed in many places where women were barred, places where there might be people with information regarding her brother. Nothing mattered more than finding Philip.

Yet, if she wore skirts, she could tear off her petticoats and make a new bandage for the man’s wound. As it was, she wore a pair of Philip’s old pantaloons and one of his shirts, her breasts bound by linen to give her the appearance of a man. She had nothing she could take off without exposing herself.

‘Blast,’ she muttered, putting aside her wish for petticoats. Steeling herself, she made the decision to remove the filthy bandage. The man would be no worse without it, and probably better.

‘Hey! Boy! What do you think you are doing?’

Pippa heard the voice as background noise. She was still too new at her masquerade to realize she was the ‘boy’.

‘You, boy,’the gruff voice said angrily as a beefy hand gripped her shoulder and swung her around so she landed on her knees.

Pippa did not like being touched. She liked even less being interrupted when she was with a patient.

‘Unhand me,’ she said, lowly and furiously.

‘Touchy for a mite of a lad,’ the man accosting her said, dropping his hand.

Scowling, Pippa stood and dusted the dirt from the knees of her buff pantaloons.

The officer looming over her—and she was not small— was a bull of a man, with a scowl the equal of hers. A shock of dark brown hair fell over equally dark eyes.

His frown deepened. ‘Leave the men alone. We have enough problems without your meddling.’ He squatted by the soldier. ‘And this one is sorely hurt.’

Pippa’s anger seeped away as she watched the surgeon gently tend to the man’s wound. ‘I can help, sir. I’ve trained with our county surgeon and know many of the local midwife’s pain remedies.’

Disregarding her, the surgeon soaked the bandage with water from the nearby bucket and then carefully unwrapped it. ‘He would be better off without this.’ Dismay moved across his craggy features, followed quickly by stoic acceptance.

The surgeon took off his coat and made it into a pillow, which he carefully laid the soldier’s head on. Next, he washed his bloody hands in the water and dried them. Only then did he deign to give Pippa a critical once-over.

‘You are naught but a boy, dressed in his older brother’s clothes. I’d sooner trust yon private—’ he jerked his head in the direction of a man who was going around giving the hurt soldiers water ‘—with an amputation before I’d let you treat these injured men.’

His callous words bit into Pippa, but she held herself straighter and met the other’s hard gaze with one of her own. ‘I know enough to realize you have ruined the drinking water by washing your hands in it. Now you must send someone to fetch a fresh bucket.’

‘Any fool knows that.’

‘You should also consider giving him a tincture of henbane to ease the pain and promote relaxation and sleep. You could do the same with opium or laudanum, but I doubt there is enough of either to go around.’

The surgeon’s eyes narrowed. ‘How old are you, boy?’

The barked question took her by surprise. It should not have. Only very young boys have downy cheeks and slim shoulders. She had tried to pad her shoulders, she could do nothing about her cheeks.

Going on the offensive, a trick her twin had taught her early in life, she met the surgeon’s eyes boldly. ‘Old enough to be here.’

For an instant the man’s wide mouth quirked up. ‘Plenty of spunk.’

Two moans pierced the air, each from opposite sides of the street. The surgeon glanced from one wounded man to the other, his face torn by indecision. The hook of his nose seemed to turn down.

‘All right, boy. This is your chance. I cannot tend both men simultaneously.’

Anticipation made Pippa’s hands shake. She looked from man to man and found her attention drawn to a bright brown thatch of hair. Her twin had hair that color, not black as her own because they weren’t identical. Could it be Philip?

She took a step toward the man, saying over her shoulder, ‘Yes, sir.’

The surgeon didn’t stop her. ‘Mind you don’t do anything that will harm the bloke,’ he stated, his dark eyes boring into her back. He raised his voice. ‘Or I shall have you thrown out of the city on your arse.’

‘Ingrate,’ Pippa muttered under her breath as she hastened to the patient who might be her twin.

She knelt beside the man, disappointment clenching her hands. He wasn’t Philip. But he was sorely injured.

The man’s moans increased in volume, and his arms and legs thrashed about, throwing off a dirty blanket that had been draped over him. His right calf was a mass of torn muscles and protruding bone. If she did not act quickly, putrefaction would set in and he would lose the limb. The moans stopped the first time she probed the wound.

She glanced at his face to see him watching her with pain-racked hazel eyes. Rivulets of sweat poured from his high brow. He was more handsome than she had ever imagined a man could be. Pain twisted his features and furrows creased his forehead and carved brackets around his mouth, a mouth that might have been wide and sharply defined if it were not flattened by agony. His jaw was square and clenched. His cheekbones were high and flushed with fever. Perspiration slicked his hair.

‘Don’t cut it off,’ he said, his voice a deep, dry rasp that made her fingers shake even more.

In some ways he reminded her of her brother; strong and clean of limb, with the exception of his right leg, and similar in colouring. But the feelings this man aroused in her, in spite of his helplessness, weren’t sisterly. Nor were they welcome under any circumstances, much less these.

Forcing her attention back to his wound, she saw that amputating the limb was his best chance, and yet she found herself agreeing with his command not to remove it. This man had a fierce light in his eyes and a muscular wiriness that spoke of activity. He would not appreciate living without his leg.

By the time she pulled the last fragment of bone and the final piece of torn cloth from the wound, perspiration drenched her shirt. His piercing gaze bent on her face as she worked did not help. Never had a man stared at her so intently, and never had a man’s attention affected her so completely.

She dared glance at him again, only to wish she had not. His face was creased in agony, and she knew it had been a supreme effort of will that had kept him conscious during the cleaning.

‘That leg will have to come off,’ the surgeon said in a gruff voice.

Pippa had not heard him approach. Starting, she twisted around in her squatting position and looked up at him. ‘I think I can save it.’

The surgeon shook his head. ‘If we were in a small town or he was the only patient, I might agree. But ’tis not so, lad. If the leg stays, it will fester and kill him. Better he lose a limb than lose his life.’

Pippa frowned. She had heard the surgeon at home say similar words, but…

Perhaps the surgeon was right.

The man’s broad shoulders shook and the leg beneath Pippa’s fingers twitched. His eyelids fluttered, their thick sandy eyelashes creating a sharp shadow against his pale skin. His eyes caught and held her attention, commanding her.

‘Don’t let him take my leg,’ the man whispered, his voice coming hoarse through cracked lips. His hand gripped her wrist and squeezed to emphasize his order. ‘I would rather die.’

Even as he said the words, his eyes closed and Pippa realized he was trusting her to do as he ordered. He did not have the energy to fight the surgeon. It was up to her to save his limb.

Her twin came instantly to mind. Philip would not want to lose his leg. He would call himself half a man. This man would do the same. She knew it with a certainty she did not want to question for fear that she would find herself gone insane; that she would find herself more involved with this man than she had any reason to be.

Chewing her bottom lip, Pippa stood and faced the surgeon. ‘You heard him. He would rather die.’

‘You would risk his life on a whim?’ The surgeon’s bushy brown eyebrows formed a bar across his wide face. ‘I was right not to entrust anyone’s care to you.’

Pippa flushed, half-embarrassed at her statement and halfangry at the surgeon for doubting her skills. ‘The way a man feels about his life is as important as whether he has one.’

The surgeon’s scowl deepened, his attention going to the patient. ‘You did a thorough job of cleaning the flesh. Can you set the bone?’

Pippa nodded, sensing that she had won.

‘You,’ the surgeon bellowed to a nearby soldier, ‘bring an eighteen-tail bandage and splint.’ Turning his frown back on Pippa, he said, ‘If this man dies, you will have to live with your conscience. Now, show me what you can do.’

Pippa bit her bottom lip and studied the surgeon. He met her gaze squarely. He was laying a heavy burden on her, but one doctors and healers faced every day of their lives. She could and would accept that burden.

Reaching into her herbal pouch, she withdrew some garlic oil and mixed it with fresh water. She poured the mixture over the wound to protect against putrefaction. Her patient flinched, and when she looked at his face she saw he had bitten his bottom lip until it bled. But his eyes were open and watching her.

Conscious of his gaze on her, she flexed the leg to straighten the bone for setting. Without a sound the man flinched and then went limp. He had finally passed out. She breathed a sigh of relief for his sake. Quickly and competently, she set the bone, put on soft lint to absorb the drainage and crossed the eighteen tails of the bandage so that the leg was completely wrapped. Lastly, she applied the splint.

By the time she was done, her hands shook and sweat ran in rivers down her spine. It was a hot, muggy day, but she knew it was the fear of failure that had worn her down. She did not want this man to have his leg amputated. She wanted him to awaken a whole person, wanted to see the fierce determination and fire in his hazel eyes once more.

‘You know he will limp—if he survives.’ The surgeon’s gruff voice intruded on her thoughts.

‘And it will pain him most in damp, cold weather,’ she added, standing and taking a deep breath to steady her nerves.

‘Perhaps we can use you after all. I could not have done a better job of cleaning and setting the leg.’

It was a concession she had begun to think would never come. Pippa released the breath she had been unconsciously holding and broke into a radiant smile. ‘You won’t regret it.’

He looked at her from the corner of his eye and shook his head. ‘You are as pretty as a maid. See that you watch yourself. Some of these men are none too particular.’

Pippa turned red. ‘Yes, sir.’

Her attention flitted to the unconscious man. What would he think of her as a woman? It was a question she was fearful of having answered.

‘I’d be doing you no favors if I didn’t warn you, lad.’

‘Thank you,’ Pippa muttered, trying to deepen her voice.

The surgeon looked at the patient. ‘This one is your special case. See that you let me know when gangrene sets in and the limb must be removed. You have until then to try and save the leg.’

‘I will do all I can,’ Pippa vowed, watching the steady, shallow rise and fall of the hurt man’s chest.

‘Meanwhile, there are others who need your services and your herbs.’ Turning from her, the surgeon bellowed, ‘Jones, stay with this lad and see that you get him what he needs.’

A tall, thin, battle-scarred sergeant ambled up. ‘Knew we was robbin’ the cradle for the fightin’, Major, but thought we wasn’t in need of babies to tend the sick.’

‘This young man has just performed as well as any army surgeon I know,’ the older man said. ‘Don’t go giving the lad trouble or I’ll have you confined to the hospital.’

Jones shuddered. ‘Horrible place. Dark and hot and stinking.’

‘A living morgue,’ Pippa whispered, her stomach churning. ‘Those poor men.’

‘Ah, Lord.’ Jones rolled his eyes. ‘The boy has that fervent look in his eyes. Now he’ll want to go nurse the bastards there.’

‘You are absolutely right,’ Pippa said firmly, squaring her shoulders and jutting out her chin. ‘Show me the way, Jones.’

‘What about this one?’ the surgeon said, stopping Pippa in her tracks. ‘Do you intend to leave him here, exposed to the elements?’

Pippa’s gaze traveled over the patient. He was tall and well-formed, with broad shoulders and narrow hips. He was a spectacular man. She didn’t want him going to the filth and squalor of the hospital.

He is your patient, she told herself. Patient and nothing more. He might not even live.

With difficulty, she forced her concentration to his medical problem. Because of the bands of muscles in his legs, it had been difficult for her to relax his calf enough to open the wounds so she could clean them.

Harlequin Historical is a registered trademark of Harlequin Enterprises Limited. As such all excerpts are copyrighted © and all rights are reserved.

Her Rebel Lord by Georgina Devon

To polite society, Duncan McNabb, Lord Byrne, is the quintessential gentleman, occupied merely with fashion and flirtation. But Jenna de Warre knows his other identity – Duncan is also a hunted rebel! Bound to him by this deadly secret, Jenna soon finds herself drawn deeper into Duncan’s dangerous world, and falling evermore under his charismatic spell. When it seems the rebel lord returns her feelings, Jenna leaps at his proposal of marriage, but is she destined merely to be mistress to his cause?

You can read an excerpt here.

by Charlene Sands

Strong, passionate, rugged, a man of principle, honor and duty. That’s my take on the western hero.

When it comes to reading and writing, I choose westerns first. There’s nothing more compelling to me than a man of the west who is faced with a conflict that defies his integrity, honor and sense of right. There’s nothing sexier to me than watching our heroes struggle with temptation and adversity, defy the odds and come out the winner.

I write about the west mainly because I have a deep love of American history and a resounding affection for a really good romance. Blend the two together and you get a rich explosion of often, fun, definitely sensual and absolutely satisfying stories.

True, my romances are hero driven. What can I say?

I love a real good man, whether alpha or beta. Toss in a Stetson, a killer swagger and an attitude to match and I’m in romance heaven.

I set my westerns in the mid to late 1800’s, a time when all things were possible, but nothing came easy. There are endless opportunities when writing in the old west for setting and conflict.

In Taming the Texan, my hero is battling his father’s young widow for her share of the wealthy empire she inherited. Tess on the other hand, is no wilting flower; she’s had a rough life, hiding a few secrets and feels that the Double H Ranch is her true home. In the May anthology, Western Weddings, my hero in “Springville Wife”, Caleb Matlock teases and torments his childhood nemesis, Grace Landers, the town’s new schoolmarm. Only this time, he’s got more than pulling her pigtails in mind.

I’ve written about sheriffs, bounty hunters, ranchers, half-breeds, gamblers, widowers and more from California to Arizona to Texas. And their traits are as diverse as their occupations. Who wouldn’t want to redeem a man who’s been hardened by life and circumstances? Who wouldn’t fall in love with a man who has been heartbroken and hides his pain with stubborn pride? Who wouldn’t line up to fall for a man who has lost everything, including his memory?

And besides, where else can a man say, “Tarnation” or “Hot Damn” and get away with it?

Western heroines are no slouches either. They are strong and determined and often see through the heroes’ tough exteriors to find the really good men underneath. Don’t you love it when that happens?

So what happened to Westerns and are they coming back?

I’ve written westerns for Harlequin since 1999 and though their popularity might have waned for a short time, staunch dedicated readers and lovers of the west have never faded. I have to commend Harlequin for recognizing that and keeping the line alive and prosperous. Other genres come and go, but the American western is tried and true and I think, here to stay.

I love cowboys and western men so I don’t discriminate in time periods either. My next western is set in Crimson Canyon, Arizona in present time. Five-Star Cowboy will be hitting the shelves in August and is a sizzling romance between a rugged millionaire cowboy and the beauty with brains he needs to possess in order to succeed.

So, what’s your favorite kind of western hero? Do you love a brooding rancher, a steadfast sheriff or a witty gambler? Is there one particular western hero that stands out in your mind whether from books or television shows?

I’ll be sending out a copy of Taming the Texan or Western Wedding to one lucky commenter today.

Happy Trails and Happy Reading!

Western Weddings is an anthology coming from Harlequin Historical in May. It features Rocky Mountain Bride by Jillian Hart, Shotgun Vows by Kate Bridges, and Springville Wife by Charlene Sands.

We have had Jillian Hart guest and Kate Bridges told us all about her gold rush ways. Today’s guest is the third author from the delightful western anthology Western Weddings, Charlene Sands, who will tell us a bit more about the western hero @ 11 am.

Until then have a read of an excerpt from Springville Wife (just in case you missed it in April )

blockquote> Springville Wife by Charlene Sands

Grace Lander returns to Springville to pick up the pieces of her life and become the town’s schoolmarm. Single father Caleb’s Matlock’s kiss may be just what Grace needs to mend her heart and make a home.

Springville, Texas

1888

CHAPTER ONE

Grace Lander dusted off her sapphire blue traveling suit as she stepped down from the stagecoach. She hadn’t journeyed by stage since the horrendous robbery that claimed her husband’s life one year ago. Shivers of the fear she’d lived with during her stage ride from the rail station in Fort Worth, slowly ebbed and she found herself taking her first easy breath. Yet, the painful memory and the guilt she felt over Harrison’s untimely death were always with her.

But she was here in Springville now, her childhood home and hoping to carve out a new life as a schoolmarm to a full brood of eager children.

“You made it, deary!” Her spry rosy-cheeked aunt came rushing forth, a silly violet-feathered hat bobbing on her head.

“Aunt Enid, it’s good to see you.” She embraced the aunt she hadn’t seen since her visit to Boston some six years ago — her favorite aunt, if Grace were being truly honest.

“It’s about time you came back to your only livin’ kin.”

“Only kin? Aunt Enid, you know darn well, Aunt Flo and Auntie Roberta are still alive.”

“Alive, deary, but not livin’.”

Grace chuckled and relief washed over her. She put aside any doubts she’d had about her return to Springville. Her Aunt Enid, who ran the Springville Boardinghouse, would be sure to keep Grace on her toes.

With somber eyes, Aunt Enid grasped her hands and squeezed gently. “Are you ready to start your living again, honey?”

The connection and the love flowing between them warmed her through and through. She gazed down the street to see familiar shops: McKenzie’s Dry Goods, Springville Bank and Trust, Shorty’s Longhorn Saloon, the marshal’s office and Spring’s Diner. Not too much had changed in thirteen years. Grace found great comfort in the small thriving town where she’d grown up. Springville was different than Boston, in ways too abundant to name. Even the May sky seemed clearer, the air crisper and the sunshine brighter.

Was she ready to start living again?

On a shaky breath, Grace nodded. “I think so, Aunt Enid. I’m ready.”

“Good.” She released her hands and looked over at the young depot operator. “Chuckie, send over Miss Lander’s bags to the boardinghouse, as soon as you can, boy. There’ll be a warmed slice of cherry pie waiting for you.

“Yes, ma’am!”

Aunt Enid’s wide smile took twenty years off her aged face. “Ready to settle in?”

“I am, but I’m eager to visit the schoolhouse. To see if it’s how I remembered it. It’s all that’s kept me sane these past few months.”

Her aunt nodded in understanding. “Then go on.” She winked. “You know where it is.”

“Won’t you come along?”

“No, deary. You go revisit those memories by yourself. I think you’ll like what you see.”

Grace kissed her aunt’s cheek. “Thank you, Aunt Enid. I’ll be along soon.”

Grace picked up her silk skirt and walked briskly toward the opposite end of town where the schoolhouse stood, the light brown paint appearing fresh and new, though the white of the window frames were slightly faded. She approached the school slowly, as good memories flooded in. She’d gone to school here until her family moved away when she was twelve, her father’s venture into ranching proved unsuccessful and they’d left town to move in with their family to the east.

But Grace always believed herself a small town girl. And she’d loved learning. School meant getting away from grueling chores at the failing ranch. It meant being acknowledged and encouraged by schoolmaster Mobley for her thirst for knowledge. And presently, she hoped it meant a way to forget the heartache that plagued her daily.

“Oh, Harrison,” she uttered, standing just outside the school gate. “I’m so sorry.”

She entered the schoolyard and closed the gate behind her. Stepping on overgrown bluebonnets lacing the path to the schoolhouse, she made a mental list of work she’d have to do on the grounds. But most importantly, she’d start the school up again. Mr. Mobley’s sudden death had left the town unprepared and the children hadn’t had instruction in over three months.

When she reached the front door, she tried the latch. The door didn’t budge. She walked over to the side window and peered inside, glad to find the desks in order, set up in rows of four just like when she attended school. A side bookshelf contained McGuffey Readers and the potbelly stove that billowed smoke on cold winter days, still claimed the back corner of the room. The black chalkboard centered the front wall and Grace’s mind flooded with all those days she’d stay after class to help Mr. Mobley wipe it clean. One impudent classmate had labeled her “teacher’s pet”, but she’d only held her head up high, proud of the title.

A deep voice from behind the schoolhouse broke into her thoughts. “Tarnation! Damn it! Get away from me, you dang little pests!”

Curious, Grace raced around to the back of the building toward the commotion. She bumped a ladder and brown paint rained down in big clumpy droplets, just missing her head. “Oh!”

She looked up and another “oh” fell silently from her lips. A man stood on the ladder she’d just bumped, his chest bare, broad and bronzed, a black Stetson covering his head as a swarm of bees circled around him. His denims hugged his body below a very trim waist and a narrow line of dark hairs arrowed down beyond his thick leather belt.

Grace squeezed her eyes shut and turned her back on him, but the image remained in her head. Lordy, he was a fine looking man. Her heart pumped hard against her chest at the sight.

Immediate remorse set in. She’d been a widow for a year now, and blamed herself for Harrison’s death. She had no business bearing such lusty thoughts.

“Sorry for the intrusion,” she said softly, opening her eyes. She was the new schoolmarm. She shouldn’t behave like a foolish smitten girl of fifteen.

The man stepped down from the ladder, setting the paint can and brush onto the ground. When he lifted up, she caught another glimpse of his muscled chest. “Suppose I should thank you. I was about to be eaten up by them bees.”

“Those bees,” she corrected automatically. Her face flamed with heat, not so much from the ill-timed correction but by the vision he made.

He studied her for a long moment, his gaze raking her over from head to toe without apology. “By God. You’re Gracie. Little Gracie Greene. Would’ve never guessed except for that uppity tone you take.”

Grace eyed him with caution now. She was certain she’d just been insulted. “Yes, I’m Gracie. I go by Grace Lander now. And you are?”

His quick smirk rekindled a vivid childhood memory. One she’d rather forget. Grace suppressed the urge to crinkle her nose when she recalled her own personal school tormenter. He’d bully her every single day while in class or outside for recess.

They chorused both at the same time.

“Caleb Matlock.”

Caleb cocked a grin her way.

Gracie Greene.

He’d known she’d been hired on in Springville as the new schoolteacher, but he surely hadn’t expected her to look so dang blasted inspiring. The gangly awkward girl he’d teased and tormented in school had grown into a beautiful auburn-haired, amber-eyed woman with pale skin and tiny nose freckles. He assessed her female form and liked what he saw as well. “Gracie, Gracie, green like a frog and just as jumpy.”

She rolled her eyes without granting a smile. Caleb smiled enough for them both recalling his daily taunt.

“I haven’t thought about your silly prose in years.”

Caleb suspected different. She’d been easy to goad and he’d been unmerciful back then. “You never called them prose back then, Gracie.” Caleb reached for his shirt sitting on the fence. He put his arms through the sleeves and began buttoning. “Truth is, you retaliated pretty darn good. Let’s see,” he said, staring deep into her pretty eyes. “As I recall, you called me a big oaf, ugly as a longhorn, smelly as a skunk, stupid as–”

“I don’t recall any such thing,” she hurried out her eyes flitting to his bare chest for a second, before she turned five shades of red when he noticed.

His groin twitched. He hadn’t been so instantly taken by a woman since courting Felicia Holmes eight years back. He’d asked Felicia to marry him and she’d agreed, then she ran away with a traveling tinker the day of their nuptials. Since then, Caleb didn’t have much use for Springville females, Opal, being the exception.

Caleb shrugged off Grace’s denials. “No matter. Just glad you’re here.”

“You are?”

“The school’s been closed for months. Me and some of the others took up getting it ready again.”

She glanced at the work he’d done. The back of the building he’d painted was almost finished. “Thank you for that. Except for cleaning up the yard, it doesn’t look like you’ve left much for me to do.”

“That was the intent,” he said, staring at her. Damn, there wasn’t any one thing about her he didn’t enjoy looking at. Nothing had surprised him more. Little Gracie Greene had developed into a striking woman.

“What?” she asked, her expression filled with question.

“It’s you, Gracie. You’re all grown-up.”

She smiled a little, just enough to shape her mouth prettily. “That’s what happens with time.”

He shook his head. “Usually time only wears on a person. But you, you’ve become a beautiful woman.”

Grace turned away from him. Stark memories of the horrid stagecoach hold-up brought tears to her eyes.

“She’s too beautiful to leave behind, Pa. I’m taking her for myself. And no one’s gonna stop me.”

Grace would never forget her desperate panic that day or the clawing way Gray Bullock held her and groped at her body. She fought him off the best she could, crying for Harrison’s help.

“Get your hands off my wife!”

Her husband rushed toward her armed with only righteous fury and had been gunned down right before her eyes, trying to protect her.

There’d been three other women on that stagecoach, but she’d been the one singled out. She’d been the one widowed that day. The passengers had been saved when a band of gypsy wagons came down the road, scaring off the bandits who’d left her behind and Harrison dead on the ground at her feet.

And since then, there were times when she looked at her image in the mirror and hated the reflection staring back at her. She wasn’t one who wanted undue attention cast upon her, yet since her husband’s death, she’d had three proposals of marriage. All nice men who had promised to care for her, yet she’d seen that same lust in their eyes as that bandit and she knew she wouldn’t marry again. She’d lost her beloved husband that day, but she’d also lost the unborn baby she carried and any chance to be with child every again. So Caleb’s compliment to her beauty meant little to her. It was only a painful reminder of the saddest day in her life.

“Grace?”

She inhaled deep in her chest and blinking tears away, she turned back to him. “I plan on starting classes the first of next week,” she said, straightening her spine. “That’ll give me the rest of the week to work on the weeds.”

“If you need help with that–”

“No,” she cut him off quickly. “I want to do it myself.”

“Okay, I’ll tell Opal.”

“Opal?”

“My niece. She’s my brother’s child. I’ve raised her since she was a babe. Just so you’re not confused, she calls me her Pa.”

“Oh, I see. And Opal wanted to help?”

He grinned. “She’s excited to start school again.”

“I’m glad of that. And you can be sure I’ll give her plenty of chores to do once school commences.”

Caleb nodded. “If you need anything else,” he began, fastening up the last of his shirt buttons “for the school, I mean,” he said with a grin. “I’m three miles out, at the Bar M Ranch.”

“Thank you, but I’ll be just fine on my own.” She tilted her chin up, while she admonished herself for taking that one last glimpse of his chest. “Are you through here?”

Caleb hesitated a moment. Then he closed the paint can and wiped the brush clean. He set them inside a small shed and laid the ladder down next to it. “Seems I am. For today. But, I’ll be back.” He tipped his hat and smiled. His expression brightened in much the same way it had when he spoke of his niece, Opal. “To finish what I started.”

Grace ignored that chest-thumping feeling she got watching Caleb Matlock saunter away in long confident strides.

He was halfway off the grounds when he turned clear around. “You need the key to open the school, you’ll find that at the marshal’s office.”

He kept walking backwards until she acknowledged him. “All … right. Thank … you.”

Then on a nod, he hopped the school fence and was gone.

“Oh my.” Grace put her hand to her chest and leaned her shoulder against the newly painted wall. She shoved away the moment she realized what she’d done.

“Darn you, Caleb Matlock!”

Caleb always managed to get her all jumbled up and now she’d spend her first day home, washing paint stains out of her blue satin riding suit!

“Did you see anything interesting at the school, deary?” Aunt Enid unfolded clothes from Grace’s trunk in the pretty yellow-curtained, nicely furnished room that would now become her new home. Grace worked with her as they put some clothes up in a smooth burl wood armoire and arranged her perfumes and soaps and other such essentials on the dresser before a tall, framed mirror.

“You knew Caleb Matlock would be there, didn’t you?”

Aunt Enid’s eyes crinkled and she smiled. “He’s been working at the school, getting it ready. That man’s been on his own for some years now. Raising little Opal all by himself.”

“That’s commendable.” She offered no other compliment. No need to give Aunt Enid false impressions. Grace had her chance at happiness with a wonderful man. She wasn’t interested in involving herself with anything but her students and their needs. “I’ll look forward to meeting his niece.”

“Caleb’s a good man, Grace.”

Grace scoffed. She had no such thoughts. Why even today, he’d managed to get her flustered enough to nearly destroy her traveling suit.

Aunt Enid hadn’t asked any questions when Grace walked in minutes ago, paint-stained. But she’d insisted Grace change her clothes immediately and her aunt worked on that garment until she got every lick of paint out.

“When I knew him, he was a bully and tormented me no end.” Grace set the silver-handled hairbrush and comb Harrison had given her down onto her small night table, next to a blue-bubbled glass lamp.

“Did he kiss you?”

“Aunt Enid! Of course not! Why would you ask me a thing like that?”

“Paint stains.”

Goodness, her aunt surely was astute. The older woman had an uncanny ability to see far too much. Even though Grace was ashamed of her momentary weakness with Caleb Matlock, she had no intention of ever letting that man close enough to kiss her.

“I just lost my balance, Aunt Enid. And knocked into the painted wall, is all.”

“Pity.” Her aunt’s eyes lit with a faraway look. “If only I was a younger woman.”

“I surely don’t intend to have Caleb or any man, for that matter, ever kiss me. You know where my heart lies.”

“I know how a heart can lie to you. Fool you into thinking you’re through and washed up as a woman.”

“I’ll have a full life in Springville, teaching my students. That’s what I came here for. If I’d wanted a man, I could have remarried back east. But that’s not what I want anymore,” she said softly.

Aunt Enid helped her put the last of her clothes into the armoire then turned to give her a warm smile. Taking her hands in a firm loving grasp, she said with utmost sincerity, “Deary, let me give you a bit of advice. If Caleb Matlock ever wanted to kiss me, I wouldn’t give him my cheek, if you know what I mean.”

Grace tossed her head back and laughed heartily. “Oh, Aunt Enid, I’m so glad I’m here.”

Aunt Enid patted her hands. “I’m glad of it too. Now, you rest up a bit. Dinner is at five every night.”

“I’ll come down to help you.”

“No, not today. You lay your head down and get some sleep. Dream good dreams, Grace.”

And minutes later, Grace laid her head down on the soft goose-down bed and closed her eyes, but instead of her beloved Harrison’s face appearing, as it always had in the past, another face came to mind.

Caleb Matlock.

Grace squeezed her eyes shut even tighter and fought off the image of him, up on that ladder, fighting off bees and looking tastier than honey.

Harlequin Historical is a registered trademark of Harlequin Enterprises Limited. As such all excerpts are copyrighted © and all rights are reserved.

by Elizabeth Lane

I don’t know about you, but I love ‘em both — the upright, serious, duty bound heroes and the ones who’ll break a girl’s heart without thinking twice, and maybe laugh while they’re doing it.

The bad boys charm us because they keep us guessing-and because we keep hoping that the right woman will turn them around and put their feet on the right road. The good ones are our white knights-even though their unbending honor codes and determination to do the right thing can be annoying as all get out.

Which would you choose, if you could? Which one would you take home for keeps?

In my upcoming Harlequin Historical, The Borrowed Bride (November 2008), readers will be getting a taste of both. To make things more interesting, the two men are brothers — Quint and Judd. And Hannah, our heroine, is forced to choose between them. Ahhh… but there are complications.

What kind of man would seduce his childhood sweetheart, then run off to hunt gold in Alaska and seemingly drop off the face of the earth?

And when the poor girl learns she’s pregnant, what kind of man would marry her to give his brother’s child the family name, then refuse to lay a hand on her-even when she wants more than his hand (I’d say, a lot more)?

Should Hannah choose the sweet, wild, irresponsible father of her baby? Or should she choose the maddeningly honorable man who married her out of duty? I won’t tell you how the story ends, except to say that this book is the first of two. And the rejected brother will get a love story of his own.

How about you? Do you go for bad heroes or good ones? I’d love to hear.

I loved this book. I have to be honest, I didn’t really mean to read the whole thing but once I started it I had to finish it. The Borrowed Bride is, of course, a Western . What else would you expect for me to lurve so? It is set in Colorado, 1899 and there is already a sequel in the works! The new book has a working title of, Suddenly in April. It is set in 1906 San Francisco. And I can’t tell you to much more about that one… yet. Read on for a summary for The Borrowed Bride and an excerpt! Then you can hate me while you wait for November.

The Borrowed Bride by Elizabeth Lane
November 2008

(Summary provided by author)

Young Hannah Gustavson is devastated when her childhood sweetheart, Quint Seavers, sets out for the Klondike to seek his fortune. He promises to write and to marry her on his return, but as the weeks pass neither Hannah nor Quint’s wealthy, widowed mother receive any word from him.

Things get even worse when Hannah discovers she’s pregnant, and Quint can’t be reached. What will she do? Her large, poor farm family doesn’t need another mouth to feed, to say nothing of the scandal.

Quint’s older brother Judd comes to her rescue. Newly returned from the Spanish American War and still suffering its effects, Judd offers to marry Hannah in Quint’s place. The marriage would be in name only. They would draw up divorce papers that could be signed on Quint’s return, leaving Hannah free to marry the father of her baby. The quiet, brooding Judd is a near-stranger to Hannah, but, seeing no other way, she agrees.

The marriage catapults Hannah into a new life. The big house on the Seavers Ranch is like a palace, ruled by Quint’s bitter, antagonistic mother. Judd, her new husband, is brusque and remote. But something in his haunted eyes cries out for Hannah’s understanding. What will happen when she finds herself falling in love with the husband who’s vowed to treat her as a sister?

March 2, 1899

Hannah felt the approaching train before she heard it. Her fingers groped for Quint’s as

the platform quivered beneath her feet. A mournful whistle pierced the rainy distance.

“It’s coming!” Quint strained toward the sound like a tethered hunting dog, eager to be loosed and running. Hannah shivered beneath her shawl as the cold March wind whipped along the platform. Any second now, she would see the gray-white plume rising into mist above the bare cottonwoods. All too soon, the train would be pulling into the station. When it pulled out again, Quint would be waving goodbye from the window of the passenger car.

She gazed at his clean-chiseled profile, memorizing every feature—the chestnut curls that tumbled over his forehead, the tiny bump on the bridge of his nose, the alert hazel eyes, fixed now on the distant curve of tracks where the train would appear. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

It wasn’t fair, Hannah thought. Quint was happy, and her own heart was on the verge of shattering like a mason jar dropped onto a stone floor.

Hannah had loved Quint Seavers for as long as she could remember. They’d been sweethearts since their school days, and the whole town had expected them to marry. So why couldn’t he have just let nature take its course? Why had he gotten this crack-brained urge to run off and seek his fortune in the Klondike gold fields?

At first she’d hoped it was just a whim. But the Klondike was all Quint had talked about for the past year. Only one thing had kept him in Dutchman’s Creek. His older brother Judd had joined the Theodore Roosevelt’s Rough Riders and gone off to the Spanish American War, leaving Quint behind to tend the family ranch and look after their invalid mother. But that was about to change. After four months with the Rough Riders and five months in a Virginia military hospital, Judd was coming home. He’d be arriving on the train that had just appeared around the distant bend—the train that would be taking Quint away.

“Do you think he’ll be changed?” Edna Seavers’ white hands gripped the woven cane arms of her wheelchair. A cheerless wisp of a woman clad in widow’s black, she’d been wheeled around in that chair for as long as Hannah could remember.

“War changes everybody, Mama,” Quint said. “Judd’s been through a bad time with his wounds and the malaria. But he’ll come around once he’s been home a while. You’ll see.”

“I wish it was you coming home and Judd leaving.” Mrs. Seavers had never hidden the fact that Quint was the favorite of her two children. “Why do you have to go anyway? You’re too young to go rushing off on your own.”

Quint sighed. “I’m twenty-one, Mama. You promised me that I could go when Judd came home. Well, Judd’s coming. And I’m going.”

Hannah glanced from Quint to his mother, feeling invisible. She’d been Quint’s girl for years, but Edna Seavers barely acknowledged her existence.

The train whistled again, its shrill voice a cry in Hannah’s ears. She shifted her weight, conscious of the raw ache between her thighs. Her mother had lectured her about men’s appetites and made her swear, with her right hand on the Bible, that she would keep herself from sin. But last night with Quint, in the darkness of the hayloft, her good intentions had unraveled like a torn sweater. She had given herself willingly. But the act had been so awkward and painful that when Quint had moaned and rolled off her, she’d been secretly relieved. Later that night, in the room she shared with her four younger sisters, Hannah had buried her face in her pillow and wept until there were no tears left.

Pistons pumping, the engine glided into the station. Half-glimpsed faces flashed past in the windows of the passenger car. For an instant Hannah held her breath, as if she could will the train to keep moving. Then the mail sack thumped onto the platform. The brakes moaned as the line of cars shuddered to a full stop.

There was a beat of silence, then a stirring inside the passenger car. A door swung open. The lone figure of a tall man in a drooping felt hat emerged onto the step. Veiled by misting rain he moved down onto the platform.

Hannah hadn’t known Judd Seavers well. Eight years Quint’s senior, he’d been too old to be counted among her playmates. She remembered him as a taciturn young man with somber gray eyes and hands that were always working. In the years Hannah had been coming around the Seavers place, he’d shown no more interest in her than Edna had.

Now he walked toward them, where they waited under the shelter of the eave. He moved slowly, heedless of the rain that beaded his tan coat and trickled off the brim of his hat. A battered canvas field bag, the sort that a soldier would carry, dangled loosely from one hand. He looked old, Hannah thought. Old before his time. Maybe that was what war did to people.

But why was she thinking about Judd? Minutes from now, Quint—her Quint, the love of her life—would be gone. Certainly for months. Maybe for years.

Maybe forever.

* * * * * * *

Judd clenched his teeth against the pain that shot through him with each step. Most of the time it wasn’t so bad, but the long, jarring train ride had roused every shard of metal that the doctors had left in his body. He was hurting like blazes, but he wasn’t about to show it. Not with his mother and brother looking on.

The nurse had offered him laudanum to ease the trip. Judd had turned it down. He’d had enough opiates to know what they could do to a man, and he’d sworn he was finished. Still, sitting up those long nights with the rhythm of iron wheels rattling through his bones, he’d have bargained away his soul for a few hours of relief.

But never mind all that, he was home now, walking down the platform through the soft Colorado rain. Home from the war with two legs, two arms and two eyes. He could only wish to God that some of his friends had fared as well.

Harlequin Historical is a registered trademark of Harlequin Enterprises Limited. As such all excerpts are copyrighted © and all rights are reserved.

And if you missed it
ON THE WINGS OF LOVE by Elizabeth Lane

He gave her the freedom to fly…

Alexandra Bromley had everything her father’s money could buy. But what she really wanted was excitement, adventure and independence. When pilot Rafe Garrick fell out of the sky and into her arms, Alex discovered a thrilling new world. But how could she live her dream at the price of Rafe’s love?

Alex Bromley was trouble. Rafe knew it the first time he set eyes on her. But he couldn’t stay away. Not even if having her meant making a pact with her devil of a father. Now she was his, and it was up to Rafe to tame Alex’s reckless spirit—or lose her to the sky.

That way you have something to read while you wait for November . Look for Elizabeth Lane’s guest post at 11 am today!

You might be familiar with Blythe Gifford from her last Harlequin Historical, The Harlot’s Daughter. As you can tell from Alicia Thomas’ review she loved it. Blythe followed it up June 1st with Innocence Unveiled.  Read on for the summary and an excerpt…

Blythe Gifford’s INNOCENCE UNVEILED

A Man of Secrets.
He shares a king’s blood, but his mother’s shame means he’ll never claim his birthright. Now, disguised as a smuggler, he must know: Will the weavers support his king?

A Woman of Lies. She hides her hair under the veil of a married woman to protect her father’s weaving business. Desperate for the banned wool, she opens her home to the alluring smuggler.

Sleeping under the same roof they fight temptation at every turn, but to trust is to risk betrayal—and death.

Shadows hid the stranger’s face, but over the pounding of her heart, Katrine heard the threat in his voice, as casual as a shrug.

“You decide,” he said. “I can get you the wool you need, but if you let the opportunity pass . . .” The slight lift of his shoulders blocked the morning sun streaming into her weaving room. “There are many other willing buyers.”

“Every weaver in Ghent is willing.” Katrine fought the tremble in her tongue.

It was no secret. Deprived of the wool that was its lifeblood, this city of clothmakers was starving. So when a stranger claimed he could find fleece for her looms, she recklessly agreed to listen. He didn’t need her, but she needed his wool. Desperately.

Arms crossed, the smuggler leaned against the wall, filling the space as if he owned it. “Decide, mistress. Deal with me or go hungry.”

Backed against the loom, she felt the wooden upright press against her spine like a martyr’s stake. She stroked the tautly warped threads for comfort. They quivered beneath her fingers. Looking up, she tried to read his eyes, but the sun cast him in darkness. She must not yield too easily, or she’d not be able to bargain at all.

“Your voice does not carry the accent of Ghent.” She knew nothing about the man. Not even his name. “Where is your home?”

A shaft of sunlight picked up a reddish strand in his chestnut hair. He did not speak at first, and she wondered whether he heard her. “I was born in Brabant,” he said, finally.

His answer seemed safe enough. The neighboring duchy was one of half a dozen fiefdoms clustered near the channel between England and France. She should at least discover what goods he offered.

Fingers hidden in the folds of her skirt, she pinched the fabric, taking comfort in the even weave. “My mark appears on only the finest cloth. I buy with care. Is this wool of yours English or Spanish?”

“English.”

“Good.” Clasping her fingers in front of her, she paced as if considering her choices. Best not to ask how he would come by it. The English king had embargoed all shipments to Flanders for the last nine months. “Where were the sheep raised? I prefer Cistercian-raised flocks from the Tintern Abbey, though I will accept Yorkshire fleece.”

“Accept?” Amusement colored his voice. “You will accept whatever I bring you. You have no choice.”

Sweet Saint Catherine, what shall I do?

She had bargained with the larger cloth houses for any fleece they would spare. She had scrambled for the poor stuff grown on the backs of Flemish sheep. She had even directed her weavers to make a looser weave, hoping the fullers, cleaning and beating the cloth to finish it could thicken the final product.

She had no tricks left.

She had begged her unsympathetic uncle for help, but she feared unless she trusted this mysterious stranger, there would be no business left if—no, when—her father returned.

At least the stranger’s hands, large, with long, strong fingers, looked reliable, even familiar.

“How much can you get?” she asked.

“Maybe one sack.”

“A weaver will use that in a week,” Katrine scoffed, to cover her disappointment.

He did not move from his comfortable slouch. “One sack is one sack more than you have at the moment.”

She squeezed prayerful fingers. “What is your price? If I agree.”

“Twenty five gold livres per sack. In advance.”

“Fifteen.” With good negotiation, the pouch of gold her father left might pay for three sacks. “On delivery.” She gritted her teeth behind a stone saint smile.

“Twenty eight.”

Her smile shattered. “You said twenty five before.”

“I’ll say thirty tomorrow, if I please. Don’t try to bargain with me, mistress. You have nothing to bargain with.”

The sunlight shifted and revealed his eyes for the first time, the dusky blue of indigo dyed over gray wool. One eye hovered on the edge of a wink.

“Or maybe,” he said, softly, “you do.”

Something more than fear burned her cheeks and chilled her fingers. Something that had to do with him.

Stifling her body’s betrayal, she folded her arms, mimicking his stance. “I bargain only with gold. I want the wool, but I have another source.” She trusted her uncle little more than this stranger, but she would not give him the power of that knowledge. The man already had the advantage. “If your offer is better, I will take three sacks and pay twenty each—ten in advance, the rest on delivery. If you want more . . . ,” she hesitated. “If you want more money than that, find one of your other willing buyers.”

“It does not matter what you say. It is your husband who will decide.”

Her hand flew to the wimple hiding her red hair. The married woman’s headdress was one of the little lies of her life, so much a part of her she had forgotten it would signal a husband who ruled her every action. “I have been given authority in this matter.”

In her father’s absence, the draper’s guild had allowed her to conduct his affairs, but she was reaching the limits of their regulations. And their patience.

She waited for him to turn away, as had so many who refused to deal with a woman. Yet when the smuggler spoke, respect tinged his words. “You bargain like a man, mistress. I suspect you run your business well.”

“I do.” She willed her tongue to silence, waiting for his answer. Outside, the sign painted with the trademark of the Four-Petaled Daisy creaked in the breeze.

He barely moved his chin to nod. “We are agreed.”

Her sigh of relief slipped out without disguise. “Agreed if my other source does not better your offer.” Now, she had an option if her uncle failed her. “You will have my answer by the end of the day.”

“See that I do.” The respect, if she had heard it, had fled his voice. “I will not wait on your whim when there are others eager to buy.”

“If I tell you yes, when will I see my wool?”

He shrugged. “I will stay here while I make arrangements.”

“Here?” She had been mad to deal with a stranger. Already he was changing the bargain.

“Unless you want our business on the Council’s agenda. Any hosteler will be glad to collect their coin for reporting my every move.”

She could not argue. England and France were near war. The town was swarming with suspicion. An innkeeper would notice a tall, blue-eyed man speaking accented Flemish. “I am paying you twenty livres for the wool. What will you pay me for the lodging?”

No shadow of surprise crossed the deep blue moat of his eyes. “Are you reopening negotiations?”

“You were the one who did that.” Her tart words made her feel in control again. “If you stay, your room will cost you five pence a week and I’ll provide no board. Take a pallet on the third floor,” she said, vaguely uneasy at the thought of him sleeping under her roof.

He frowned. “With the apprentices?”

“They left months ago.” No need to lie. He’d learn that soon enough.

“No apprentices? How do you operate a draper business?” He spoke as though he already knew her answer.

She sighed. “Without wool, there has been little business.” Instead of being stacked with red, green, and blue woolen cloth bearing the mark of the Four-Petaled Daisy, Katrine’s shelves were bare.

Leaning over, he lifted his sack and slung it over his shoulder without effort. Strong arms, then, and a light load. “So, what will you make with this wool of yours?”

Anything will sell these days, but deep blue would fetch a good price. Indigo dyed over gray wool . . .

He watched her with a half smile. The thread of her thoughts unraveled. His glance seemed to expose her secrets while sharing none of his own.

“Indigo dyed worsted,” she said crisply. “The market hasn’t seen its like since before Christmas and it should fetch at least fifty florins. If, that is, you bring me wool worth weaving.”

“Whatever I bring, you’ll pay for.”

She bridled. “Of course. I’m an honest woman.”

“So you say.” Walking past her toward the stairs, he paused beside the loom. His fingers stumbled as he plucked the threads, the first awkward gesture he had made. “This is important to you, isn’t it?” he said, not looking up.

I leave it in your hands, daughter. Guard it well.

“It is my life.”

He scrutinized her wordlessly, as if gauging what kind of a life it was. She forced herself to remain still, hoping he saw a trustworthy guild wife. He must not suspect who she really was.
_______________________________________________________________

Harlequin Historical is a registered trademark of Harlequin Enterprises Limited. As such all excerpts are copyrighted © and all rights are reserved.