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.

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…

His Captive Lady by Carol Townend

A medieval romance set in England, in East Anglia and Wessex. It is 1068, shortly after the Norman Conquest. His Captive Lady is a July 2008 release that is currently available for ordering on eHarlequin.com, and it will be published in the UK by Mills & Boon in Spring 2009.

Summary:CAPTURED BY THE WARRIOR!

Lady Erica had tried to bring peace to her people, so that they could join forces against the Normans. Instead she became captive to the Saxon warrior, Saewulf Brader!

Wulf was, in truth, a Norman captain spying on the enemy. Chaste yet fearless Lady Erica wasn’t part of his plan. Her beauty was as disarming as it was captivating, but Wulf knew that once she discovered his deception, their fragile bond of trust would be destroyed…

Wessex Weddings
Normans and Saxons, conflict and desire

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

‘We will save those for later.’

Later. Erica’s breath froze. Later.

He faced her. Smiled. There was so little room that he was scarcely a foot away from her. He was very tall this man to whom she had been given; his head almost touched the planked ceiling. Saewulf Brader’s skin was smooth and his eyes were clear. And he was, she realized with a start, examining her with equal attention. Convulsively, she swallowed.

‘Do not fear me. You are safe,’ he said, softly.

‘I…I thank you.’ Absurdly, she believed him.

Strong muscles bunched and shifted under his tunic. Saewulf Brader was the image of health. Young men, healthy young men, were, in Erica’s admittedly limited experience, not entirely reliable where women were concerned. Until today, Erica had lived a sheltered life; her high status had protected her.

Physically, at least. Physically, she was as chaste and innocent as a nun in an enclosed order.

Silently she stared at Saewulf Brader’s broad back as he worked, and wondered what was running through his mind. Tonight he had been given a trophy. Her. Could she take him at his word? Could she trust him not to…touch her?

******

Readers, are you intrigued? If you are, check out Carol Townend recent Febuary release (to be released in Sept in the UK) An Honorable Rogue

Charmed and Seduced!

Benedict Silvester is a rogue and a flirt! His skill as a musician means he is always traveling…and he charms women wherever he goes. Yet he is on a special mission: to accompany Rozenn Kerber to England.

Rose is frustrated with Ben’s frivolous behavior and annoyed that his wicked smile continually occupies her thoughts, for he can never offer the stability she craves. But on their travels, Rose begins to suspect that he may have a serious side, that Ben is more than he appears….

You can read an excerpt here and can visit Carol here. And today at 11 am we will have a guest post by Carol as well as she has a book in our grand prize basket that will be awarded at the end of the month!

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.

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Mango wrote that last line for you.

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

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.

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!

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.

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!

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.

Oh Cowboys. . . How they are loved so. Pam Crooks has promised a signed copy of Kidnapped By the Cowboy and a cowboy fan for someone that shared a story about racing and getting adrenaline going.

The lucky winner in the contest is

Maureen

Congratulations! Be sure you email Sybil at redwyne @ gmail .com your physical address about getting your prize! Congrats again to our lucky winner.

by Blythe Gifford

I confess.  I’ve been unfaithful.

Oh, I still love medieval England and its history. But despite a lifelong love affair with the country and its royal family, I’ve been tempted to stray, to dabble on other shores, with other stories, in other settings.

And so I had a fling.

With Flanders.

You heard me right. Innocence Unveiled, my June book, is set in the city of Ghent, in medieval Flanders.

I can hear your shocked protestations. Didn’t she love England? I thought what she had with the 14th century England was something special. And, most of all:

Where the heck is Flanders?

We’ll start with that last question. During the Middle Ages, there were a handful of duchies clustered where Belgium and the Netherlands now stand. Referred to as the Low Countries, their connections to England were close. Edward III’s wife, Queen Philippa, was from one of them, and trade ties were strong.

But these are excuses. The truth is that I strayed across the channel to follow a story. One that couldn’t take place any where else.

This book was sparked by a true incident, reported by the chroniclers. As King Edward III was trying to gain support for his claim to the throne of France, he sent an “embassy,” or diplomatic mission, to the Continent to recruit allies. Along with the diplomats traveled a number of “bachelor” knights, each wearing an eye patch and swearing not to speak until he had performed some deed of arms in France. My hero is one of those knights, but instead of staying with the group, he rides off alone.

Of course I had to follow him.

So I invite you to come along and explore the charms of unknown shores. You’ll find much that’s familiar: My hero is the bastard son of an English princess and the English king and queen even make an appearance.

So I’m not really unfaithful. I’m just being true to my English royal bastards and following where they lead me. (My next book takes me back to the sceptred isle. Honest!)

So give in to temptation. Enjoy a slight indiscretion and discover how much fun a little fling can be.

Are you ever tempted to stray from a genre or setting you’re loyal to? When you do, how do you “cheat”?

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.

by Kate Bridges

I love writing about people. About their relationships to each other, and not just the romantic kind. Of course I love writing about the battle of the sexes, but family and friends are a prominent theme of my novels, too. The most fascinating thing I discovered while researching my latest books, set in the Klondike Gold Rush, were the people — the hard-headed, the odd, and the normal folks — who dropped everything they were doing to head to the Yukon.

In the late 1890s when news of a major gold strike first reached the rest of North America, many folks made a mad dash for this wild frontier. Many of them thought it was their last chance to hit it big.

The mayor of Seattle walked off the job and jumped on a ship to Alaska. Judges left their posts, farmers walked off their land, seamstresses paid their last cent for a ticket north. Office workers who’d never held a shovel in their lives boarded the first train that took them to the west coast.

So many Europeans, as well as stampeders from across the U.S. and Canada, joined the trails that the dogs they brought with them forever changed the bloodlines of Huskies.

A hundred thousand people arrived in Alaska. This was just the beginning of their journey, for the gold was located over the mountains near Dawson City, Yukon Territory. Only a third who set out made it. Many of those left behind became millionaires anyway, servicing the miners who’d struck it rich and had nothing to buy in the wilderness. Enterprising folks set up restaurants, offered their services as tour guides, built casinos and steamboats.

Many folks were separated on the trails. There were no methods of communicating—no telegraph lines, no telephones, no trains—so if a person got into an argument with a traveling companion and separated, that was often it forever. Although many tried to find each other later, most were unsuccessful.

The heroine in Klondike Fever gets separated this way from her sister. And Lily is one of those people who dropped everything to join the Gold Rush. She’s trying to find her way back to her sister when her plans fall apart…she’s robbed on the stagecoach returning to Alaska and is shackled to a man she used to work for as a servant.

“Shotgun Vows,” my novella in Western Weddings, features a family who are setting up shop in the Yukon and are trying to do their best for their daughter, but unfortunately wind up interfering in her life.

So tell me what you think: are there any interesting family members in your history who’ve done something unusual on what seemed to be the spur of the moment? Or maybe it’s you? Maybe you packed up and headed to a new place?

For a chance to win an autographed copy of Klondike Fever or Western Weddings, please post a comment or question today. I’ll draw two winners. I’m also donating two more books to the grand prize basket for the end of the month.

If you’d like to see the photos I took on my research trip to Alaska and the Yukon, or to join my newsletter, please visit my website.

Now I pass it over to you.

Our Harlequin Historical guest today is another pond fave, Kate Bridges. It is hard not to adore a writer who shows us how the west was won, in the Yukon. If you are looking for adventures with Mounties or stories of the Klondike Gold Rush – Kate is the author to look for. Next she will be taking on the Alaskan side of the Gold Rush. The working title of her 2009 Harlequin Historical is Alaskan Masquerade. Until we can get her to give up the goods on that take a look at her 2008 books you want to make sure not to miss…

Klondike Fever by Kate Bridges
April 2008

It’s a reversal of fortune when Klondike Lily, the richest woman to strike gold in the Yukon, is robbed on a coach headed to Alaska and shackled to fellow passenger, Dylan Wayburn, a man she used to work for as a servant.

Yukon wilderness, August 1898

Dylan Wayburn recognized her before she recognized him.

She dressed differently, he thought. An odd mix of blatant beauty and hidden treasure. And after five years, instead of recognition in her eyes, there was dismissal. Dylan lowered the brim of his Stetson and hoped it would stay that way.

He studied her through half-closed eyes.

Miss Lilybeth Cromwell had always been self-conscious of a man’s attention. Yet the top button of her square neckline, scooped low like many high-society dresses, was half undone. It riveted the faces of all four men in the stagecoach. They waited for the button to slip completely and grace them with more of her bosom. Even the old lady seated beside Dylan was sniffing into a handkerchief and staring. Funny thing was, Lilybeth wore a black silk shawl around her shoulders, covering up the brilliant blue dress beneath.

Dylan never could understand that about women. She put that revealing dress on this morning and now she was trying to hide it.

Lilybeth was as far from demure as her flowing red hair and full lips would allow. But then again, Miss Lilybeth Cromwell was not the shy, nameless adolescent he’d once known. She was Klondike Lily, the wealthiest woman in the Yukon.

Rumor had it the gold nuggets on her claim were the size of grizzly claws.

Dylan tried to ignore her. He shoved a shoulder against the hard boards and peered out the window.

No sound of anything unusual. Still nothing to look at for the hundreds of miles between Dawson City and the tent town of Whitehorse except acres of spruce, aspen and the occasional cottonwood. A ridge of mountains engulfed the river valley. Turquoise waters of the Yukon River gushed on the other side of their coach.

They hit another rut. The six passengers swayed in unison and Dylan’s face bobbed back to Lily.

Her button inched closer to release. He swallowed mighty hard, turned away again and stared at the outside shadows—two men driving a team of twelve horses. A strongbox locked in between them. A stack of luggage.

No one else had voiced it, but Dylan was well aware they were carrying a cache of gold. He knew it the instant he’d seen the number of horses on the team this morning. He’d been following the gold but he hadn’t been looking forward to meeting up with Lily again. Sooner or later, he knew they would, seeing how much gold she owned and how attractive that made her to thieves. And that, of course, was the reason he was here.

Beneath his boots, he felt the weight of the gold shift, tucked somewhere into a secret iron trap beneath the floorplanks. The stash was fairly well balanced, but on the odd turn, it slid an inch or two to the right, making the iron wheels on his side of the coach creak.

Mud wagon was a more appropriate term for the contraption they were riding in. A far cry from a civilized stagecoach in a civilized part of the world.

Twenty-eight days and nights he’d been traveling alone. Hiding behind scrub bush, eating berries when he couldn’t light a fire to attract attention, letting the scratch grow on his jaw, ensuring his holster and Colt revolvers were visible to all.

He’d be damned if he’d allow one inconsequential woman to blow his cover. If necessary, he could take down the two men sitting on either side of her.

Still, Dylan bristled with caution. He hoped she wouldn’t do anything reckless that might jeopardize the coming ambush and what he had to do to protect everyone inside the coach.

* * *

Lily adjusted her skirts and turned away from the bodyguard sitting on her right. His breath smelled of breakfast sausages. Heat glued their shoulders together. She usually preferred a window seat when she traveled, whether by train or wagon or ship, but her two secret bodyguards, provided by the stage depot three hours ago, insisted on flanking her.

She wiggled, panting for a pocket of air that wasn’t scented with either man’s breath. Envy gripped her as she stared at the formidable stranger slumped across from them. He sat beside the curtain and its rustling breeze. Why, with his dark Stetson perched low over his face, the mysterious man who seemed impressed with his own sense of danger hardly needed all the fresh air blowing his way. He was sleeping, for Lord’s sake, not even able to fully appreciate the gust.

And here she was, gasping.

There were some things money still couldn’t buy.

In fact, a lot of things.

Oh, here it came…a pinch of pine. Summer cedar.

She inhaled. Perhaps she’d get to the town of Whitehorse in one sane piece, after all. Then on to Skagway, Alaska, where her sister had last been sighted.

She detected the scent of whisky again, hailing from the sleeping stranger. How could a person take to drink so early in the morning?

Lily slid her hanky beneath her heavy wall of hair. She dabbed the moisture. If she hadn’t been in such a hurry to leave, she would have pinned her hair into a bun. Despite the heat, it wasn’t proper to go anywhere without a shawl.

Look how the stranger slid forward, silently demanding more space around him than any other passenger.

Weathered blue jeans covered his long legs. Expensive guns rested on lean hips. His crisp white shirt and suede vest made him look like an outlaw who was trying to behave. She glared at the broad shoulders and how many extra inches they occupied, inches that rightfully belonged to the older woman beside him and her elderly husband squeezed next to her, the Sawyers.

And why hadn’t the selfish man bothered to shave? Was it too much to ask for a man to look decent?

His shaggy brown hair could use a cut. He was traveling alone, but surely he hadn’t thought the coach would be empty from Dawson City to Whitehorse. They were in the middle of a gold rush!

Klondike fever, she called it. A burning inside the bellies of some men and women. A yearning to attain something grand, something they’d never seen or touched before.

They could have all the gold they could carry out of Dawson, if they struck it rich. The newly opened dirt path along the rivers between the Yukon and Alaska was no more than a hacked rut, but it was the only land route between Canada and the United States. Most folks still traveled by the waterways.

Heavens to God, look at him. Even his cowboy boots were obnoxiously large. She had half a mind to shake the living—

A dark eye peered at her from beneath his cowboy hat.

Heat rose to her cheeks.

Go ahead, tell him how much space he takes up! How his knees are just an inch away from her bodyguard’s. A bodyguard whose seat she had paid for. Why, she had literally paid for three seats in this coach, while he had only paid for one.

Air…she needed air…

The sound of gunshots lurched her forward, and suddenly she forgot all about the seating arrangements.

* * *

Her button finally came undone, but Dylan had no time to savor Lily. His pulse leaped at the blast of gunfire. He lunged for his Colts.

The old woman beside him shrieked, “No!”

“Hit the floor,” Dylan shouted and the Sawyers slid to their knees.

One of the drivers toppled from above the stagecoach, blood trickling off his left boot. He fell to the moving dirt.

Lily swung to her bodyguards. “Do something!”

Their guns were already halfway up, but Dylan was faster at pointing his six-shooters. “Toss your weapons.”

Fury etched their faces. They dropped their guns.

Lily trembled. “Blazes,” she whispered at Dylan, her skin pale against her wild auburn hair.

He knelt on the seat and peered out the window. The stagecoach careened down the trail, rocking everyone back and forth. They clutched their seats to hang on.

Hooves thundered in the grass. Five masked men galloped within yards of the coach, gaining fast. With steady aim, Dylan hit one chest, then another. Gravely wounded, the men toppled over their horses.

Dylan was well aware what was happening inside the coach, too. One of the bodyguards whipped out a hidden pistol.

Dylan twisted around, shot the man’s wrist, and as the other bodyguard rushed him, Dylan shoved his boots into the man’s gut and heaved as hard as he could. The man crashed through the door and out to the rolling ground. The door slapped open and closed.

More gunshots outside. The coach slowed.

“Damn,” said Dylan. The slowing meant his side was losing. Hidden gold beneath his boots shifted and the right wheels creaked.

Lily’s blue eyes widened. “What do you want?”

Dylan kept his gun pointed at the injured man beside her, who was clutching a bloody wrist. “Your hired men are part of the gang trying to rob you.”

“Go to hell!” the bodyguard hollered.

Lily recoiled, unsure of who to look at, unsure of who to trust.

Dylan nudged the old man on the floor. “You all right?”

The gent moaned and helped his wife to her seat.

Lily kept her startled sights on Dylan. Her eyes flickered with recognition. Her mouth slackened, about to speak.

“Don’t say it,” he whispered.

“But you’re—”

“Don’t say it.”

She blinked rapidly and clutched her beaded handbag. Her lips went white. Her chin quivered. Her posture lost its strength.

Her remaining bodyguard lunged at Dylan with a knife. Dylan kicked the blade out of the ravaged hands and kicked the son of a bitch straight through the flapping door. He hurled to the grass.

The old couple gasped.

Color rushed back to Lily’s cheeks. She took in everything around her as the coach came to a shuddering stop.

“Pretend you’re with me,” Dylan said.

“But—”

“You either trust me or you don’t.” He locked on to her frantic expression. And waited. . . .

(continued. . . .)

WESTERN WEDDINGS anthology, “Shotgun Vows” by Kate Bridges

It’s humiliation no bride should have to bear. Yet, Milly Thornbottom is forced to take a groom when her parents, Dawson City’s biggest gossips, are aghast to find her in a compromising situation with a young Mountie recruit. Corporal Weston Williams can’t believe his misfortune. All he did was ask for a simple dance….

Chapter One

Dawson City, Yukon, May 1899

“I think he’s going to ask you to dance.”

“Hush,” said Milly Thornbottom to her good friend, Cora Vandenberg. Heat of embarrassment rushed up Milly’s neck. She smoothed the pleats of her ball gown in the bright evening sun that blasted through the community lodge for the annual Spring Fever Ball. “I dearly hope not.”

Her other friend, Rose Addison, whispered. “He’s attracted by your wicked hat, no doubt.”

Milly glanced across the crowded dance floor to the tall man in the red uniform who wouldn’t let go of her gaze. A cool evening breeze ruffled the tiny hairs at the back of her knotted bun, dark brunette hair she’d carefully pinned up for the biggest event of the year. She fiddled with a lose strand.

The lace trim on her sleeves swirled through the air. Beside her, Cora leaned against Rose. The two friends were such a contrast—Cora with her ruddy complexion and short golden curls, Rose with long black tresses.

“Can’t you two behave?” In order to break away from the Mountie’s gaze, Milly adjusted the brim of her hat, a wine-colored burgundy that matched her dress.

She’d stitched the organza to the brim only last night at eleven o’clock because it had been so sinfully busy at the hat and tailor shop where she worked. She’d volunteered to stay extra late to help her dear older neighbor, whose vision was going. The grandmother had needed help to hem a dress she’d attempted to fix on her own. Milly had restrung the loose beads across the waist while she was it.

The customers had all dropped in at the last minute it seemed, women boisterously preparing for the coming week of celebrations.

The Yukon was celebrating its spring, the thawing of its rivers for passage, and the endless sunshine that would soon bake the north. Milly couldn’t wait.

Across the room, the door opened again and caused another breeze. More folks entered the lodge. The fluttering white sash on Milly’s hat tickled her back, where her neckline plunged in a fashionable swoop.

She wondered if the man in uniform was truly coming for her, and dared another glance his way.

They hadn’t spoken the entire winter.

Weston Williams. Recent recruit for the North-West Mounted Police. He maneuvered his muscled frame through the crowd, aiming his blue-eyed gaze on Milly. To her annoyance, he still made her pulse rush. Dark blond hair brushed his shoulders, a bit longer than the other Mounties’. Although she and Weston had been quarantined for measles together last summer for two whole weeks in a group of strangers, they’d rarely shared an entire conversation. No matter how hard she’d tried.

He’d treated her as though she was far beneath him, a young child compared to his maturity. Ha. He wasn’t that much older.

The flecks of black in his blue eyes added to their depth and mystery. His lips seemed always on the verge of expression, yet never seemed to give away what he was thinking.

His red wool jacket tugged at the corners of his broad shoulders. Dark breeches spanned long legs, and tall leather boots added height to his already huge physique.

Did the Mounties dress to intimidate? She supposed the uniform and boots did that. Or perhaps the shoulder harness and gun.

Judging from the other men nodding at her, it seemed Weston was not the only one who’d noticed how much she’d changed from last year to this. Changed on the outside, she thought, but not on the inside. She was the same she’d always been, only he’d been too haughty to notice when it had really mattered to her.

Tonight, she appreciated the others in the room who had more manners and kinder things to say to her as a woman, not a child.

“Pardon me,” said a male voice behind her.

Milly twirled around. Her long skirts flashed across the plank floors, exposing the pointed black tips of her new boots. When the mercantile’s handsome son, James Yakov, nodded his dark head at her, she beamed. “James.”

“Your father said I might have this dance.”

“Absolutely,” she gushed. “I was hoping you’d ask.”

She’d stitched this dress for James. He’d once complimented her on a burgundy-colored blouse, and so she’d chosen burgundy linen for the gown tonight.

“You look pretty,” he told her, causing her pleasure to deepen.

“Thank you. I’ve-I’ve never seen you in a suit before. It makes you look quite dashing.”

He boldly took her hand and whirled her around the floor to a waltz, awkward at first, then synchronizing steps.

She glanced in her parents’ direction. Theodore and Abigail Thornbottom, owners of the rope and broom shop in Dawson City, were watching her carefully, even while shaking the hands of Reverend Murphy. Her thin father, in his tight plaid suit and white ponytail, squeezed the plump shoulder of her mother, whose own golden ball gown Milly had worked on in secret for a solid month, and then surprised her. It had been well worth her mother’s delight.

Tonight, her mother’s skin was flushed with pride, her eyes sparkling as she said goodbye to the minister. The man was leaving on a journey in the morning to visit the camps that dotted the riverbanks, for those in need of religious services that had been stymied by the impassable winter weather.

Milly reveled in the feel of James’s loose hold on her waist. She wished he’d press tighter so she could really feel his grip. She also wished her folks would let her make her own decisions regarding dance partners, but she was working on them.

Thank goodness they’d said yes to James.

It was spring and Milly, Cora and Rose would blissfully take their time deciding on men. Potential husbands, even. The thought made Milly’s stomach flutter. Like Cora and Rose, Milly was ready for courtship—for the year ahead, meeting all types of gentlemen she could thankfully choose from. Perhaps she didn’t have to look far. James was here.

He squeezed her waist. She lowered her lashes and held back a smile, not wanting to be too obvious. Then to her utter shock, he twirled her around right at the base of Weston William’s feet. She held her breath and didn’t dare look up.

Weston had been snubbed by James already, if he’d intended to ask for the dance first. However, it was Weston’s loss. He’d waited too long. Ever since last summer, to be frank.

When the waltz ended, she was panting with enthusiasm. “Thank you so much, James, I—”

“Her Pa said I was next.” A heavy-set older man interrupted them. Mr. Dirk Slayton. He’d apparently missed a patch of dark stubble on one cheek when he’d shaved this evening.

Queasiness rolled up her spine. Must her father direct every moment? In his late forties, Mr. Slayton was nearly as old as her folks. And as big as a giant.

She nodded goodbye to James—for the moment—and slipped her hand into the palm of this rich gold miner, one of the Klondike’s newest millionaires.

He waltzed her into the crowd. She held her face away from his sweaty neck.

It was said Mr. Slayton had more gold than he could carry. More than he could spend in a lifetime. But his problem was the same as everyone else’s who’d struck it rich, here in the middle of nowhere at the end of civilization.

Nothing to buy. No place to spend his massive fortune. The shops and tented stores couldn’t keep up with the demand for clothing, utensils, furniture, and everything else that most folks back home in Montana took for granted.

“Been a long cold winter,” said Mr. Slayton.

She nodded. Her hair tugged from its bun as he spun her around a little too freely. “Yes, sir.”

“Fella gets awful lonely.”

“Yes, sir.”

“A wife is what I need.”

“Yes…no…I see.”

Her temple throbbed. Her fingers, moist with perspiration, slipped against his grip. She dreaded what he might say next.

“And in case you’re wonderin’, my nuggets are the size of eggs.”

Good grief. How crass.

Milly’s gaze darted about for a means of escape. Cora and Rose were also on the dance floor, being whirled about by a shopkeeper, and another gold miner even older than Milly’s.

To her rescue, one of the youthful Baldwin brothers appeared. “Your parents suggested I come say hello.”

With great relief and giving the pleasant bartender her best show of welcome, she moved forward, intending to place her hand in his.

Instead, a familiar figure slid in. Weston snatched her hand and placed his other firmly against her waist.

Firmly.

Her pulse leaped.

“She’s mine this time, Baldwin.”

Had Weston asked permission from her father?

She stared open-mouthed across the floor, searching for her parents, but Weston yanked her back to look at him.

She stared up at the cut of his dark blond eyebrows, the strong lines of his jaw and cheekbone. With a tingle racing through her stomach, Milly didn’t know how to stop him from entwining his fingers into hers.

“Have you asked permission?” she said.

“The only permission I need is yours.”

He paused for a moment to let her respond while her heart pounded against her ribs.

Piano music filled the hall. Guitars strummed. Banjo pickers added flavor to the waltz.

She should object. She should say no. He gave her precisely two seconds, then taking her silence for a yes, he pressed his warm palm against the plunging back of her dress and led her firmly across the floor.

Firmly.

(continued. . . .)

by Michelle Willingham

I’ve always loved medieval settings, particularly anything Celtic. When “Braveheart” hit the theaters, I was mesmerized by Mel Gibson in a kilt (What’s not to like?). I was also traumatized when the heroine of the movie died within the first hour. Although it became the driving motivation for the character of William Wallace, my writer’s brain kept wondering, “What if Murrin had lived?”

It would have been a historical romance, that’s what. And like any lover of historicals, I grew up on Scottish medievals. Whether reading a time travel by Karen Marie Moning or a Jude Deveraux medieval, I scarfed them up like chocolate. When I had the chance to visit Ireland for the first time, I fell hopelessly in love with the country. I stood atop the ruins of a medieval abbey and pictured an Irish warrior rescuing his own maiden from the marauding Normans.

That was the beginning of my Irish medieval mini-series, the MacEgan Brothers. At first, many publishers didn’t want to take a chance on medieval Ireland. Medieval Scotland, yes. But Ireland? Thankfully the editors at Harlequin Mills and Boon were more than willing to take a look. And though my sexy warriors wear trews (leggings) instead of kilts, they still wield swords and fight for their women.

There were some differences between Ireland and other medieval settings. For one, castles weren’t part of the landscape until the 12th century. Fortresses were called ringforts and the Norman invaders built ringwork structures. Usually these were based atop a hillside with a ditch or fosse, and a wooden palisade wall kept out wild animals or invaders. Eventually, as the Norman influence spread, some of the nobility began constructing wooden and then stone castles. Ironically, one of the Irish castles I visited for my research, Trim Castle, was where several “Braveheart” scenes were filmed.

There were also artificial islands called crannogs. I visited a re-enactment village at Craggaunowen, near Shannon, Ireland, that boasted its own crannog. The structure had a long bridge leading to a ringfort surrounded by water. Inside were thatched stone huts, and the interior was much more primitive than I’d ever imagined. Even so, the wild intensity of these locations inspired a multitude of stories.

Last, one interesting bit of research led me to information on fostering. Irish parents would typically send their children to a close relative after they were weaned. The children would be raised by their uncle, cousin, or a family friend. Girls were fostered until the age of thirteen and boys were fostered until seventeen. This gave girls the opportunity to meet future husbands at a different tribe or clan, while boys could make alliances with other branches of their family. And while I’ve often dreamed of shipping my children off to a distant relative for a few years, I can’t imagine living without them for that length of time. It was a medieval custom, however, and one that provided a way for me to write an unusual secret baby plot, in The Warrior’s Touch.

Today’s guest is Michelle Willingham. She has published 3 books in her medieval MacEgan family series (Her Irish Warrior, The Warrior’s Touch, Her Warrior King) and will have one that tells the tale of where it all begin in November 2008.

It is titled Her Warrior Slave, and is the story of a MacEgan ancestor, Kieran. Michelle will go into the origins of the MacEgan clan and she thinks you might be surprised how they began.

I haven’t had the chance to get more info yet but hopefully she will be by sometime (hey she has the whole month or really whenever) to give us more details! Until then here is the summary and excerpt to her January Harlequin Historical and do check out the info after the excerpt on what she will be working on next.

Her Warrior King by Michelle Willingham

Blackmail forced Patrick MacEgan into marriage—although he could not be forced to bed his Norman bride. But Isabel de Godred was as fair as she was determined to be a proper wife….

She wished to help her proud warrior king with the burden of his responsibilities. As queen, she could aid an alliance between their people. As wife, she longed to comfort him, for when alone, they could put aside war and be but man and woman….

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

Chapter One

England, 1170

Every woman considered stealing a horse and running away on her wedding day, didn’t she?

Isabel de Godred fought the restlessness building within her. It was her duty to obey her father. She understood it, even as she clenched the crimson silk of her kirtle and eyed the stables.

In her heart, she knew an escape was futile. Even if she did manage to leave the grounds, her father would send an army after her. Edwin de Godred was not known for his tolerance. Everything was done according to his orders, and woe to anyone who disobeyed.

The marriage might not be so bad, part of her reasoned. Her betrothed could be an amiable, attractive man who would allow her the freedom to run his estates.

She closed her eyes. No, highly unlikely. Otherwise Edwin de Godred would have paraded the suitor before her, boasting about the match. She knew little about him, save his Irish heritage and rank.

“Are you ready, my lady?” her maidservant Clair asked. With a conspiratorial smile, she added, “Do you suppose he’s handsome?”

“No. He won’t be.” Toothless and aging. That’s how the man would look. Panic boiled inside her stomach, and Isabel’s steps felt leaden. Her rash escape plan was looking more and more promising.

“But surely—”

Isabel shook her head. “Clair, Father wouldn’t even let me meet the man at our betrothal. He’s probably half-demon.”

Her maid crossed herself and frowned. “I heard he’s one of the Irish kings. He must be wealthy beyond our imaginings.”

“He isn’t the High King.” And thank the saints for that. Though she might rule over the tribe, at least she did not have the burden of ruling a country. As they walked down the wooden staircase outside the castle donjon, she wondered how Edwin had arranged a betrothal in such a short time. He’d gone to aid the Earl of Pembroke’s campaign only last summer.

“If I could, I’d take your place,” Clair mused with a dreamy smile.

“And if I could, I’d give him to you.” Unfortunately, that wasn’t possible.

Isabel’s imagination conjured up a monster. The man must be unbearable to require such secrecy. Though she knew it was unfair to pass a judgment before she’d met her intended, she couldn’t help but imagine the worst.

“You’ll be mistress of your own kingdom,” Clair sighed. “Imagine it. You’re to become a queen.”

“I suppose.” And that added even more fear to the forthcoming marriage. What did she know about being a queen? She knew how to run an estate and make it profitable, but that was all.

Her father Edwin de Godred, Baron of Thornwyck, awaited her outside the chapel among a small crowd of guests and servants. Tall and thin, his graying beard and mustache were neatly groomed. He inspected her with a glance, and Isabel felt like a mare about to be traded. She resisted the urge to show her teeth for inspection.

No, it did not bother her to leave this place. But what should she expect from the Irish king? Was he kind? Cruel? Her nerves wound tighter.
“Is he here?” she asked her father, staring at the men waiting near the church.

Edwin gripped her cold fingers, keeping them in a tight grasp as he escorted her to the church. “You will meet him soon enough,” he said. “My men sighted his traveling party a few hours ago.”

“I would rather have met him at our betrothal,” she muttered. Her father only grunted a response.

Isabel shivered. Until she saw this man with her own eyes, she’d not surrender her escape plans. With each step, she felt more alone. Her sisters were not here to lend their support. Edwin had not permitted it, and it had hurt more than she’d thought it would.

When they arrived in the courtyard, a well-dressed man was speaking to the priest. He had little hair, save a snowy fringe around his pate.
“Is that him?” she asked. Her father didn’t answer. He seemed preoccupied, his gaze focused into the distance.

The older man swallowed hard and wiped his palms upon the hem of his tunic. He glanced around as if searching for someone.
Isabel sent up a silent prayer, her cheeks flaming. God, please save me from this marriage, she thought, even as her father’s hand closed over her wrist.

A moment later, she heard the sound of a horse approaching. Startled, she glanced up at the heavens. “That was quick.”

“What is it?” Edwin demanded.

“Nothing.” Isabel forced a neutral expression onto her face, but the rumbling sound intensified. Her father offered a strange smile, and he motioned for the priest to wait. Moments later, the elderly man stepped among the other guests. So he was not her bridegroom.

The noise grew louder, and her father’s hand moved to his sword hilt. A few guests looked to Edwin, the women glancing around with uncertainty. The priest turned to Isabel, a questioning look on his face.

Isabel froze. There, riding toward the guests, a man emerged. His clothes were little better than rags, dried mud coating the hem of his cloak. And yet he rode a sleek black horse, a stallion worthy of a knight.

His sword was drawn, as if to cut down any man who dared oppose him. Guests scrambled to get away from the horse, several women shrieking.
Isabel’s heart leaped into her throat, but she held herself straight, refusing to scream. Instead she darted behind one of her father’s men, a soldier armed with a bow and arrows.

What was wrong with them? The men hadn’t moved, nor released a single arrow. As a single rider, the intruder was an easy target. Would no one stop him?

“Do something!” she shouted, but the soldiers ignored her.

The man drew his horse to a halt and dismounted, sheathing his sword. Isabel’s breath caught in her lungs, a strange sense of foreboding sliding over her. No. This could not be him.

Black hair flowed down his shoulders, his granite eyes burning into hers. He reminded her of a savage barbarian, bold and fearless. He wore a strange garment, a long tunic of blue that draped to his knees, and dun-colored leggings. A crimson ragged cloak hung across his shoulders, pinned with a narrow iron brooch the length of her forearm. Gold bands encircled his upper arms, denoting a noble rank.

Her father’s calm acceptance of the interruption could mean only one thing. The barbarian was her betrothed husband. Isabel bit her lip, fighting back the fear and the desire to flee.

Edwin confirmed it with his words. “Isabel, this is Patrick MacEgan, King of Laochre.”

She didn’t want to believe him. While the barbarian’s horse and sword suggested a high rank, the man looked as though he’d come from a battlefield rather than a throne. And where were his escorts, his servants? Kings did not travel alone. Her suspicions darkened.

The king dismounted, and Isabel kept a clear eye on his horse. Now, more than ever, she longed to escape. Perhaps she could seek sanctuary in the abbey. There was a slim chance she might make it.

“You are Lady Isabel de Godred?” he asked. The lilting accent in his voice sounded foreign in the Norman tongue.

“I am.” She stared at the man. “Is this the way you usually arrive at a wedding? By trying to kill the guests?”

“Isabel,” her father warned. She stilled her voice, fighting back the fear that pounded inside her. His steel eyes studied her dispassionately, and her gaze shifted to his hands. He could tear her apart with them, no doubt.

The barbarian king blinked a second. The fierce expression returned to his face. “Let us get the deed done.”

Not if she could help it. He wasn’t at all half-demon. Full-blooded demon, more like. If she ever intended to make an escape, now was her only opportunity.

Isabel dashed toward MacEgan’s horse. She gripped the saddle, trying to haul herself atop the creature before strong arms surrounded her like a shield. Sinewy muscles possessed her in a prison of strength.

Though she fought him, the king lifted her down as though she weighed no more than a fly. He kept her pinioned against his chest. His body heat warmed her cool skin, and the top of her head reached just below his shoulders. In his stance, she could feel the caged fury.

“I cannot wed you,” she insisted. This was not the sort of amiable husband who would sit upon a throne and let her handle the household. He was the sort of man who would lock her in chains and feed her body to the crows.

No one listened to her protests. Father Thomas began murmuring the words to the marriage rite. The king took her hand in his, and blood roared in Isabel’s ears.

This could not be happening. This man would steal her away from her homeland, to the island of Erin where she had no family. She’d never see her sisters again. Pain twisted within her skin, and she held back tears.

His hand squeezed hers tighter, and she caught the warning look. Anger rose up within her, permeating and harsh. What had she done to be punished with a husband such as this?

The priest was waiting for her vow. Isabel shook her head and her throat closed up. “I will not wed you.”

“You’ve no more choice than I, a chara.”

Isabel tried to break free of him, but Patrick overpowered her. “You wish to have your freedom, do you not?”

She made no reply. What did he mean?

“Agree to this marriage, and it shall be yours.”

She did not believe him. Every inch of this man was uncivilized. Her father sent her an icy glare. “Look around you, Isabel. If you do not wed the King of Laochre, there is none other who will have you. What man desires a disobedient wife? You bring shame upon yourself.”

Hot tears gathered in her eyes but Isabel held her ground. The wedding guests appeared uncomfortable.

Patrick softened his grip upon her wrist. Lowering his voice, he brought his mouth to her ear. His breath made her shiver.
“Your father holds the lives of my people under his control: men, women, and children. The only way to save them is if I wed you. And wed you I shall, a chara, be assured of it.”

A single tear slid free, staining her cheek. The truth broke through, unwanted. Her father’s conquest in Erin had made her into a bargaining pawn, her own wishes meaningless. This was a political alliance, and the king’s rigid expression made it clear he would not accept a refusal.

Was he telling the truth? Would children and women die if she refused? She turned and studied her father. In his eyes she saw no mercy.
She looked closer at Patrick MacEgan. Past the anger she saw exhaustion. And a hint of sadness. If he was right, if innocents would die without her acceptance . . . She closed her eyes, knowing she could not escape her fate. In that moment the chains of obligation tightened around her.

When the priest asked for her vow again, she forced herself to nod aye. Within moments, the rite had ended. Her husband brushed a kiss of peace upon her cheek, and Isabel clenched her teeth to keep from screaming.

All throughout the Mass, Patrick kept her hand imprisoned in his. She barely heard the priest’s words, her head spinning with disbelief. So fast. Wedded to a man she didn’t know, a king who lived a world apart from her homeland.

Afterwards, they walked into the inner bailey. Isabel’s stomach roiled at the scent of the wedding feast prepared. Peacocks, a roasted pig, and all manner of exotic fare awaited them. She couldn’t imagine touching a bite of it. Celebrating was the furthest thing from her mind.

Patrick stopped in front of his horse. “We leave now. Say farewell to your father for you will not see him for a long time.”

His command caught her unawares. “But my belongings and dowry,” she protested. “The wagons—”

“We’ll send for them later.”

Isabel cast a glance toward Edwin de Godred. No longer did she see the face of her father, a man she had tried desperately to please. Now she saw a man willing to sell her into marriage with the Devil, should it further his own ambitions.

Her father moved forward. “You cannot depart until the marriage is consummated.”

“I have met our agreement.” Patrick’s expression hardened, and his palm moved down to the hollow of her spine. Isabel stiffened at the mark of possession. “You need not doubt the rest. But it will be on my terms, not yours.”

Lord Thornwyck deliberated before at last handing over a scroll of sealed parchment. “If she is not carrying an heir by the time I return to Laochre, I will require evidence that she is no longer a virgin.”

Isabel’s face burned with mortification. Now it seemed they viewed her as a brood mare. Terror lanced her at the idea of submitting to the Irish king. Though he’d granted her a reprieve from the ceremonial bedding, she had no doubt he would want to share her bed later this night. Her skin prickled beneath the touch of his hand upon her body. The awareness of him only heightened her fears.

“At Lughnasa, we’ll expect you,” Patrick replied. He did not await a response, but lifted her atop his horse. He swung up behind her, spurring the stallion into a gallop.

The horse raced onward while strong arms confined her in an iron grip. Neither her father, nor his men, made any move to stop him. Isabel’s last thought was, God, this was not what I meant when I begged you to save me from this marriage.

From the book Her Warrior King
Copyright © 2007 by Michelle Willingham
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher.

In other non-medieval news Michelle will be publishing a Victorian in 2009.

Wedded to the Enemy

Stephen Carrington, the earl of Whitmore, has no memory of the past three weeks of his life. When he awakens at his country home, he discovers he has a wife and two children. Or does he?

Emily Carrington would rather be dead than married to Lord Whitmore. But she has two children to support and a secret scandal she longs to forget. One matter is quite clear–she’ll never be a true wife to him, no matter how Stephen fights to win her heart.

You can check out an excerpt here. I would not be shocked if it didn’t change some because I don’t think the copy edits have been done but this is on her site. In fact you should go play around on her site… lots of great details on her books and some fun facts – she even has a blog.

By Michelle Styles

Some writers just write about one time period – whether it is the Regency, the American west or even in the case of contemporary writers – the eternal present. Some readers are eternally faithful to their chosen period. They will not read anything outside of that period, or even sometimes that setting. They are monogamous readers and writers. I am not.

I write in a number of time periods – from Romans to Vikings to Regency and Victorian. And my reading habits are all over the place. I simply can’t stay faithful. There are just too many places to go out and explore.

There are pros and cons to both approaches. My big problem is that I love too many time periods. I have always read historical novels set in a wide range of periods, and would hate to think that historical romance is confined only to a narrow set of dates and locations, even though the late Regency/early Victorian period is one of my own personal favorites.

One of the great things about Harlequin Historical is that they let me explore different periods, both as a writer and a reader.

As a writer, I have been encouraged to experiment. Generally, I agree a time period and possibly a location, then I am free to create the sort of story I want to tell. The time period always puts certain restrictions on the story. For example, a story that would be appropriate for the early Viking period would probably not be appropriate for the more staid early Victorian period. The Romans are a far more urban based culture in many respect than say even the Regency period. And what I love to do is to see echoes and connections. To figure out why certain things evolved in certain ways. No time period is an island sort of thing. Basically for me, it is a chance to indulge my love of research. What is really great is when a new time period also allows me a chance to travel. For example, I was able to go to Iceland and Norway to do research on the Vikings.

HH has a policy of publishing at least one Unusual Historical – i.e. not one set in the Georgian/Regency/Victorian or rural American West per month. This means that readers can visit medieval Europe or ancient civilization or even the early 20^th century. Recent locations include: Bohemia (Joanne Rock‘s A Knight Most Wicked ), Edwardian England (Nicola Cornick‘s Last Rake in London), the Scottish Highlands (Terri Brisbin‘s Surrender to the Highlander), the fall of the Roman Empire ( Louise Allen‘s Barbarian King, Virgin Slave) and Viking Scandinavia (my Taken by the Viking and in the UK Viking Warrior, Unwilling Wife). And even within the Georgian/Regency/Victorian slots, the editors encourage books set outside the London drawing room as well as the perhaps more traditional story.

From what I understand, the editors plan to keep offering unusual locations and time periods in the mix. The one constant is the focus on the romance as the central spine. It is probably the reason why I love Harlequin Historical so much – no matter which time period, or which setting, you know the core of the book is going to be a satisfying romance. And ultimately that is what I crave — a satisfying romance in a vivid setting.

So what about you? Are you faithful to just one time period? Or do you like to jump around? Is there any time period that you would like to see more of?

I am running late today and thought I had done this. Sorry! Today we will have a guest post by our own Harlequin Insider Michelle Styles (so she is used to me running late ).

If you haven’t already, go read Lawson’s review on Taken by the Viking. There are a couple of things in the review I want to talk about later but for how we shall focus on this…

It’s rather odd though that the first one I read is about Vikings. I had a bad experience with a Viking romance some years ago and haven’t really liked them since. I think Michelle Styles has made me change my mind about that though.

I think that says a lot, as does her coming over yesterday and leaving with Michelle’s next HH as well as another HH or two.

We will have a guest post from Michelle today at 11 am but until then you can read not one but two excerpts from her.

Taken by the Viking excerpt can be read here.

and

Viking Warrior, Unwilling Wife, which was released this month by Mills & Boone, can be read here. I am not sure if a US date has been set yet but I will double check.

So going back to what Lawson said, what is your take on Viking romances? What have you read before and do you like them?

Like a lot of readers I have a tendency to “collect” authors. Being a huge fan of the Harlequin Historical line, it should be no surprise then that I have several lengthy backlists sitting in my TBR pile. One of those authors is Jillian Hart, and it was during a conversation with Sybil a while back that she mentioned how much she enjoyed her HH titles. That was enough for me. I pulled out my copy of The Horseman and fell desperately, hopelessly in love. As part of TGTBTU’s month-long spotlight on Harlequin Historicals, Ms. Hart agreed to sit down to an interview. Enjoy!

Wendy the Super Librarian: Like a lot of writers, you mention in your bio that you “scribbled stories in your spare time.” When did you get “serious” about your writing, and look towards publication as a goal? How long did it take from when you got “serious” to your first sale?

Jillian Hart: I think it took me about five years after I made the serious decision to work towards publication. Although I do think it was all that scribbling over the years that made a difference when I decided to get serious. I was very fortunate to land at Harlequin Historicals. I am deeply grateful to the editors who bought me and who taught me so much about writing. Those editors and the line hold a dear place in my heart.

WtSL: You have a deep and impressive backlist, with your McKaslin Clan series being a big cornerstone. When you wrote that first book, did you imagine the series would take on a life of its own? Did you plan it that way, or was it a happy accident?

JH: When I wrote that first book, I had no idea that the heroine’s sisters, and, later, cousins would became the McKaslin Clan. I loved writing that book, some books are just closer to your heart than others, and I wanted to go back and revisit that family. When I submitted the proposal for the sisters’s books, Joan Marlow Golan, who is now the executive editor of Steeple Hill books, named the series The McKaslin Clan. I would not have the same backlist and writing opportunities without Joan’s support and guidance, along with my own wonderful editor and the line’s supportive senior editor. I am very grateful to all three of them. So, nope, I had no idea what I was getting in to when I wrote the first McKaslin story, but it was (as you say perfectly) a happy accident.

WtSL: I think you wrote one of the quintessential beta heroes in Dillon Hennessey (The Horseman). That being said, I remember wanting Nick Gray in High Plains Wife to grovel to the point where his knees were bloody stumps! You obviously have no problem creating divergently different characters! Can you tell us a little bit about your process for creating your characters?

JH: My process for creating characters is very simple. I don’t create them as much as I let them come to me. Sounds a little weird, doesn’t it? I mostly start with a kernel or truth – just one that is powerful or defining, let it simmer, add to it, and let it simmer some more. It often takes a couple of these kernels before I begin to truly feel a character and hear their distinctive voice. For Dillon’s character, I liked the idea of a strong, good man who was shy. After letting this mull, I realized a man like that might be gifted with horses; he might work with his heart and not with force and treat others that way too. I let that simmer. And so on. I guess I try to find what makes the character unique and an individual, regardless of type or role, and do my best to get him on the page. And thanks for your kind words.

WtSL: I was blown away by your publication schedule for the rest of 2008 (5 books and an anthology story)! Is this the busiest writing year on record for you or did everything just fall into place for 2008?

JH: It was definitely my busiest writing year at Harlequin on record! Yikes. I’m grateful to my editors for being so enthusiastic in their scheduling, and I had the best time of my writing career. I put in quite a few long work days, but I got to meet some characters I fell in love with and stories I was transported to. Not surprisingly, I’ve taken a few months off completely, and have just started back to work. My 2009 year is much lighter!

WtSL: I have to ask, because Sybil and I are such big fans of your Harlequin Historical writing. Lately you’ve been very busy writing for Harlequin’s inspirational Love Inspired line. Any plans to return to HH?

JH: I actually have never technically left Harlequin Historical, although it looks like it since I haven’t had a book out in ages. I worked myself into burn-out. Not good. I know! I didn’t see it coming and then it was like hitting a wall. There were no words left. I was devastated. My editors were wonderful. They amended my contract giving me time to recover and contracted me for shorter anthology stories, which were meant not to be too taxing. I was able to write contemporary stories, which was a great relief. I was still writing, so I knew the historical words would come back. It was just a matter of resting that part of my writing muscle. When I was asked to write for the new Love Inspired historical line, I couldn’t say no. The editors, knowing of my burn-out, were exceedingly patient and generous when I went past my deadline, but the words were coming, so that was at least good. I feel like I’m through the worst, but I’m keeping my historical schedule very light for the next few years. I have two more anthologies coming out for HH, one scheduled for next spring and one undetermined. Both will be Brooks brothers stories. After I finish my current contract, we’ll see what the future holds. I will always want to write for HH. Like I said, the line is dear to me.

WtSL: Given that you’ve written contemporary inspirational stories, and historical romances, how excited were you when Harlequin announced plans for their Love Inspired Historical line?

JH: Very. I had been hoping for a line like that ever since Love Inspired was launched over ten years ago. I had several stories that felt too sweet for HH that I had never written, but wanted to. It was a perfect fit for those stories.

WtSL: Tell us a little bit about the books readers can expect from Jillian Hart this summer.

JH: I have the continuation of the series 3 McKaslin Clan out in June and August. Her Wedding Wish is Danielle’s story, and Her Perfect Man is Rebecca’s. I loved writing those stories for different reasons. It was a challenge to write Danielle’s story because of her husband’s disabilities and the sadness of a man not being able to remember his wife and his children. Her Perfect Man was fun, taking me back to a time when I worked at a summer day camp when I was a college student. High Country Bride is a July release from Love Inspired Historicals, and I totally fell in love with the hero, Aidan. The sample chapters will be up on my website soon if you want to take a peek.

Thanks for taking the time to interview me.

WtSL: Thank you Jillian!