Deborah Gafford

This weeks interview is with Deborah Gafford, I love having her here this week.

~ I want to start off with my Review of the book below. I think it is important for you to know this genre is not something I normally read. I like my paranormal/Historical, Romances. I was asked to do a review on this and so I will. 

Romantic Comedy ~ You're in Good Hands with Al Tate ~ Deborah Gafford

Let me say that if this is what I have to base 5 star books off of, then I will be posting a lot of 3 or 4 star reviews in the future. This lady draws you into her book and keeps you there. You are so part of the story that you only want to keep going, but you also don't want it to stop. I would compare her to Kathryn Le Veque, Donna Fletcher and Suzan Tisdale just to name a few. The women I admire and love reading.

She has a great story, flows really well and the story keeps you reading. You don't even know you're reading a Novella. I highly recommend this book. I am happy I had the chance to review this book. I would have missed out on a great book had she not asked me too.

Me: Tell us about yourself

Deborah: I'm a retired elementary school teacher and author. I taught for 23 years, including 2 years in Japan. I love to travel and have visited Korea, Hong Kong, Mexico, and Scotland as well as many of the states in the USA.

I am married to my high school sweetheart who is the role model for all of my romantic heroes. We live out in the country in Texas, away from the big cities, with two slightly spoiled dogs and the occasional herd of deer that wanders across our land.

I have been an avid reader all of my life and wrote occasionally during my teaching career. I have been published in travel, military life, and romance magazines. Historical romance is my favorite genre to read and I LOVE Scotland. So after I retired, I decided to write historical romance set in the medieval time period in the Highlands of Scotland. Once in a while if I just "have" to have a break from handsome, brave, muscle-bound romantic heroes in kilts, I write contemporary romantic comedy.

When I am not writing or reading, I love to spin wool into yarn on an antique spinning wheel and weave rugs on a large floor loom just as one of my medieval characters would have done.

Me: Tell us about your new book

Deborah: I am currently writing Highland Betrayal, the third book in my Heart of the Highlander historical romance series. I hope to release it in late October or November of this year (2014). In Highland Betrayal, I am introducing a new family, the McEwens. Isabelle McEwen is the heroine and love interest of the hero, William MacGregor. For those who don't know him, William MacGregor is the brother of Alexander MacGregor, the hero of Highlander's Bride, book 1. William was a fun character to write and after many readers asked if he was going to have his own book, I decided it was time to write his story.

Me: When you write, does your real life spill over into your book at any time

Deborah: Yes, real life does occasionally spill over into my writing. For example, some scenes in my award-winning romantic comedy, You're in Good Hands with Al Tate, really happened. But to keep from spoiling readers' fun in guessing, (and totally embarrassing myself!), I'll never tell which ones they are! If you want a fun look at some wild, crazy things that can happen to uh, a book character, you might enjoy reading it. Just remember, I warned you they are wild and crazy.

By the way, You're in Good Hands with Al Tate received the CROWNED HEART AWARD and was a FINALIST for InD'Tale Magazine's RONÉ AWARD for best contemporary romance of 2012. Now, it's getting a brand new FANTASTIC cover. Look for it in the next few weeks with the AWESOME new cover!

Me: Do you think about a book of yours, being made into a movie, or not when writing

Deborah: No, when I write, I get so involved with telling the story that I don't think of it in any other way. It would be wonderful if one were made into a movie one day, but I don't really think about it. It is often a real challenge writing the story the way I imagine it when the characters all want it written "their way". And, yes, the characters DO talk to me. They can get downright bossy at times.

Me: When naming your characters, do you give any thought to the actual meaning

Deborah: Since most of my books are Scottish historical romances, I have many Gaelic dictionaries, Scottish names books, and clan histories as well as books on medieval, Celtic, and Scottish way of life. When I imagine my characters, I imagine everything about them- from the way they look and sound, to their age, personality, and job. Then I look through my research books and find information, especially Celtic names if possible, that fit them. Besides the meaning of the name, I try to find a name that has a particular "look" or sound to it that would help convey what that character is like since many people may not know the actual meaning of the name.

Me: If you had to choose, which writer would you consider a mentor

Deborah: That is a hard question to answer. I have many favorite writers and have learned things from them as well as from the national and local writers' organizations I belong to such as Romance Writers of America (RWA), San Antonio Romance Authors (SARA), and Celtic Heart Romance Writers. Some of my favorite authors are: Delores Fossen, Lynn Kurland, Joni Hahn, Christine Feehan, and Dorothy Wiley. All of them have different styles of writing and write different types of books but all have strong characters and plots which make their reading so fascinating.

Me: Do you have any tips for our readers that might dream of writing

Deborah: I think the hardest thing for a writer to do is to be patient and when the story comes to you, write and don't stop! There are times when writer's block can look like it will stop the book forever or when life gets in the way and keeps you from writing as often as you want, but don't give up. If you only write one page a day, after a year, you will have a 365 page book! For some helpful tips and information on writing, readers can go to my website, http://deborahgafford.com/ and read the articles on my Tips of the Trade page. To learn about everyone involved in the creation of books, from authors, cover artists, book promoters and everyone in between, readers will find interesting information on my website's In the Spotlight page.

Me: Tell us anything you want 

Deborah: Thank you. I'd like to invite readers to take a look at my books and website and contact me with their thoughts on them. My first two books in my Heart of the Highlander historical romance series, Highlander's Bride and The Talisman, are available at Amazon.com as well as other online book retailers. My romantic comedy, You're in Good Hands with Al Tate, is also available at Amazon.com and elsewhere online. Below are the direct links for my books and website.

Deborah Gafford Romance Author website

Amazon Authors Page 

Facebook Page

Highlander's Bride (also received the CROWNED HEART AWARD)

 

The Talisman 

You're in Good Hands with Al Tate

                             ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Excerpt from Highlander's Bride

Coast of France 1502

"You, madam, have the honor of being the first pawn to fall."

Phillipe Ja Bier calmly watched the life fade from the old midwife's eyes. He wiped her blood from his rapier and slipped it back into the unassuming walking cane, then stepped over her lifeless body and walked out of the wooded copse to his waiting coach. Now that he knew where to search for Katherine, no one would stand in his way.

After dusting the coach seat with his lace-edged handkerchief, Ja Bier climbed in and rapped the ceiling sharply with the head of his cane. He sat back in comfort and stared out the window, a slight smile on his lips. As the woods faded in the distance his smile distorted into a twisted smirk as he planned his next move. He would bring Katherine back to France, then take his leisure playing out the game that had begun so long ago. A game he meant to win.

Scotland 1503

"I'd rather be skewered on a spit and roasted alive!" Glowering at his brother, Alexander MacGregor brandished his broadsword in the air to emphasize his point. "And you can tell that to Da when you return. Without me."

"Aye, brother, I could. But I will not. Da sent me to bring you home and 'tis that I will do."

Turning in his saddle, Alexander viewed his men waiting nearby. From their grins, it seemed they found the conversation amusing. He called to his head man-at-arms. "Malcolm, lead the men to the burn to water their mounts."

The rugged older man nodded. "Aye. Lads, ye heard him. Dinna just sit there till yer arses grow roots."

Alexander waited impatiently till the men were out of earshot and then turned back to his younger brother, William. "Now, what is this nonsense you speak of?"

William shrugged. "I told you. Da sent me to fetch you with all speed. He means for you to marry the daughter of an old friend within the sennight."

"Bloody hell!" Alexander yanked sharply on his reins causing his coal black stallion to rear and paw the air with its front legs. Would his trouble with women never end? Clamping his thighs to his horse's sides, Alexander eased his pull on the reins calming the stallion to its former stance even as thoughts of his recent humiliation at court burned in his gut increasing his anger.

Lady Beatrice's beauty and pleasant demeanor had set her apart from the fickle, scheming women who frequented court looking to snare a husband and a lover with equal abandon. The more time he spent with her, the more confident he had become that she was the only woman for him. When she'd fair swooned from the one chaste kiss they'd shared, he was convinced.

Later, when old Laird Buccleuch had asked him to take a message to his nephew, he had almost refused. The man's nephew was a womanizing drunkard and Alexander wanted naught to do with him. But he had agreed to do it out of friendship for the old man. In hindsight, he now realized Lord Buccleuch had sent him deliberately. Someday, when his anger and shame ceased to eat at him so, he would find it in him to thank the old man.

Alexander had knocked on the young Buccleuch's chamber door and entered when bid to do so. Upon hearing sounds of heated passion and a strumpet's lewd suggestions enticing the young man with further pleasures, he immediately turned to leave when he realized he knew the woman's voice.

He froze, unable to move, then damned himself for his suspicions. Nay! 'Twas not possible! Beatrice had been fair overcome from their one chaste kiss. 'Twas unthinkable that she knew the bawdy pleasures the whore had called out to the randy fool.

When young Buccleuch groaned loudly as he obviously reached his release, the woman laughed and spoke again.

"That should keep ye till I return this eve."

"Nay, now I'll have the other pleasures ye promised me."

"Ye will have them and more, but I must go now and dress for dinner. Alexander will be pining to share his trencher with me."

The young man laughed. "Ye share a trencher with him and your quim with me. 'Tis a fine jest ye play on the besotted fool."

Alexander crossed the room in three strides and jerked back the bed curtains. God! It was her!

She gasped and tried to cover her breasts with her arms. The color drained from Buccleuch's face and he stammered, "I… I thought 'twas a servant who entered."

Blood pounded in Alexander's head and his eyes narrowed to mere slits. "You should keep your door barred while you bed your whore." Then he slammed his fist into the sod's face. He looked down at the senseless fool, then turned to face Beatrice. He stared at her, his glare raking her body. She cowered when he lifted his hand from his side but then sat up and stared back defiantly as he merely reached into his sporran.

Alexander forced the words from his lips as he pulled out three pieces of silver. "I do not know the price of a court whore, but this should pay for your services." He tossed the coins in her lap and strode from the room.

For the next several days, he trained relentlessly, stopping only to eat with his men in the garrison hall. But when the king ordered him to attend to a matter during one of his feasts, Alexander swallowed his pride and took his place at the high table in the great hall.

Determined not to look for Beatrice among the crowd, he spoke with members of the King's Counsel. The candid discussion had eased his frustration until he heard a woman's laugh ring out from further down the table. Despite his resolve, he glanced at the woman whose laugh he remembered all too well.

Beatrice sat surrounded by men and women of the court. She whispered to them, then pointed at him and laughed again. When her companions joined in her mirth, he forced himself to look away, hardening his heart against the pain she'd caused him. When her laughter rang out again, obviously mocking him to anyone who would listen, he vowed never to let another woman affect him so.

'Twould be a cold day in hell before he gave his heart again!

Alexander shook his head, bringing his thoughts back to the present. Unwilling to speak of his humiliation, he scowled at his brother. "I tell you I won't do it. I'm no spineless puppet to be twisted about because Da holds the strings. We've discussed this a hundred times. I've told him when I found the right lass I would marry of my own choice. And not before."

William leaned forward and patted his horse's neck. "'Tis well I know it, but still he bid me find you quickly and bring you home."

"God's bones!" Alexander cursed. With his yearly service to the king complete, he was free to seek his fortune as he chose. He had intended to enjoy his freedom before returning home to During Castle to face the clan's many demands as next in line to become laird.

Leaning forward in the saddle, he surveyed the land in front of him. The play of afternoon sunlight rippled across a pale amber stream tinted by miles of peat as it meandered through the green valley. Surrounded by silent hills and the towering rock clad heights of Ben Cleuch, the quiet glen should have filled him with a sense of peace.

Instead, tales flooded his mind of the fierce battles once waged there, staining the land with blood. Down there, near the rocky outcrop on the edge of the forest, the MacGregor clan had fought boldly to claim the land and built a fortress in the glen duly named Ironwood. One day all this would belong to him. He'd assume his duty as laird and would have to wed. But, by God, he hadn't planned on doing it now!

He clenched his hands around the saddle pommel and shifted his glance back to William. "What brought on this foolish idea? Is aught amiss?"

"Da bid me speak naught of it. You will have to meet with him to hear his mind on the matter."

"Aye, so 'twould seem." Alexander spun his horse around and shouted back to his brother. "Have my men break camp and follow me. I will speak with Da and settle this once and for all." Slapping the ends of his reins against his mount, he urged it into a brisk canter down the hillside.

Alexander rode the rest of the day and throughout the night, stopping to rest only once for a few hours. As the distance shrank between Ironwood's peaceful valley and During Castle, he planned his argument against the unwanted marriage. But would Da heed his words without knowing all?

And what of Fiona? Although he'd never spoken words of love or commitment to the lass before he left, the one and only time he'd become blinding drunk, he had awoken with her in his bed seeming to prove he felt otherwise. And damn his hazy memory; he couldn't even remember bedding the lass.

Still worse, he'd always thought of her more as a little sister than a mere member of his clan. He'd always taken his lusty encounters with other women well beyond the castle gates. But seeing the blood-stained sheet she'd nervously wrapped around her nakedness proved he had taken her innocence whether he could remember it or not.

Vicious storms and foul weather had made the roads impassable and delayed his journey to meet the king's army for several weeks. In all that time, Fiona had shown no signs she carried a child from that night he scarce remembered. Fearing the king's displeasure for his late arrival, he had left as soon as the roads were fit to travel and hurriedly joined the king's troops at Scone. What if he was mistaken? Did a bastard child wait to claim his name when he returned? If so, he was honor bound to marry Fiona, but 'twould seem he was already pledged to some sight unseen wench known only to his sire. By the saints, his troubles with women were nearly enough to make him wish he'd become a monk!

Arriving home the next morn, Alexander spurred his horse through the gates, pulled to a sharp halt in front of the keep and vaulted from the saddle. He tossed the reins to one of the castle grooms. "Cool him down well, lad. I rode long and hard." 

With that, he strode up the steps of the keep, his leather boots beating an angry tempo on the stone stairs. The iron hinges on the massive oak doors screeched an eerie welcome as he stepped into the dim corridor leading to the great hall. He hesitated just long enough for his eyes to adjust to the light, then continued.

His weariness faded at the possibility of a nameless child awaiting him to do as duty bid, yet also uphold the MacGregor honor by fulfilling the betrothal his sire had arranged in his absence. Resentment rose once again as he silently questioned the motive for his summons.

He was no honorless cur; he would seek Fiona as soon as possible and learn the truth. If she had borne him a child, he would wed her and treat her and the child well. Until then, he'd listen to what his father had to say and protect Fiona's honor as best he could without telling all. Damn his memory for not recalling more of the night. Even drunk, he never would have thought he would bed Fiona. True, she was a beauty, but he had always thought of her as a younger sister, growing up in the castle together as they had. But knowing her as he did, he knew she wouldn't lie to him. Moreover, the proof had been there for him to see. Damn his lust.

Movement from across the great hall drew Alexander's attention. His sire, Laird Ian MacGregor, sat in an ornately carved high-backed chair by the hearth with one of his hunting dogs stretched out at his feet.

Taking a deep breath, Alexander marched quickly across the large room. The ends of his plaid slapped against his legs as he came to a halt in front of his father. The muscles of his face clenched tightly as he bowed in silent greeting.

Ian looked at Alexander, then back down at his dog, absently rubbing its head. "He doesna seem pleased, Cu. Och, well, it canna be helped."

Ian nodded and greeted him. "Ah, son, I see William found you and relayed my request."

"Request? 'Twas a bloody command and absurd at that." Alexander glanced around the room. Fiona wasn't there, nor was any young child of familiar bearing being held in tow. "We have spoken of this matter many times and I've no wish to bandy words again. I will not wed some strange lass on a whim to please one of your old friends. When I wed, 'twill be of my own choice and time. As the next laird, I claim that right."

Ian surged to his feet. His eyes narrowed and his mouth shrank to a thin line among the fiery red bristles of his beard. "I am laird here! 'Tis my choice whom and when you wed. And as my heir, you will do what I say. In five days' time, you will wed Lady Katherine, daughter of Laird and Lady Gordon, or I vow I will strike yer name from our clan and cast you out as the disobedient and ungrateful son you show me now!"

"Surely you jest! You cannot be serious!"

"I ne'er make idle threats. Think well on this."

"God's blood, even if I agreed to such a foolish idea 'tis no reason to do it so soon. Why such need for haste? What is wrong with the lass that I am rushed to take her, sight unseen?"

"'Tis naught wrong with the lass. You will wed her now because I have deemed it so. Settle this in your mind, for I have given my word to Laird Gordon. I willna discuss this further."

Anger knotted in Alexander's chest at the ultimatum and ricocheted through him in hot fiery sparks. For one tense moment, he faced his father in grim silence. It had always been so. His independent spirit had often rebelled against the rules of his father simply because they were not his choice or in his power to do otherwise. With defiance gnawing in his belly, he spun on his heel, strode out of the great hall and up the stairs to his chamber.

Inside his room, his scowling glance raked the large bed with his family crest carved in the headboard. Hanging on the rough stone wall above it were a targe and broadsword. He stared at them, his hands clenched, itching for action. "God's blood, but I can't believe this!"

Yanking the MacGregor badge from his shirt, he stared down at the symbol of his heritage, gripping it tightly in his palm until his knuckles turned white. Then he flung it on the bed followed by his kilt. Donning an old pair of breeks, Alexander grabbed his broadsword and strode out of his chamber without looking back.

Thank you Kimi, and thank you to readers everywhere. You give writers like me a chance to share our stories and we love doing it!  

Elizabeth Davies

This weeks interview is with Elizabeth Davies, I loved her answers. Stephen King, Wow would not have thought that. So awesome.

Me: Tell us about yourself

 

Elizabeth: I’m married to my best friend (cliché, huh?), have an almost grown daughter, and a scruffy old dog. We live in South Wales, not far from the areas about which I write. Here the land is full of castles, wind-swept mountains and hidden valleys.

Me: Tell us about your new book?

Elizabeth: It’s called The Spirit Guide. Here’s the blurb:

Seren has an unusual gift – she sees spirits, the shades of the dead.

Terrified of being accused of witchcraft, a very real possibility in twelfth century Britain, she keeps her secret close, not even confiding in her husband.

But when she gives her heart and soul to a man who guides spirits in the world beyond the living, she risks her secret and her life for their love.

It’s set in and around the market town of Hay on Wye, and its 1000 year old castle. And it features ghosts! The book, not the castle. Or perhaps the castle does, too…

Me: When you write, does your real life spill over into your book at any time?

Elizabeth: Only in that the places and some of the historical events are real. And some of the characters actually did exist, but I have superimposed my own ideas on what they were like, and this may not reflect their actual personalities.

And sometimes people I know creep in, too. For instance, the when I visualized the character Vaughan, I imagined him to look like a gentleman I used to work with.

Me: Do you think about a book of yours, being made into a movie, or not when writing?

Elizabeth: As I write I see the story unfolding as I would when watching a film, so yeah, I suppose I do, although that’s more a part of my writing process than having a serious consideration that a novel of mine would really be turned into a film.

Me: When naming your characters, do you give any thought to the actual meaning?

Elizabeth: Not to the meaning of the name, but the ‘feel’ of the name and the association I might have with that particular name are important to me. Sometimes a name just pops into my head, and I think ‘that’s perfect!’, and other times it takes me ages to find just the right one. I need to it sound right when spoken out loud, and also look good when written.

Me: What made you want to write and also what made you want to write the genre you are writing?

Elizabeth: It’s all my mother’s fault. She said right from when I was little and got good grades in my English classes that I should write. Easier said than done, though. It takes determination to transfer an idea in your head into real words on a real computer (or paper). As for genre, I think that was more accident than design. I wrote two novels before my State of Grace series, and they were what I would call women’s drama. They weren’t very good – rather dark and depressing. But when I read a few vampire books in which none of the vampires were exactly what I wanted them to be, I decided to write my own. The historical part of my novels just appeared out of nowhere!

Me: If you had to choose, which writer would you consider a mentor?

Elizabeth: Stephen King! I’ve read his stuff from when I was a teenager, and I just keep going back to him. The Stand is my favorite novel of all time, and even now he continues to amaze me with his ideas.

Me: Do you have any tips for our readers that might dream of writing?

Elizabeth: Get that first word written! You are never going to be a writer if it stays in your head. And keep writing. It’s like any other craft – it takes practice.

Me: Tell us anything you want?

Elizabeth: I like horses – I generally slip one or two into each novel. It helps that I mostly write about medieval Britain, when horses were a part of everyday life!

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Chapter 1

Englishmen flooded the castle and I was up to my wrists in the blood of one of them, trying to push his insides back through the eight inch gash in his stomach. His screams filled my ears and my mind, setting my teeth on edge, drowning out the voice of my mother. I jumped violently as she touched my shoulder to gain my attention.

‘Stop, Seren. He is beyond your help.’

I knew he was, but if I could return his intestines to their rightful place, his cries of agony would cease. All I wanted was for this unknown man to be silent.

My mother moved me aside and I went willingly; she had some skill in matters of healing and I bowed to her knowledge.

‘Shield me from the eyes of others,’ she said, and I positioned myself behind her, blocking her hands from the view of those who might take an interest in her activities. I thought she was preparing to practice her peoples’ ancient art on the stricken man, but instead she killed him.

One hand over his mouth, she used the fingers of the other to pinch his nose tightly closed. He struggled fiercely, his feet thrumming against the pallet, his eyes wide and staring as he fought to breathe. His hands clawed at my mother’s own as she leaned in close to whisper in his ear, her grip hard and tight on his face.

I heard not what she said, but his struggles lessened and I watched, awed, as the light left his eyes and another glow, faint at first but growing steadily stronger, emanated from his chest and coalesced into a radiance brighter than the noonday sun. I looked away, unwilling to witness what I could not understand, and when I eventually forced my gaze back to the knight, his death was complete.

She removed her hands, as blood-drenched as mine, and put her ear to his mouth. I could have told her he was dead, but I held my tongue, as I always did.

‘It is kinder this way,’ my mother said. ‘You did all you could, but nothing would have eased his pain.’

She straightened up, her palms in the small of her back, working the kinks out of aching muscles, leaving behind two red hand prints clearly visible in the grime of her gown. My own clothing was stiff with dried gore: I did not think I could ever be clean again, either in body or soul.

‘Come,’ she commanded,’ there are others who need our help.’

I turned away, weary to my bones, wishing I was anywhere but here, in this charnel house of the dead and dying.

The great hall was filled with bodies, some alive and some not, and some wishing they had already gone to meet their maker. The scent of cow-fat candles and oak logs burning in the stone fireplace was an aromatic undertone to the copper-smell of spilled blood, and the stench of bowels loosened by death throes. Screams and groans rent the air, interspersed with calls for more water and fresh linen, and grown men begging for their mothers, or God, to help them.

It was a scene from hell itself, but even though I closed my eyes, I could not block out the vision behind my lids, and I knew I would relive this moment for the rest of my years.

My mother thrust me towards a body on the floor.

‘There is one you can save,’ she said, and when I failed to move even one step closer to my patient, she grasped me painfully by the tops of my arms and shook me hard.

‘I did not wish for this, either,’ she hissed, her face inches from mine. I could see flecks of blood on her forehead and lines of strain around her mouth. Her eyes were dark pits of despair. ‘It is my people these men are killing. But we have a duty to do what we can, and you will not shirk that duty.’

I nodded slowly, to show my acceptance of what she was asking me to do. I might not like it, but I knew my place. As a nearly-grown daughter of the chatelaine - wife of the lord of the castle - certain things were expected of me: tending to battle injuries was one of them.

Abruptly, my mother pulled me towards her, her arms circling me.

‘I promise this day will end,’ she said. ‘I know how hard this is – I, too was innocent of the horrors of war once – but if we do not tend to them, who will? Enough have died today and more will die tomorrow, but there are many we can save.’

She held me close, and I smelled the familiar scent of rosewater underneath the stink of blood, excrement, and sweat. The scent soothed me a little, but not enough to tell her the real reason behind my reluctance to attend to the injured, though the sights before me should be reason enough for anyone.

She released me and gave me a gentle push towards the inert figure at my feet.

I knelt on the sticky rushes, turned the man so he was on his back, and gasped in shock. This was no man, this was a boy, and one I knew well. Porec was no older than I, a stable boy who attended my father’s horses. He should not have been on the battlefield. He should have been seeing to the destriers, yet here he was, covered in gore as much as any fallen knight.

I touched him gently all over, seeking the source of the blood, and finding no visible sign, was about to conclude he was uninjured when, on lifting his head to attempt to dribble some water into his mouth, my hand came away freshly rubied.

The gash on his head was nasty but not fatal, and already the blood flow was slowing. I turned him on his side and called for fresh water. A bowl was placed next to me, along with moss for cleansing the wound. Gently I dabbed away as much blood and dirt as I dared, keeping my eyes firmly on my task, careful not to see the flashes of light which meant another man had died.

As I wrung out the moss, the water in the bowl already a deep red, I saw a flare of darkness in the corner of my vision and quickly raised my head, but it was gone before I saw it clearly. Then I spotted Isobel, and I hurriedly averted my gaze, but not before I registered her expression. Whatever it was, she had seen it too, and it worried her.

~~~~

That day was longer than any I had experienced before. My mother and her women worked tirelessly as they saw to an unending supply of wounded. Limbs hacked off, stomachs rent, throats opened, gashes, stab wounds, heads caved in – the list of injuries man could inflict on man was seemingly endless, as were the ways of dying. The lights of souls leaving their bodies were as numerous as the stars on a clear night, and still the fallen kept coming. The Welsh, I heard, had it even worse, but my imagination failed to grasp just how much worse than this it could be.

Men too old for fighting cleared away the dead and brought more injured for the women to treat. Some we could help and would live to fight another day, but many were beyond our ministrations. Only my mother was able, or willing, to aid those whose death was certain, and even then she had to perform the task in secret. Many died screeching their agony to the rafters, and the noise haunted me for years to come.

I could tell the dead souls from the walking wounded only because the ghosts were uninjured. But their armour and clothing were those they had worn when they died, still bloodied and torn, and sometimes I could not help but mistake some of them for the living. My reputation for being strange was growing with each spirit I tried to aid.

There were too many of them for Isobel to deal with, and so the recently-dead moved among us, as clear to me as the living, and I tried to avoid touching them whenever I could.

I was swaying on my feet, exhaustion of both mind and body threatening to overwhelm me, when old Clara came searching. She stood, half-in, half-out of the great wooden doors, and I tried to smile at her but my cheeks were frozen into a grimace of despair. Her face was a mass of folded wrinkles, her toothless mouth open in a silent scream of horror as she stared beyond me at the hell inside. I glanced around, seeing the hall through fresh eyes, and my own expression reflected hers. My gaze was caught by one of the castle dogs scurrying past me with his prize grasped in bloodied jaws – a human foot. I swallowed down bile and raised a shaking hand to my forehead.

I needed to get out; just for a little while I needed to breathe air not foetid with the reek of death. I needed to hear the wind in the trees, and the murmur of the river, not the shrieks of mortal agony and the groans of those who lacked the energy to scream. I needed to stand on the balustrade and look out at the distant grey mountains, and forget the redness of slaughter.

I went to her, my old nurse, anxious for the comfort she never failed to provide, but when I grasped the hand she held out to me, I screamed.

A crushing pain was filling my chest, stopping my heart and breath, whilst another pain, sharper and deeper scoured my mind. Glew is dead, slain by an arrow to the throat. Oh Mary, Mother of God, my son is dead. I saw his body, laid out in the courtyard, still and cold, piled up with the rest of those who had lost their lives defending the castle. I knew before I saw him – I knew my eldest had gone. I knew it in my heart, but my head could not believe until I saw his body with mine own eyes. How can I bear it?

The pain in my heart is a dagger, rending me, shredding me, and I cannot catch my breath. I cannot feel my legs, and I try to scream, to call for aid, but only a groan leaves my throat.

I gasped and shuddered, caught up in the last moments of Clara’s life. As I clutched her hand I saw her son’s body through her eyes, I felt her pain, and experienced her death. And I was helpless to prevent it.

A warm hand prised my fingers away from my nurse’s grip. Released from my connection to her, I slumped to the floor, unnoticed; another prone figure amidst the many in the hall. Strong arms lifted me and carried me outside. I clung on, fearful of being left with Clara. I loved the old woman in life, but the dead Clara terrified me.

With eyes tightly closed, unwilling to see the fallen who lay all around in the courtyard, I breathed deeply, and never had air tasted so sweet.

Inside once more, my saviour climbed upward towards my mother’s chamber, and for this small act of kindness I would be forever grateful. I shared a room with two of my sisters, and at this moment I needed to be alone. Neither sister had yet reached womanhood and were spared the trials of this conflict because of their youth, and were confined to our room. My three elder brothers were squires at other castles, but there were two more in the nursery, too small to witness this carnage. I screwed my eyes tightly shut as I considered how my siblings would deal with Clara’s death. They loved her, too.

I opened my eyes as I was borne higher, but could see little of the man who held me, except a clean-shaven chin and dark hair, curling about the chainmail at his throat. The door was kicked open with a booted foot and I was deposited gently on the huge chest at the foot of the bed.

I looked up as he stepped away from me, then shivers set in, a reaction to both Clara’s touch and the misery of the last few hours. I slumped to the floor and he left me there whilst he poured a glass of my mother’s sweet wine. I gulped it thankfully, trying not to think how much the dark red liquid reminded me of the blood I was caked in.

‘Do you need fresh garments?’ he asked, his English tinged with French nuances.

I answered in the same language. ‘My mother has spare clothes in her chests. But is there any point? I will have to return to the hall soon and there is little sense in ruining more clothing.’

‘As you wish.’

He stood staring at me, and I at him. A fighting man, he wore chainmail over linen and the coif of his mail was thrown back from his head. His surcoat bore no emblem I was familiar with. A dagger hung from the belt at his hip, sheathed in leather, its carved ivory hilt gleaming dully in the light of the late afternoon sun, which shafted through the narrow, high windows. Soft black leather boots reached to mid-calf. He had the bearing of a knight, and an English one at that. But I could not fault him neither for his kindness nor for his ancestry: I was half English myself, and could trace my father’s lineage back to William of Normandy. My mother was all Welsh, and it was to my mother I was drawn, with her tales of magic, and the scent of sorcery which hung about her like the faint smell of wood-smoke from a distant fire. I was my mother’s daughter, as my brothers belonged to our father.

‘I must return below,’ he said. ‘Is there someone who can care for you?’

‘I need no care,’ I retorted, a little more hotly than his concern deserved.

He stared at me for several heartbeats and I returned his look as steadily as I could. I was unused to meeting a strange man’s gaze, but war had a habit of turning custom on its

head. I liked what I saw; dark, curling hair, dark eyes, and Norman complexion, or else he spent much time outdoors. Taller by at least three hand-spans, he towered over me as I sat in blood-drenched misery on the floor next to my mother’s carved, oak chest, trying to look more composed than I felt.

Abruptly I became aware of my situation. It was unseemly for me, an unmarried maid, to be alone with a man who was not father, brother or uncle, and I was alone with him in a private chamber. If I were discovered my reputation would be beyond repair.

‘I will rest a while,’ I said, my voice more gentle than before. ‘Thank you for your aid.’

He dipped his head, acknowledging my manners and my subtle dismissal of him, but he made no move to leave.

The silence grew and I wriggled uncomfortably under his scrutiny, but eventually he spoke.

‘What caused you to cry out?’ he asked. I could not fathom the expression in his eyes.

It was more than simple curiosity which made him ask, and instantly I was wary and on guard. My mother suspected there was more to me than I showed, as did others, but I well knew how fine the line was between appearing a simpleton and being thought of as a witch. I guarded this curse of mine jealously, even from those who love me, and I was not about to reveal my secret to a stranger, however pretty and courteous.

‘You saw the hall,’ I retorted, my tone sharp once more. ‘Any maid would be overwhelmed.’

His gaze raked my face, searching for more than I was willing to give, and somehow I thought he knew, I thought he could see my soul and the burden it carried, and I cringed before him.

‘You are too young a lady to witness such horrors,’ he said, after another long silence.

‘My mother does not think so,’ I replied, and I could hear the resentment in my voice and wondered at it. I knew my duty, and was old enough to perform it. I was a woman flowered, and if my father was successful in his quest for a husband for me, I would soon have my own homestead and family. This I knew, so why the hidden bitterness?

‘You are of an age to be wed, are you not?’

‘Yes. I am sixteen.’

I was conscious of the way his eyes traversed my face and body. It was not the surreptitious ogling that I was aware of with other men. It was an honest evaluation, with little more concern than if this strange knight had been buying a horse, and with an abruptness

which jolted me, anger spiked in my chest, swiftly followed by acceptance – I knew I was not looking my best. The coils of my dark hair stuck damply to my face, whether from sweat or blood I could not tell, and I was spattered with worse than blood. My gown, once a deep green, was now a muddied, bloodied brown, and the scent of death coated every inch of me. No wonder he failed to see me for the woman I was.

I scrambled to my feet and stood as tall as I could, emulating my mother’s unconsciously regal bearing, aware of my tiny waist and the flare of my newly-rounded hips, and was rewarded by a sudden glint of desire in those dark eyes. Now he saw!

I was instantly contrite. I only recently understood the power women wielded over men by virtue of their femininity, and I was too young to be completely comfortable with the interest I sparked. It was safe to flutter my eyes at strangers, whilst I sat at my father’s table, and with my mother to protect me from myself and others. This was another thing entirely.

‘I am Sir Walter’s daughter,’ I said, letting him know I was not some serving wench to be trifled with: I was not highborn, yet I was beyond the threat of a brief dalliance, and my father’s influence would ensure my safety. My simple statement spoke volumes.

So did his.

‘I know.’

I breathed out in a rush and a blush coloured my cheeks. Of course he knew. Why else would he bring me to the chatelaine’s chamber? If I were an ordinary maid, then he would not have dared to invade the privacy of my mother’s rooms.

He bowed low, and took his leave, but not before I glimpsed the laughter in his eyes.

I heaved a sigh, weary to my soul, as the door closed softly behind him. The intensity of the last few moments drained away, leaving me exhausted and unnerved. I slumped back to the floor, unwilling to stain the wood of the chest with my blood-coated dress.

I didn’t hear her come in, but some sixth sense told me I was not alone. I lifted my head from my hands, expecting to see my mother, come to chastise me for shirking my responsibilities; instead I saw a spirit.

‘I’ve been looking for you,’ Isobel said.

Lori Lyn

This week we have NEW Author Lori Lyn. Please check her book out and She also attached a snipit of her current book.

1.      Tell us about yourself

I'm just your average goof who loves historical romance!

2.      Tell us about your new book?

Alexander Fitzhugh is a bear of a man, quite content to spend his time with his sturdy mistresses. When both his father and his cousin begin to pester the rakehell to fulfill his obligation to produce an heir, he balks at the idea of having to select his bride from the dainty debutantes of the Season. Thinking to eventually find a robust widow, he is not prepared for the campaign launched upon him by "Bill", a petite blonde vixen who already has more than enough young swains dancing to her tune; nor is he prepared for the raging desire and protectiveness she evokes in him.

Lady Wilhemina Kirkpatrick, or Willy as her intimates call her, is enjoying her first Season and plans to find a suitable rogue to teach her the art of becoming a flirt. Once she sets eyes on Alexander Fitzhugh however, the headstrong young lady quickly decides the earl will be the perfect match for her. Undaunted by his surly behavior toward her, for she has seen the blatant passion burning in his eyes, she contrives to ensnare the acrimonious lord and everyone knows - what Willy wants, Willy gets!

3.      When you write, does your real life spill over into your book at any time?

For sure. In all different kinds of aspects! From emotions to relationships to 'bout everything else!

4.      Do you think about a book of yours, being made into a movie, or not when writing?

When writing the story, no. It would make my tiny brain explode!

5.      When naming your characters, do you give any thought to the actual meaning?

I wouldn't call it "meaning" for the name selection as it only has a real name for me but yes. Each character needs to have the appropriate name.

6.      What made you want to write and also what made you want to write the genre you are writing?

Writing is ingrained in me. I have written poems, stories, lyrics since I was a child. I discovered historical romance when I was in my teens and found a new reading home!

7.      If you had to choose, which writer would you consider a mentor?

 

There are just too many. Writers are the most generous , giving, helpful people in the world!

8.      Do you have any tips for our readers that might dream of writing?

Go for it! You learn writing by writing. And please reach out to the writing community! They are so generous and willing to help.

Again Thank You so much

You can find Lori at the below locations  

Amazon

Webpage
Facebook
Twitter
Goodreads
Pintrest

Dedicate to my mother, Janet Kalaf.

Chapter 1

London, 1812

“You’ve killed me.”

Alexander Fitzhugh, the twelfth Earl of Stapleton, lay sprawled naked and panting on the large pink bed, his body covered in a fine sheen of sweat. He lifted one large hand and pushed unruly dark hair from his brow.

The nude girl beside him stretched, making him think of a lazy cat enjoying the sunshine.

“That’s what you say every time, my lord.” She raised herself up on one elbow and looked down at him. With her free hand, she played with the dark fur covering his chest.

“Will you stay to dine tonight?”

Alex smiled tenderly at his mistress. “Sorry, pet. I’ve got other plans.” He sat up and stared around the newly redecorated room. “Did it have to be pink this month, Jenny? I fear it will give me a palsy.”

Jenny laughed. “I’m afraid I got carried away. Next month I shall let you pick the color.”

Her sidelong glance told him she wondered if Alex would object to her inference their arrangement would continue. Some men shied off if they thought their mistresses were getting too attached. She had been careful before now not to make any such comments in the four months he had provided for her. She shouldn’t fret. There were clearly no signs he was tiring of her yet, especially given the number of times he had just roared with pleasure.

Alex yawned and rose from the bed feeling wonderfully sated. He realized he was lucky to have found a lover who accommodated him so well and so willingly. Of course, he was always careful to seek out sturdy mistresses who could withstand his large size and lusty appetites, but still Jenny was quite a catch with her easy nature and passionate responses. Besides, she was a damned fine cook.

“I should probably get meself going. Bella will be quite put out with me if I’m late.”

“You will see the duke and duchess tonight?” Jenny rose from the rumpled bed and wrapped her voluptuous body in a white negligee. The pale covering accentuated her dark brown hair and honeyed skin. She told Alex her coloring came from her Sicilian father, but he doubted she had a clue as to her heritage.

Alex picked up his clothing from the floor. “Yes, I have to go and see little Alex. He’s crawling now and nearly ready to walk.” He pulled on his trousers and then his shirt. “His birthday is coming. I shall have to find something dreadfully outrageous to give him. Where the devil are my shoes?”

Within fifteen minutes, Alex, having found one shoe behind the chaise lounge and the other almost in the fireplace, took leave of his mistress and strolled the short distance home to change for dinner with his cousin and her husband. He still found it amusing that the former rakehell, his boyhood friend, had finally succumbed to the blissful state of matrimony with Alex’s own dear relative. It had certainly taken quite a bit of work to get the duke to overcome his jaded opinion of women and see that he was in love with Bella. Thank goodness his friend’s mother had made her son realize the extent of his feelings.

Alex grinned as he walked along, absently nodding to the occasional passerby, remembering how his friend’s mother and his father had spent so much time together at the duke and his cousin’s wedding nearly two years ago. He had ribbed his father afterward about the lovely and outspoken widow. Father had confessed the attraction between them had been strong, but had said he was content with his life as it was — his mistress waiting for him in Scotland — and Father hadn’t thought the widow wanted to marry again. Though his father had passed it off as a simple flirtation, Alex had his doubts, sensing his father and his friend’s mother were more than a little interested in each other.

Upon entering his large house, Alex was greeted by his butler.

“Good evening, my lord.” Brisby bowed to his master. “We feared you neglected to remember this evening’s dinner engagement as the hour approaches so very rapidly.”

Alex snorted at the old fellow’s subtle scolding. “Don’t be an idiot. Bella would skin me hide and don’t I know it, if I missed dinner without so much as a by-your-leave.”

“Of course, my lord.”

The gray haired, plump servant bowed again. Alex always thought the fellow looked as if he would burst into tears at any moment, he was so very mournful. If the man hadn’t been so bloody good at his job, Alex might have sacked him years ago. But now he was amused by the dour fellow’s occasional disapproving remarks.

Alex climbed the broad stairs and walked down the oak-paneled hallway to his room, his long stride eating up the distance.

“What shall it be tonight, Georgie?” he asked as he entered his grand bedchamber and moved to the armoire. His lanky valet was quicker and opened the doors for his master, pulling out a gold satin vest and dark green evening coat, displaying the outfit proudly. Young George tended to be amusingly conceited about how he turned Alex out.

“Excellent choice, my boy.”

The boy beamed at the praise.

After washing up, Alex was again on the move, now smartly dressed in the coat and vest accompanied by neat black trousers and a crisp white shirt. He arrived at the Atherton household precisely on time as was his habit. The butler bowed Alex into the impressive gold and white foyer, the blazing light from the crystal chandelier shining off the servant’s bald head.

“My Lord Stapleton, how dapper you look this evening. The peacocks in the park were surely quite impressed.”

Alex chuckled at the fellow’s dry tone. “Quite, Tilbot. They all folded their tails in me honor, don’t you know. Where is my little namesake and his proud parents?”

The elegant servant ushered Alex into the drawing room. “They are all cooing in here, my lord.”

“Alex.” Isabella rose from her place on the floor beside her son and stepped forward to hug him. The auburn haired beauty smiled up into his face. “Look how our little lord is standing so well.” She indicated the child, who stood clutching the edge of an ottoman while chewing on the wood rim, with a wave of her hand. “Isn’t he wonderful?”

“He’s eating the bloody furniture, Bella. How can that be so wonderful?” Bella’s husband’s proud smirk belied his caustic words. Rafe, the Duke of Devonshire, crouched near the boy, ready to catch him should he topple over. The duke spared a glance at Alex. “Hello there, Big Alex.”

Alex laughed at the little family. “Bella, my girl, you’re radiant as always. Has that pompous windbag of a husband been treating you well?” He looked her over as if expecting to find some sign of neglect on the part of his friend.

Isabella issued a throaty chuckle, ignored the lusty growl from her husband, and gave Alex a smug smile. “He treats me like a queen, which is as it should be. I am, after all, the mother of his precious heir.”

“Quite. She did extremely well, her first try.” Rafe looked up at his wife and grinned, his blue eyes sparkling with humor. “We shall have to see, though, how things go the next time. She could be sent to the kitchens if I don’t get an imitation of her. An exact little duplicate, that’s all I’m asking for, love. It’s not so much to do for so wonderful a husband such as me. Is it, Big Alex?”

Bella tapped her foot, hands on her hips, and rolled her eyes. Little Alex, having chewed enough on the fine mahogany, let out a loud squeal and released his hold on the footstool. His doting papa caught him before he could take a tumble.

Alex shook his head. “Hello, Little Alex. Would you like to come see me?” The little black haired boy held out his arms to his mountainous relative without hesitation. “That’s right,” Alex said as he scooped up the child. “There’s something in my pocket for you, little man.”

“Now, don’t you dare give him sweets, cousin.”

“Come, Bella, a little sweet is just the thing after a meal of timber.”

April Holthaus

This weeks Interview is with the Lovely and talented April Holthaus, I love doing this because I get to talk with such wonderful people.

Me: Tell us about yourself

My name is April Holthaus. I live in Minnesota with my husband and 5 month old son. I have been working in the mailing/marketing industry for the past 12 years. I have a passion for history and genealogy which is part of the reason I write historical romances. When I am not working, writing or caring for my son, I love being outdoors and love everything about nature and I totally love squirrels!

Me: Tell us about your new book?

April: My latest book is called Highland Daydreams. It is the third and final book to my MacKinnon Clan Series. The book is about Bram MacKinnon which makes appearances in the other two books, and a new heroine named Lara. Here is the book blurb. 

Lara did not know if it had been weeks or months she had spent in the bowels of the dungeon, for time did not exist within the darkness. Like the walls of her cell, Lara felt she has been a prisoner her whole life. Forced into a loveless marriage to create a union among the two neighboring clans her new husband, Laird Dermot Moray wants more from her than just a docile wife, he want to claim a treasure her clan secretly possesses.  After several failed attempts to claim it, Dermot found a way to rid his burden of his defiant bride by having her locked away forever. Lara had almost given up hope until a nameless warrior whose strength and strong-will gave her the courage she needed.

Thought to be dead, Bram MacKinnon barely held onto life after battling the English for Scotland’s freedom. Imprisoned with no means of escape, he is rescued by his cellmate, a woman. For saving his life, he vows to protect her and return her to her family, but Bram did not realize it was more than he bargained for.

On the run from a group of men hunting them down, will Lara be able to set things right before it’s too late and will Bram be able to keep his promise knowing that he may lose her forever?  Having to travel across both land and sea, Lara and Bram will discover a secret about Lara’s past that’s worth its weight in gold. 

Me:  When you write, does your real life spill over into your book at any time?

April: I think because I write historical, it doesn’t as much. I have yet to travel to England or Scotland, so I do not have any personal experiences to contribute to my books. I am traveling there next summer so I am hoping that I will be able to take that experience and put it into my stories.  

Me: Do you think about a book of yours, being made into a movie, or not when writing? 

April: Honestly, as a newbie writer I think I have a lot to learn and develop before thinking that my books are movie-worthy! =) 

Me: When naming your characters, do you give any thought to the actual meaning?

April: I do. I often times look up Scottish and Old English names, 1. Because I want to make sure that it fits the era and also because I want it to match the character’s personality. 

Me: What made you want to write and also what made you want to write the genre you are writing?

April: I started writing as a hobby. Historical Romance is the only genre I truly enjoy reading so it made sense to write stories of that time. After several months of edits, rewrites and completely starting over, I had several people read my first book to see what they thought. Several thought I should pursue the steps to self-publish it. After several months of research, The Honor of a Highlander was published.  

Me: If you had to choose, which writer would you consider a mentor?

April: This is an easy one! Historical Romance Author Suzan Tisdale. 

Me: Do you have any tips for our readers that might dream of writing?

April: The best advice I had ever received was “just write”. When writing a story, whether it is a full length novel or just a short story, you do not have to write in order. Many times people get writers block and just give up because they don’t know how to get the characters from A to B. In that case, just write small scenes that you want your characters to be in. You can always rearrange your story later and maybe once you fit the pieces together it will be easy to fill in the holes. 

The second advice I would suggest is to not make yourself a deadline. I did in the past and when it came down to crunch time, I found that my last few chapters felt rushed because I was in such a hurry to finish. Being in a hurry takes the enjoyment out of writing. Having a goal is always a good idea, but saying that you want to complete this book no later than this specific date can add unnecessary stress. Write because you enjoy it, even if it takes years to perfect it the way you want. Don’t be in a hurry! And remember once your book is out, you will not make everyone happy. When you write, you should not only write for your readers but you should write for yourself. If you are proud of your work, don’t worry about what others think. Be proud of your accomplishment!

Me: Tell us anything you want?

April: I want to thank my readers for taking a chance on me. In the beginning as a new author, I didn’t even think I would get (1) 5-star review and I surely never thought I would have people consider themselves my “fans”. It is a great honor! I promise with each book I write I will work hard to improve and to write you a great story. I also love chatting with readers. So feel free to send me a message or ask me a question anytime. I also love advice, ideas or suggestions so if you have any let me know! 

Thank you very much Kim for having me!

You can find her at:

Website

Facebook

Twitter

Goodreads

Amazon

Prologue

July 22, 1298

Falkirk, Scotland

The sky darkened. Rain had fallen for more than an hour causing the ground to become slippery and muddy beneath Bram’s feet. Holding his sword high, he waited for Wallace’s battle cry. His breaths became labored and each exhale more intense. The noises around him were muffled over the sound of his heart beating loudly in his ears. Squeezing his grip tighter to steady the hilt of his broadsword, he waited. Clutching the strap of his shield, he pulled it firmly against his chest. Over the assembly of men and commotion, a call echoed.

A sea of men on each side of him barreled down the hill toward their enemy. Bram had no time to think and he acted on instinct alone. Thrashing his sword, he cut down the first few men charging towards him from the left and then the right. He raised his shield when the whistling sound of falling arrows came closer and louder but he did not slow his pace. He used his shield to push past a group of warriors to advance further towards his enemy.

For a brief moment, Bram stood in the middle of a clearing. Men had fought and fallen around him; both comrade and enemy. With eyes looking wildly about at the scene before him, he searched for his next victim. To his right, a soldier dressed in chainmail ran towards him. Sword drawn, he yelled out all sorts of blasphemies. Lowering his weapon with the blade directed towards Bram, the soldier readied himself to slice Bram through.

Bram turned to fight off another opponent, who violently swung his sword harder and harder, forcing Bram to take short steps backwards. Bram leapt to the side, able to dodge the first blow, but met the second with the pure force of his blade. A forceful shot to Bram’s ribs sent ripples of pain throughout his body. He cried out in agony. Dropping to his knees, Bram wrapped one of his arms tightly around his chest and attempted to rise. But just as he was about to stand, the man took a sharp dirk out of his boot and slashed it across Bram’s abdomen.

Bram could feel the heat of the blade as it sliced through his skin down to the muscle. Blood spilled down the front of him. Unexpectedly, a sudden dizzy spell overcame him. Bram doubled over and fell into a small puddle. Lying on the ground, he waited for death to take him. His eyes closed, the blackness came, and then there was nothing but silence.

Chapter 1

August, 1298

Cumberland, England

Dragging the heavy weight of the iron chain secured to her ankle, Lara scurried across the floor of her cell. She tucked her knees under her chin, and wrapped her arms securely around her legs, sitting quiet and still. As her stomach growled once more, Lara pressed her hands firmly against her stomach, wishing away her hunger. The boniness of her ribs beneath her hands told her that if she did not die of illness, she would certainly die of starvation.

Lara was uncertain if it had been weeks or months she had spent within the bowels of the dungeon, for time did not exist within the darkness. She could no longer hear the desperate cries of her fellow cell mates, nor could she feel her own wounds or pains.

Lara hid her face within the folds of what was left of her dress when she heard the guards making their way down the stone stairwell. As they entered this room in the dungeon, they yelled profanities at a prisoner they dragged with them. They threatened that if he didn’t walk faster they would pitch him down the stairs.

She felt her body quiver with fear when she spied Roland, the heavier of the two guards. Roland had once visited Lara in her cell trying to satisfy his needs before he was reprimanded by another guard and forced back out of her cell. Angered by Roland’s attempted rape, the Earl of Cumberland had struck him so hard it created a grotesque scar across his face that left him almost unrecognizable.

Since that wretched day, Roland accused Lara for what had happened, swearing that he would take his revenge out on her. He often tried to put the fear of God in her with his abhorrent threats. At times, Lara wished he would just get it over with so he would leave her alone.

As he entered, Roland peeked around the bars and gave her a half smile. Lara looked away and clasped onto the hem of her skirt a little tighter. Roland turned and instructed the other guard to string up their prisoner by his wrists. The man stumbled forward as the guards dragged him to a wooden pole where a thick rope dangled from a beam on the ceiling. Wrapping the rope around his wrists, the guard tied the knot tightly. The prisoner was hoisted up and stretched from limb to limb.

When they turned him to expose his bare back, the side of his face became visible in the soft light of the torch on the wall. It was him. He was the only one who never fought back or struggled when the guards came for him. Lara was unsure where his unbreakable strength came from, but knew that only a warrior could be so brave. The only spark of life Lara had left within her was the empathy she felt for this warrior who shared the cell next to hers. Lara shuddered as the crack of the whip bit into the man’s flesh. The prisoners around her yelled in the man’s defense, but no sound came from the captive himself. He just clenched his teeth and endured the pain. Lara could not tell how many times they struck him for she tried to block it out.

In a chilling and raspy voice Roland demanded that he be cut down. Lifting her head up, Lara watched as the warrior hung from the rafter, limp, his head hanging to one side. Sweat and blood glistened off his body. The guard took his blade out of its sheath and sliced the rope in two. In that instant, the warrior plummeted to the ground. The portly guard picked him up by his arms and began to drag him back into his cell.

“Get in there!” the guard roared as he shoved him inside the small space.

Roland held him down as the warrior was once again chained to the wall in iron shackles.

Still curled up in the corner, Lara looked at him through the bars, tears streaming down her face. He looked broken, not only physically, but in spirit as well. She carefully watched the guards as they returned to their posts. She knew that one of them would head back up the stairs with the others while her tormentor would sit down on his chair outside her cell, tilt it back against the bars and slam back a tankard or two of whiskey. Their routine had become predictable the last several nights, and Lara had taken notice.

“Hello, my beauty,” Roland whispered to her through the cell bars, so low that no one else could hear him.

His breath smelled like rotten food and stale ale.

“My body is aching for the sweetness between your thighs and I promise that you will enjoy it,” he threatened.

“Perhaps ye would like a matching scar across the other side of yer face,” she threatened.

Roland chuckled.