Jenyfer Matthews

I’ve been writing almost since I could hold a pen–at least since I read my first Nancy Drew book at about the age of eight. It was The Ghost of Blackwood Hall and it is probably why I love to read and write paranormal stories as well as suspense. I’m a native Texan and I guess that’s why I enjoy reading and writing western romances, too. Some people think writers should stick to one genre, but I believe that you should writer whatever you love and I love almost everything!

I’m so excited about my newest paranormal Scent of Lavender that I want to give back a little to the world. For every ebook that sells from my books page on the Cerridwen Press site during the month of September (it doesn’t matter which books) I’m going to donate a dollar to the Arbor Day Foundation. According to their site, every dollar plants a tree in one of our national forests. I think that is so cool that I joined the Foundation and now I’m waiting for them to send me 10 live oak trees. LOL…not sure where I’ll plant them but every one of them is going into the ground!

Scent of Lavender
by
Teri Thackston

A ghost haunts the house on Black Tree Creek. New tenant Rob Sheridan has seen her, but Lily Graham believes he’s lying. This haunting tale of betrayal, possession and seduction in the Texas Hill Country brings together the lonely war veteran and the beauty from his past…and the ghost that could drive them apart.

Excerpt

A sighing like that of drifting sand woke him.

Rob opened his eyes. Moonlight silvered an unfamiliar room, throwing black shadows against the pale walls that surrounded his bed. Gauze curtains hung still over the closed windows that flanked the four-poster. But the sound that had roused him did not come from outside anyway. That quiet sigh and the stillness beneath it…

The last cobwebs of sleep broke and he remembered where he was. The house on Black Tree Creek. Coming fully alert, he knew it wasn’t the sound of the wind through the desert that had woken him.

The night went silent. Even the window air conditioner had shut off.

Pushing himself upright, he glanced at his alarm clock. Six-eleven. He’d finally fallen asleep sometime around two o‘clock. That had been after spending hours wondering what he’d seen on his porch earlier that night and why Lily Graham claimed his uncle had swindled her grandmother.

He’d made no progress in figuring out the strange woman but he knew the truth about Frank Sheridan. Uncle Frank had bought the house legally from Ruth Thibeaux. He’d never mentioned purchasing the house to Rob or his mother. So his sudden inheritance of the house after Frank’s recent fatal heart attack had been a welcome surprise to Rob. The old place would suit his needs perfectly.

Even if it was haunted.

Inhaling slowly, Rob heard air whistle through his dry nostrils. The sound seemed intrusive so he held his breath.

The house seemed to do the same.

A shudder crawled through him. He wondered how angry Lily Graham would be over losing the house if she came here now. If she knew what went on here in the dark.

Buy this Book or any of Teri’s other titles this month and help her support the Arbor Day Foundation.

Mona Risk has published two books with Cerridwen Press FRENCH PERIL and TO LOVE A HERO. Her book BABIES IN THE BARGAIN is published with The Wild Rose Press. Mona lives in sunny Fort Lauderdale, FL. When she is not typing her latest book on her computer, she is probably babysitting her grandchildren, three adorable little girls and a toddler boy, all under four years. Or she may be walking on the beach, looking at the waves and plotting new stories. Mona and her husband love to travel and have visited more than fifty countries over the years.
You can visit her website: www.monarisk.com
Or stop by her blog: www.monarisk.blogspot.com

Blurb:

What could be more exciting for a young American architect than to live in a French chateau owned by a young count and to work on the restoration of a chapel in the Loire Valley? But when her professor is poisoned because he knew too much about a missing statue, Cheryl’s summer job changes into a dangerous treasure hunt and Count François is faced with a difficult choice:

Are the statue and his chateau worth endangering the life of the impetuous young woman who’s turned his life upside down?

Review Your Book Review, 4 Stars

Mona Risk, author of French Peril, offers her fans another great read. In French Peril, she creates a swirling air of mystery around the excavation of a chapel ruin. Murder, mystery, and intrigue seem to follow Cheryl as she assists Francois on his project. Risk has a talent for character development. {…} French Peril is a great contemporary romantic read.

The Romance Studio Review, 4 hearts
This is a wonderfully exciting romantic suspense novel. The characters are appealing and the setting is very romantic, a chateau in the Loire Valley. There is an interesting cast of characters. The plot is full of action and the reader is never sure who is on the side of good or evil. As a matter of fact, very few are who they appear to be.

Cast of Characters
French Peril:

Cheryl Stewart: I’m worried about my mentor, Professor Howard. He went to lunch with a prospective graduate student from Malaysia, but became sick during the lunch and was rushed to the hospital for food poisoning or heart attack.

Professor Howard asked me to go to France on his behalf and help a French count with the restoration of a chapel and the search for a valuable statue that had been missing since World War II.

What could be more exciting than spending a couple months working in the plush Loire Valley, in France? I will have to live in the count’s chateau. The same count I saw at Harvard three years ago. The handsome playboy was so busy entertaining gorgeous women he didn’t give me the time of the day back then. I bet he won’t remember me.

François de Valroux: I am searching for an invaluable statue of the Virgin Mary that used to adorn the chapel of my chateau. The statue disappeared during the war. Was it destroyed? Stolen? Did my grandfather hide it?

I have been waiting impatiently for Professor Howard, who did a lot of research on the subject. I can’t believe he skipped our appointment and sent his graduate student instead. On the other hand, Cheryl is such a lovely young woman I can’t say I am too disappointed. Between you and me, I can’t resist a pretty woman. What can I say, it’s in my genes. I come from a long line of glorious adulterers and fabulous lovers.

When the Boston Hospital calls to announce Cheryl’s mentor died, I do my best to console her with a hug and a kiss, and pledge to protect her. It’s my pleasure. Huh…I mean my duty.

For her own safety, I ask her to keep the search for my statue secret from the five other students training on the chapel reconstruction.

Edith Blaise: I consider myself François’ current girlfriend. I want him badly but I also have a weakness for his title, his fortune, his chateau and its treasures. I won’t let anyone interfere with my goal of becoming the next Countess of Valroux. Certainly not the American student, a nerd who lives in a pair of blue jeans and finds her happiness in old stones and computers.

Adriaan Van Deem: I come from Amsterdam. I’m studying archeology and I can’t resist the appeal of old stones. Especially if they have a high monetary value. It wouldn’t hurt to befriend the American student who seems to know a lot about the missing statue.

Juan-Pablo Rodriguez: My correct name is Don Juan-Pablo. I hail from the Universidad de Madrid and I am preparing a doctorate in the history of Romanesque churches. I’m a gallant man who always compliments a beautiful woman. Of course, I also like artistic treasures.

Roberto Cantari: I live in Milan, but I was born in Sicily. Women love my dark looks and I love women. People often ask me if I have mafia blood in my veins. Who knows? My nonna prays all the time that I remain an honest man. I respect my nonno, the most powerful and richest man in Palerma. I would do anything to please my grandparents. Anything…

Chuck Minho: I was born in London. I am a quiet man who doesn’t talk much, but I don’t miss anything going on around me. I don’t like the looks the American girl gives me. Dirty looks. As if she suspects me of killing someone, just because I look Chinese.

Karl Boderman: I’m studying art, painting and sculpting at the University of Berlin. I can’t believe the show these young studs put on when a pretty face shows up. I don’t trust any of them. If you want my opinion, I don’t think they are who they say they are. But then, neither am I.

Bernard: I am the old butler. I was raised in the chateau. My father served François’ grandfather. I love François as if he were my own son and I want to see him married to a good French woman. Mademoiselle Edith seems to love him. She’s always visiting and staying in the chateau, in the room next to his. But I think François is attracted to the American student. He asked me to put her in the room next to his, on the other side. I don’t like that, François sandwiched between the women’s rooms. I don’t like it at all. Especially that the rooms in this old chateau have secret passageways.
My fondest dream is to find the statue and put it back on the altar of the reconstructed chapel. But someone hit me in the dark and asked me questions about the statue.

Cheryl: I pledge to go after Professor Howard’s killer and find the statue to honor my mentor’s memory. Things would be easier if I weren’t so attracted to François…

François: Cheryl is careless and exposing herself to danger all the time. I’m constantly worried about her. She has turned my life upside down with her determination and bubbly laughter. I’m ready to give up the search for the statue to ensure Cheryl’s safety, but she won’t let me.

Together we need to find out:
Who poisoned Professor Howard?
Who hit Bernard?
Who broke into Cheryl’s room?
Where is the statue?
Would François call off the search to protect Cheryl?

Buy this Book!

Although Blair entertained herself by creating stories from the time she was five or six years old, she never considered being a writer because her mother was a highly successful children’s book author, and it never occurred to her there could be two writers in the same family.

During the years she wasn’t planning on becoming an author Blair taught public school music, sang professionally, including a stint in the National Company of The Sound of Music, was editor of an educational publishing company; and, after moving to Florida, ran a costume rental business, The DreamWeaver – Costumes and Creations, for which she designed and made eighty percent of the outfits.

Blair won the RWA’s Golden Heart contest in 1999, was a RITA finalist in 2003. Her first (of six) Signet Regencies was named Best Regency of the Year by Romantic Times in 2003. She also won the Best Romance award from the Florida Writers’ Association in 2002 and finaled twice in the EPPIE awards, the e-book equivalent of the OSCAR.

Blair says: “I get up in the morning with a gleam in my eye because I know I’ll soon be sitting at my computer, creating a world of my own choosing.”

Coming September 4, 2008
Steeplechase
by
Blair Bancroft
Cerridwen Press Cotillion Collection

Harlan Dawnay, Lord Davenham, handsome and dashing heir to an earldom, offers a marriage of convenience to a suitable young lady he scarcely knows, only to discover she has no intention of being ignored in favor of his friends or his mistress. Lady Sarah Ainsworth, age seventeen, is not yet interested in marriage. She accepts Lord Davenham’s offer solely because she secretly admires him and has high hopes for the future. But when Davenham steadfastly ignores his young bride, including not coming to her bed, Sarah embarks on a series of adventures guaranteed to drive any young husband wild. From unsuitable friends to unsuitable flirtations, from gambling to calling on Davenham’s mistress, Sarah forces him to pay attention. Until one final adventure almost ends their marriage before it’s really begun.

LEGENDS OF THE PEN

Authors, beware! There be Monster Myths here!

“Everyone knows . . . !” “The rules say . . .” “My critique partner says . . .”

Tired of hearing those phrases? Well, so am I. Though please keep in mind that the following essay is my personal opinion, and I am definitely not saying, “My way or the highway.” There are as many ways to write as there are writers. This article is intended to make you think—to give you ammunition against rigid minds who not only have to have rules but want everyone to do exactly as they do. Take heart. A great deal of what “they” say could be called Legends of the Pen.

My comments are based on fifteen years as an author, sixteen contracted books, and judging more than 300 contests over the last seven years. I’ve also learned a great deal from my many years on RWA’s Clues-N-News, BeauMonde, and other author e-loops. To rephrase, do not believe every “rule” you hear. Think. Question. Reason.

And now . . . we’re off into the realm of offending almost everyone! But it will be worth it if I can assure some of you that there is more than one way to get that book down on paper.

Backstory. One of the biggest myths being propagated at the moment is No Backstory. Some contest entrants, sensing this doesn’t work, carefully put the backstory into the Synopsis, not stopping to think that a reader never sees the synopsis. No, you don’t want to start your book with a twelve pages of backstory, but clarity is absolutely vital. Who, What, Where, When, and Why. Readers do not want to be lost in a slew of unintentional mystery, with no idea who the characters are, their relationship to each other, their desires, motivations, etc. In contests I constantly see these concepts beautifully laid out in synopses, then not one word of it makes it into the manuscript. Some backstory is essential. Identify, clarify. (Contest judges should always read the synopsis last, approaching the manuscript cold, just as a reader would.)

Show, Don’t Tell. A concept most authors have mastered quite well. But in several contests I judged recently, the authors seemed to have been advised to tackle this problem by writing page after page of dialogue—pages without descriptions, introspection, or action. The entries read like play or film scripts. Yet in those media there are visuals to guide you on stage or screen. In books, there’s nothing but the picture painted by the author’s words. Solid dialogue can be as deadly as solid narration unless you add all those colorful extras. How do the characters look while speaking? How do they sound? Where are they? Do they wave their arms, stalk across the room, sit slumped on a couch? Best of all, what is the primary character thinking?

The best definition I know of “Show, Don’t Tell” is that you, the author, must take the reader inside the head of the primary character in the scene. Make the reader see what the hero or heroine sees, hear what they hear, feel what they feel. Do not sit on the outside like a storyteller by a dying campfire chanting about a boring ancient event.

Editing. “Keep writing, no matter what!” All right, there may be some people who have to follow that advice or they’d never finish, but I believe most published authors would agree that Editing is vital. And editing as you go works best for most of us. For example, I often end up with little more than bare bones on my first draft of a chapter. It’s only when I go back and edit that I add all the juicy bits of description and color. If I didn’t edit at the end of every chapter, I wouldn’t have what I need to build on for the next chapter. I’d be trying to add skin to a skeleton without muscles! Everyone must develop their own editing methods, but editing—adding, deleting, tightening—is absolutely essential. I edit at the end of every chapter, again at the end of every five chapters. Then straight through from the beginning, checking continuity, clarity, descriptions, color, etc.. And then I go back and do it again.

Multiple Point of View. There is no question that the best advice for beginners is to stick to the point of view of Hero, Heroine, and possibly a Villain. Especially if you’re aiming at Category. But, if you’re writing Single Title and can handle the switches, multiple POV is frequently used. The secret is in making sure you understand what Point of View is – that if you are telling the story from one person’s POV, you need to stick to that POV, usually for an entire scene. Switching within a scene is usually a trick best left to experienced authors. But don’t let anyone tell you you can’t use multiple POV. However, “head-hopping”—constantly jumping from one POV to another in the space of one scene—is a definite No-no.

Synopsis – Planning. This one has a lot of myths attached. For example: You have to do a storyboard. You have to interview your characters. You have to write a detailed twenty- to thirty-page outline. Truthfully, all you have to do is whatever works for you. For me, it’s naming my characters, at least the hero, heroine, and secondary characters at the beginning of the book. As I name them and list their relationships, they begin to take shape for me. But everyone has his/her own method. If storyboards, detailed outlines, brainstorming techniques from a “how to” book or whatever, work for you, then by all means don’t hesitate to use them. Just know there are no absolutes. What works for one person may be a roadblock to someone else.

Synopsis – Writing. Unless you know the editor you’re targeting requires a long synopsis, 3-5 pages, double-spaced, is generally recommended. You can use a Log Line at the beginning, if you wish. This is two or three lines giving the gist of your book in a nutshell (like a TV guide). Beneath that you can put brief character sketches of the Hero, Heroine, and possibly the Villain. (I try to keep all this short enough to fit on page 1 of the synopsis.) Then, in present tense, you tell the story from beginning to end. You do not add backstory or characterizations that are not in the manuscript. You, as an author, do not comment about the manuscript. You do not say Word One that is not on the pages of the manuscript itself!* Keep your overview of the story line for your query letter. Do, however, try to keep some of your Voice in the telling of your story. Never easy, but your Synopsis should sound like you, not a neutral Readers’ Digest version told by a stranger.

*Note: I feel strongly about this because, as a contest judge, I have read so many manuscripts where everything was laid out beautifully in the Synopsis and then the author jumped into the manuscript, assuming the reader knew everything that was in the Synopsis. Please remember: the reader never sees the Synopsis. Everything you want the reader to know must in the pages of the manuscript itself.

Format. Manuscripts should be submitted in classic manuscript format. (Never attempt to imitate book format!) Just because typewriters back at the end of the 19th c. could only type Courier is no reason why any of us should still be confined to this ugly, anachronistic type font. That said, it is necessary to understand there is a reason for typing manuscripts in Courier. The publishing world determined word count back in the days when Courier was all there was. Therefore if you want to know how long your book is by NY standards, you have to know how long it is in Courier 12. If you can figure this out (see my article on Word Count),http://www.blairbancroft.com then you can submit in any clear type font.

Wandering Body Parts. I believe we all have better things to do than worry about Wandering Body Parts. We’re writing fiction in the vernacular. We “talk” Wandering Body Parts, so why not write them? (I say, as my fingers fly over the keyboard.)

Writing – Craft or Art? Okay, some aspects of writing can be taught, but my personal feeling is that you learn a great deal more from reading the best authors in your particular sub-genre. Be wary of swallowing whole everything you read in “How to” Books. Keep in mind they are frequently written by people who came to these conclusions while trying to figure out why they were unable to write a saleable work of fiction. How-to books written by successful authors, editors, or agents are your best bet for helpful information, although I’m still inclined to see writing more as an art than a craft. Basically, take what is useful to you from these books and don’t sweat the so-called “rules” that don’t work for you.

Strong Writing. This entire article was prompted by a “craft” discussion on one of my author e-mail loops, a discussion that inspired me to sit down late one night, and write the paragraphs that appear below. Fortunately, I didn’t let them disappear into cyberspace with other old e-mails. What I wrote that night off the top of my head emphasizes my belief that good writing is more Art than Craft. That writing comes from the Soul, not from following the so-called rules in a book. Never be afraid to be yourself.

Strong Writing – No Myth. Although an editor undoubtedly grimaces over bad spelling and grammar, I can almost guarantee she/he is not counting the number of times an author uses “was” or “-ly.” An editor is looking for a story that captures her interest. Every time she chooses a book she lays her job on the line. (“Is this book strong enough to sell enough copies to justify my job?”) So if she is gracious enough to tell an author that her writing is “strong,” that’s a true compliment and encouragement, not a reference to nitpicking rules out of “how to” manual.

Strong writing is telling a good story. Strong writing is creating great characters. Strong writing is letting those characters speak naturally, without their words being stilted or superfluous. Strong writing is painting vivid word pictures, whether it’s a crowd scene, a sunset, or an intimate moment. Strong writing invokes emotions, makes the reader care about the characters.

To repeat Number One: Strong writing is a tale well told.

Buy Steeplechase now!

Elizabeth Jennings has always loved words—big ones, little ones, fat ones, skinny ones… She’s been a wordsmith all her life, as a simultaneous interpreter, translator and now as a writer. She lives in southern Italy, which she loves, together with her wonderful, high-maintenance husband and son. Who could ask for anything more?

Dying For Siena
by
Elizabeth Jennings

Everything that can go wrong will go wrong.

That just about sums up talented mathematician Faith Murphy’s life. After a disastrous one-night stand with hockey heartthrob Nick Rossi, she flees to a conference in Siena, Italy. She expected her Boss from Hell, Roland Kane, to be unbearable. She wasn’t expecting him to be dead.

A head injury has destroyed Nick Rossi’s hockey career. Maybe if he hadn’t been devastated and drunk, he wouldn’t have seduced Faith Murphy. By the time he realizes she might be the woman of his dreams, she’s run off to Siena. It’s Palio season in Siena. The Palio, a no-holds-barred medieval horse race, has the whole city in a lather. Nick knows Siena like the back of his hand. He knows he can get Faith back if he follows her to Siena. But there’s the little matter of suspicion of murder in the way…

Cops don’t have time for murder in Siena during Palio season. Police Commissario Dante Rossi finds it hard to focus on murder when there’s a horse race to be won. But when his cousin Nick shows up in pursuit of a pretty American who’s the prime suspect, all bets are off.

BONUS: Leave a comment for Elizabeth and you’ll be entered to win a copy of Jenyfer’s book ONE CRAZY SUMMER!

The Story Behind the Story
or what inspired
Dying For Siena
Elizabeth Jennings

Hi all! thanks so much for this opportunity to blog. It’s always so great to connect with readers. And, hopefully, readers who love Italy, because that’s what I’m going to blog about—my Cerridwen Press novel, Dying For Siena, which is set—surprise!—in Siena, Italy.

I loved writing this book. I particularly enjoyed researching it since it meant spending tons of time in Siena. I know…the sacrifices writers are willing to make for their art!

I know Siena very well and not from a tourist’s point of view, either. For many years, it was my privilege to live in nearby Florence and to work as a simultaneous interpreter, which meant travelling a lot in general and in particular, meant often commuting to Siena. When you work in a city, interact with its citizens, get your hands dirty with local life, so to speak, you gain a knowledge of that city no tourist can ever have. Tourists by definition float above reality.

For several years, together with a great team of interpreters, we worked at a conference of applied mathematics at one of the most beautiful conference venues in the world, the Certosa di Pontignano. Just look at it:

http://www.unisi.it/servizi/certosa/

Isn’t it gorgeous? We lived there in a refitted monk’s cell for the week of the conference, eating and drinking (superbly well) with these amazingly eccentric, mind-blowingly intelligent and incredibly delightful mathematicians. And I knew that some day I wanted to write about just that—a gaggle of unworldly scientists in an ancient Charterhouse, and a murder.

As far as I know, the only murder mysteries set in Siena are The Palio of the Dead by Carlo Fruttero and Franco Lucentini, a supernatural thriller novella, The Miracle by Frederick Forsyth, and Dying for Siena by moi. That’s rather surprising since Siena is so amazingly beautiful. Its beauty is iconic, the red brick palazzos, the glorious and unique central square in the shape of a shell (the more poetic image is the shape of God’s cupped hands), the perfect landscape with the pencil-thin and elegant cypresses…everyone is familiar with these images.

The reality is even better. I’d almost go so far as to say that there is nothing ugly, not one thing, inside the city walls of Siena. And even the ‘suburbs’ – the 20th century brick houses built outside the city walls—are incredibly pretty.

So it surprises me that not more novels are set in Siena. But maybe it’s not so surprising that more murder mysteries aren’t set there because, well…Siena has no crime. Or murders.

There are a number of sociological theories about this, but basically I believe there is no crime because the city is so caught up in the passionate emotions and rivalries and vendettas and back-stabbing of the Palio, the no-holds-barred medieval horse race run in the Campo twice a year for over seven hundred years, that they don’t have time for crime.

The city of Siena is divided up into 17 small neighbourhoods, the famous ‘contrade’. Each contrada has its symbol – the Snail, the Wolf, the Turtle, the Dragon. Each contrada fields a horse and jockey in the Palio and each Sienese is fiercely loyal to the contrada where he or she was born. The 17 contradas are enmeshed in an intricate 700 year old network of vendettas and alliances. Most of the vendettas are 600 or 700 years old, and felt as fiercely as if they had come into existence yesterday.

The Palio is grimly serious. And when I say no-holds-barred, that’s just what I mean. There are no rules once the starting gun (a medieval contraption called a mortaretto) goes off. You can jab and push and whip other jockeys (with your whip made of horse phalluses) and as long as your horse crosses that finishing line first, you’ve won. The horse can even be riderless and win, and often is.

Passions run so high during the run-up to the Palio—Palios, actually, there are two of them, one in July and one in August—that fistfights break out regularly. A husband and wife from two different contradas—please note that in densely-built Siena, the contradas flow into each other so you can have one door in the Eagle contrada and the door a couple of feet down the road along a continuous wall in another—will split up in Palio season, the wife returning home to her native contrada. It is absolutely unthinkable that she cheer her husband’s contrada on. Everyone identifies fiercely with their contrada. A woman who gives birth outside Siena will bring along a vial of dirt from her contrada and put it under the bed so that, technically, the child is born in the mother’s contrada.

Of course, corruption is rife, and very much expected. Each contrada raises money each year to bribe the jockey of the contrada that looks like it has the best chance of winning. A lot of money changes hands, though the jockeys don’t always stay bought. They take their beating afterwards with a great deal of philosophy and laugh all the way to the bank.

With all of this going on, who has time for normal crime?

I went to the Questura, Italian police headquarters, in Siena. Everyone was darling and showed me every inch of the gorgeous palazzo, with unparalleled views of the glorious cathedral. Undoubtedly the most beautiful police station in the world.

The Questura is not heavily geared towards crime-solving. The fingerprint set is behind—way behind—the coffee machine. I asked the Commissario if he could outline the procedures followed in his questura in the case of murder and he looked alarmed. He told me that he’d only been here a couple of years and so he didn’t really know. Then he stood, stuck his head out the door and yelled for Arturo, asking when was the last time there was a murder.

Arturo rubbed his chin and thought. The best he could come up with was a taxi driver who was found dead in his taxi ten years ago.

It’s enough to drive a mystery writer to drink.

Luckily, the local Chianti is divine.

If you’re going to be in southern Italy in September join me and Elizabeth at the Women’s Fiction Festival!

I know that vacation is rapidly drawing to a close when I start to freak out about my luggage. I arrived traveling fairly light for a women with two small(ish) children in tow, but I’ve been happily shopping all summer. Traveling light is no longer possible.

In all the years I’ve been traveling, I’ve only ever had to pay excess baggage fees once. Since then, I’ve got packing nearly down to an art form. It’s an important skill to have now that the international luggage allowance has gone from 70 lbs / piece to 50 lbs / piece.

First I pack all the heaviest items in the smallest suitcases – you’d have to pack quite a bit in there to make it go over 50 lbs. Bulky light things like quilt batting and stuffed animals go in the largest suitcases. And I take full advantage of the number of bags we are allowed – two per ticket. The only problem with that method is that there is only one of me and six bags. I love waving goodbye to that pile at the check-in counter.

Not looking forward to carrying it all up five flights of stairs at the other end however. It’s a good thing my husband arrived home first

While I’m puzzling over where to pack what this weekend, stop by and visit Elizabeth Jennings, my featured author this weekend. She’ll be talking about her book Dying for Siena and the fascinating inspiration behind the story.

Award-winning T. L. Gray grew up reading Harlequin Romances, Nancy Drew and The Hardy Boys. So it’s no wonder her favorite kind of book is one where romance and mystery are entwined. She’s a member of Romance Writer’s of America and several RWA Chapters. Currently, she writes single title contemporary romance and romantic suspense for Cerridwen Press—the mainstream arm of Ellora’s Cave. For more news and information about T. L. Gray visit her website.

Blurb

Nikki Jones didn’t experience childhood, she survived it. Now she’s a Night Stalker Black Hawk pilot and the new poster girl for women in Special Forces. Being the only woman in this historically all-male area makes her a natural target. Disgruntled men, she can handle. It’s the strong, completely unexpected attraction to the sexy, infuriatingly arrogant Delta sniper, Marshall Eastwood, that throws her off balance. When her mother’s killer attains parole and comes looking for revenge, Nikki has to make some hard choices in order to keep the secret of her shameful or risk losing everything—including her life. The thing about secrets is. . .they never stay secret.

BONUS: Leave a comment for T.L. and you’ll have a chance to win a copy of Jenyfer’s book ONE CRAZY SUMMER!

Die Slowly For Me is an exceptional romantic suspense with inspiring characters and s plot that engaged all your senses and emotions.
The Romance Studio

Die Slowly For Me
by
T.L. Gray

Excerpt

Nik groaned inwardly as she stood in front of the sink. Marshall stood beside her, head bent over her hand, his brow furrowed as he concentrated on picking at the slivers of glass in her palm. Why couldn’t she have remembered she’d washed out a few things before she’d sent him in here? “So, now you know.”

He pitched a sliver into the wastebasket beside his feet. “About the underwear or Vargas?”

Even though he wasn’t looking at her, she made a face. “It’s not something I like for people to know.”
“Everybody has skeletons. Want to talk about it?”

Not these kinds of skeletons. What she wanted to do was crawl into a hole and hide until it was all over. “No.”

His gaze shifted to her shoulder, then back to her hand. “Well, we could talk about your orange bra, but that’s probably not a good idea, either.”

She glanced down, saw the strap peeking out the side. “It’s Mango Madness.” And she had no idea why she’d just said that. The room suddenly got ten degrees hotter. For both of them.

He let out a long, slow breath and dropped another piece of glass into the basket. “Way to cool a guy down, Nik.”

“I never meant for you to be involved in any of this.”

“Relax, I won’t say anything to anybody. I’m sorry about your mom. Is that what was eating at you overseas?”

Relax, sure, because this was the absolute worst time in her career that this could happen. She nodded in answer to his question. What was the use in denying it now? “Sometimes it just…gets to me.”

“I know.” He glanced at her other hand and said, “What’s with the stitches?”

Glad for the change in topic, she held up the hand in question. “Cut it on piece of metal. They sent me to medical.”

Another small sliver hit the basket. He ran the pad of his finger around her palm. When she flinched, he zeroed in on the area. Finally, when he was satisfied he’d gotten all the glass, he turned on the warm water. She hissed when his sudsy hands glided over hers and the soap began doing its job. Of course, it was nothing compared to the tetanus shot. Her upper arm, where they’d given it to her, was still sore.

“I guess you heard about Jude.”

He nodded. “I heard. He’ll live. That’s not the worst thing that’ll ever happen to him out there.” Turning off the water, he reached for the small towel on the rack and wrapped it around her hand, gently patting the area dry. “Ointment? Gauze?”

She pointed to the drawer. “Still, I feel bad.”

“A sprained knee versus what you came home to—I’d say you win.” He pulled out the Neosporin, spread on a thin layer then wrapped her hand with the gauze, tying off the ends.

“Thanks,” she said when he was finished.

Keeping hold of her hand, he gazed down at her. “You’re welcome.” In his eyes she saw sincere concern and something else she couldn’t name. “You can’t stay here. It’s not safe.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Nik, come on. You’re not being rational.”

No, to him it probably didn’t seem that she was. However, she was not having this discussion with him. This was her home. She had a choice this time. Last time she hadn’t had a say. Vargas had moved his things into their place. And because Allan both employed and bedded Janice Jones he’d thought that gave him control over everything around her—including Nikki. But then, Janice hadn’t known everything what went on in her house. Most of the time it had been Nikki against a grown man who enjoyed terrorizing a twelve year old.

And here he was again, the vindictive puke, invading her space, showing her he could still control some aspect of her life. That he could still make her cower in fear.

Easing her hand from Marshall’s grip, she said firmly, “I’m not leaving.”

“It’s not like you don’t have options. Stay with friends. Go to a hotel. Move onto base for a while.”

Yeah, because she had so many friends. “I’ve only been here three months,” she reminded him. “I can’t afford to stay at a hotel indefinitely. Besides, I’d have to come home eventually and he’ll still be out there, so what does that solve?” And now, well, they were back to the reason she didn’t live on base.

The walls were closing in on her. It was too close, too intimate. She needed to get away from him, from the temptation to throw her arms around his neck and cry like a baby. Shouldering her way around him, she walked to the kitchen. He was right behind her. “Look, I have some money put away—”

Oh wrong thing to say. She whirled on him, gripping the top of the chair on the other side of the
table. “Are you out of your mind?”

“You lied to me, Nik. I don’t know why, I’m sure you thought you had good reason. It doesn’t matter now. What matters is you can’t do this alone. Let me help you.”

He had no idea how very much she wanted to take him up on the offer. But she wouldn’t, because she’d learned the hard way to depend only on herself. Since the day Vargas had entered her life, and every day thereafter, there hadn’t been anyone to lean on, no one to count on. No one to step between her and trouble.

This time wasn’t any different.

Anger and frustration flashed in his eyes. “Why do you have to make it so hard for people to care about you?”

Because it won’t hurt so much later, when the bottom falls out. “I don’t want your money.”

“Well you’re getting something. Personal protection, money, me here in the house—pick one.”
Just who the hell did he think he was? “Have you heard one word I’ve said?”

He leaned his knuckles on the table. His voice dropped a full octave as he said in a deadly soft voice, “I’m only going to say this one more time. I’m not leaving you here alone.”

“You don’t get a say in this.”

They bristled at each other across the table. She didn’t shy away from the hard look he was giving her. She’d withstood plenty of them over the years from rigid COs.

“Okay then.” He straightened. “Have it your way.”

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There are no Dairy Queens in Egypt so I decided to stop by and treat the kids.

Another weird fact about me: going into a restaurant where I’m unfamiliar with the menu kind of freaks me out. I mean, it’s fast food. Which means you should make your decision fast, not dilly dally over the menu. It’s not rocket science, but I start feeling pressure from everyone else in there who already know what they want and then I can’t focus on anything. I freeze up. I know, it’s dumb. But we all have our quirks.

So picture me walking into a Dairy Queen full of Boy Scouts with two excited children in tow and trying to make a quick decision. I got the children each a small hot fudge sundae, my mother a Dilly bar, and myself? I wasn’t quite up to my usual peanut buster parfait and deciding on what to put in a blizzard was just too much for me at that moment, Boy Scouts crowding around, so I just pointed at a picture ordered a small Mocha MooLatte.

OMG. So, so good.

Unfortunately, I made the mistake of looking it up online when I got home. Aside from the unfortunate name, the small (16oz of heaven) has 23g of fat and nearly 600 calories. Consume enough of those things and people will be moo-ing at me as I amble down the street.

It’s hard to regret it because it was that good, but I’m going to have to take a few more hikes to counteract that treat.

Don’t forget to stop by over the weekend when T.L. Gray will be my Friday Feature.

Anything-but-Ordinary is Cyndi Friberg’s creed and her writing reflects her dedication to the concept. She writes in a variety of sub genres, but she seems happiest in outer space. Her books have appeared on the Fictionwise Best Seller list, been nominated for The Romance Studio’s CAPA award, and named Best Fantasy/Science Fiction Romance of 2005 by Romance Reviews Today.

She lives in Colorado with her high school sweetheart turned husband of many years. With a pampered cat curled on the corner of her desk, she dreams of fascinating words and larger than life adventures — and wouldn’t have it any other way!

You can find more information on Cyndi at her website or join Cyndi’s announcement group at: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Anything-but-Ordinary/

Born of the Shadows
by
Cyndi Friberg

Proud and rebellious, Gideon is banished from the Light. His own words define his punishment, transforming bloodlust into literal hunger. Living by his sword, he wanders the land of mortals, embittered and alone.

Naomi works in secret, illuminating manuscripts for the Knights of St. John. Gideon is drawn to her beauty and fascinated by her innocence. She stirs the shattered remnants of his nobility, intensifying the conflict already raging within him.

Gideon is unlike anyone Naomi has ever encountered before. His passionate kisses and intoxicating caresses leave her restless and wanting. Still, she senses the bleak loneliness he tries so hard to deny. Responding to his seduction with tenderness, she is determined to help him rediscover the beauty in life.

The battle lines are drawn. Gideon must seek redemption or Fall. Naomi must lead her Rebel Angel back into the light before the forces of darkness claim them both.

Born of the Shadows
Excerpt

Fidgeting upon the wooden stool, Naomi pushed a lock of long hair behind her ear and concentrated on the manuscript page spread before her. Dust motes danced playfully in the rapidly fading sunlight, but she couldn’t allow herself to be distracted. The familiar scent of ink and sandalwood soothed her, helping her focus. She shifted the precious vellum folio to a slightly different angle, catching what was left of the light.

To achieve true illumination, a scribe must release light from within the text, not just decorate the margins. Her design was intricate and interesting, but there was no spark or inspiration. No illumination.

Naomi focused on the entwined figures centered on the page and set her quill aside. Eve’s long hair concealed everything but her slender limbs. Adam, on the other hand, had only a strategically placed fig leaf to protect his modesty.

“Perhaps without the leaf I could find illumination,” Naomi muttered with a mischievous smile.

“I’d be willing to serve as your model.”

Naomi twirled about so suddenly she nearly toppled from the stool. Stifling a startled gasp, she stumbled to her feet, pretending the movement had been graceful.

Raising her gaze to the stranger’s face, Naomi forgot her clever rejoinder. She forgot to breathe. She forgot everything except the man standing near the doorway.

His features were harsh and angular yet so incredibly beautiful he didn’t seem real. Bright with amusement and speculation, his strange golden eyes captured her gaze completely.

“Shall I disrobe?”

The smoky quality of his voice made Naomi tingle. Sleek black hair had been pulled straight back from his face and secured at the nape of his neck. Naomi wanted to trace the slash of his black eyebrows and smooth the faint creases that framed his extraordinary eyes. She wanted to test the resilience of his mouth with her fingertips and…

What was wrong with her?

Shaking away the strange stupor, Naomi forced herself to speak. “I’m not the scribe, my lord, so I require no model.”

He walked toward her, his stride long and lazy. “If you aren’t the scribe, what were you doing when I arrived?”

Naomi quickly hid her ink-stained hand behind her back. Her sandals scraped against the floorboards as she moved away from the high, angled table. “I was admiring Brother Gabriel’s work. He is the finest illuminator in the entire order.”

After so many years, the deception shouldn’t rankle, but it did. She hated the prejudice, which required she deny her accomplishments.

He glanced at the manuscript page then back at her. Who was this man? His garments told her only that he was wealthy. The plush, black velvet surcoat had been elaborately embroidered in gold and the gray tunic beneath was no less costly. He wore no sword, but Naomi sensed the menace that hovered around men of war.

“What business have you here?” she asked. “Were you looking for Brother Gabriel?”

Before she realized his intention, he reached behind her and grabbed her wrist. His touch sent shivers up her arm and Naomi sucked in a ragged breath. Drawing her arm back in front of her, he turned her hand this way and that, inspecting the calluses and stains.

“You’re not a scribe?” he challenged softly.

“The order has been charged with illuminating the Holy Scripts, sir.” She avoided his gaze as she continued her explanation. “Some learned men believe women do not possess souls. Almighty God would never bestow talent and inspiration on so lowly a creature. Only a man can be trusted to script the Word of God.”

The stranger laughed and Naomi felt her insides clench. He had been beautiful when he scowled. His appeal now made her restless and…hot.

His thumb brushed over her wrist and his gaze settled on her mouth. “Gabriel must have his hands full with you about. Where is he?”

Naomi tried to draw her hand from his grasp, but he wouldn’t allow it. The soft stroke of his thumb made her pulse jump and her skin flush. “What do you want with Brother Gabriel?”

“What I want at the moment has nothing to do with Gabriel.”

Her hand brushed against coarse stone. She’d backed herself against the wall! Her heart fluttered and she found it hard to swallow. “If you have business with—”

“What’s your name?” he interrupted.

His shimmering gaze moved slowly over her features. Naomi felt the caress like a physical touch. Coolness from the stones at her back seeped through her clothing in sharp contrast to the heat radiating from his body. She shivered, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

“I do not share my favors, sir. There are women in the village who are willing to…accommodate your needs.”

“What would you know of my needs?”

He sounded odd, as if she had struck some dark, painful chord within him. Naomi’s chest tightened and her heart pounded. “Nothing, my lord. I meant only to make clear that I am not a harlot.”

He released her hand and moved in closer. Pressing his palms against the wall, he caged her with his body. “I would have your name, damsel.”

Fear welled within Naomi, but she tried not to panic. The scriptorium was high in a stone tower, secluded and isolated. “Please, my lord. I didn’t mean to anger you.” She spoke in a calm, even tone.

“I am not angry.”

But he looked angry. His golden eyes glittered with determination and the set of his jaw seemed dangerous. He was tall and broad, strong and menacing.

“Who are you?” His voice was barely more than a whisper, his eyes searching.

“No one of consequence.” She pushed against his chest, shocked by the inflexibility of his flesh. “Let me go.”

He smiled slowly, provocatively. “I think not on both accounts.”

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Echoes and Embers, the next book in the Rebel Angel series, coming August 28th!

Nancy spent her early years wanting to be an English countryside vet (à la James Herriot) and an adventure-seeking archaeologist (à la Indiana Jones). After studying biochemistry and earning an anthropology degree, she realized that her true passion is for writing fictional stories about smart, adventurous women and the men who are strong enough to love them.

Nancy lives in Maryland with her real-life hero/husband, talented musician daughter, and many, many rescued cats.

**BONUS** Through August, Nancy is having a weekly contest! Just visit her website and sign up for her newsletter – each week one winner will receive a pair of hand-made Native American beaded earrings. All people have to do is sign up for her newsletter at her website for automatic entry! Or send an email to nancy@nancyhunterbooks.com with a subject line newletter signup. Good luck!

Taste of Liberty
by
Nancy Hunter

Blurb

In a time of war and hope, loss and redemption, death and rebirth, tragedy unites two enemies who seek vengeance and find love, only to learn that it was never their destiny to be together…

Liberty MacRae, daughter of an American Revolutionary, and Sebastian Cole, a British soldier, share a vendetta against the brutal British commander who killed their loved ones. Each brings a special gift to their quest – Liberty has a second sight that allows her to predict death, and Sebastian is a Fated One, a man who died before he could kill his enemy and has been sent back by the spirits to complete the task. When they fall in love, they have to find a way to defeat not only the murderer, but destiny as well – a destiny that demands that Sebastian either forfeit his life to defeat his enemy or forfeit his soul. Can they find a way to change their destiny before Liberty’s most harrowing premonition – that of her lover’s death – comes true?

Taste of Liberty
Excerpt

Just come a little closer, you miserable bastard, Libbie thought, but she remained silent.

“Now, how could I kill you,” Winters said. “Let’s see, I could cut off your eyelids and tie you to a post, then watch while the sun burns out your eyes and you slowly die of thirst. Very long business, that—takes about a week. Or I could skin you alive, inch by beautiful inch.” His eyes raked over her. “But I would rather see every inch of you under more pleasant circumstances.”
He took another step toward her and Libbie breathed faster.

“I understand your name is beside your mother’s on the deed to your family farm. You simply need to sign over that deed to me. Then you and I will get to know each other better, much better.” He grinned wickedly. “It will almost be a shame to kill you but when it’s time, I’ll make it as painless as possible.” He waved the paper in the air again.

She shook her head, trying to make sense of it. “The deed? What good would my signature do? My mother will still own the farm.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps she could be persuaded to forfeit her share, as well. Especially if she believes it will save your pretty neck.”

Libbie fought to keep her wits about her as he stepped closer, almost within striking range. He wouldn’t go to the farm, not yet. Her dreams, then later visions, had always been clear about the timing of Winters’ attack—it was in springtime, after the first planting. On the first anniversary of her father’s and brother’s deaths.

Libbie’s fingers coiled expectantly around the knife hilt and her heart pounded hard but slowly, like a ceremonial drum. All else was quiet, the deepest quiet she had ever heard.

An explosion shattered the silence. Shrieks, howls and running feet shook the ground above them and then a soldier was calling for Winters. Something about a fire in the munitions building. And then he was farther away from her, throwing a promise to return over his shoulder and disappearing through the cell door.

Libbie turned to the wall and let out a shrill scream. She pounded her fists against her earthen prison walls, re-igniting the pain in her injured hand. She cradled it against her and dropped to her knees. So close. She had been so close, had nearly felt his blood flowing over her fingers, had almost avenged the deaths of her loved ones and saved those few still living. But the chance had passed and she had failed.

With a loud clang, her prison door swung open again. Libbie straightened her back, slipped the knife into her sleeve and waited. She slowed her breathing, tensed her muscles, prepared for a fight. Perhaps she would have another chance after all.

“Miss MacRae? What are you doing here? Did he hurt you?”

That voice. No, it couldn’t be. Her mind was playing tricks on her. She’d thought she must have imagined hearing Winters’ men say his name but now the months fell away as she turned to see that he truly stood in front of her, taller and broader than she remembered, hair as black as night, blue eyes preternaturally bright. Her vision narrowed until all she could see were Sebastian Cole’s hypnotic eyes.

She could almost smell the flowers in Lady Jane’s garden as he moved closer. She opened her mouth to say his name. The word did not come from her. Just a gasp as he pulled her close. He crushed his lips against hers. His mouth was cold and hard but warmed and softened as he deepened the kiss.

Terror and pain and fury and exhaustion swept over her at once. Given no time to think, only time to respond, she kissed him back. Passion rose to the surface of her skin under the touch of his fingers, just as it had that night.

But that night had been a lifetime ago, when she was barely a woman, just returned home from finishing school. Now her tranquil life had been shattered, her family destroyed, her mother’s and sister’s lives made pawns in some perverse game of a madman. And that naïve young woman was no more.

Libbie pushed him away from her and for the first time noticed his long, red coat. A sobering reminder of who and what he was. “How dare you?”

“You’re right. This is no time for a reunion. We have to get out of here.” He grabbed her hand.
A cold chill started at the point where he touched her and crept up her arm. She pulled away from him, then flung her open hand across his cheek. “I’m not going anywhere with you!”

He touched his reddening face and stared at her with those unflinching blue eyes. “Miss MacRae, Winters will soon return. Do you trust him or me?”

How could she respond when she didn’t know the answer herself? That Sebastian was a British soldier and a spy was clear. But one of Winters’ butchers? Was he more treacherous than she’d realized? And why did she still react to his touch? She backed away from him, ready to pull her knife.

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Kathleen Coddington has been writing romance on and off for 15 years. Her first book, a paranormal romance, Witch Ball was published in 2007 by Cerridwen Press. Her second book, Mistress of Deception, a historical romance set in Italy in 1501, also from Cerridwen Press, came out in April of 2008. She is a member of Romance Writers of America and the Pocono Lehigh Romance Writers. In 2001 she won second place in New Jersey Romance Writers ‘Put Your Heart In a Book’ contest and in 2004 she placed second in the Golden Rose. While a member of the Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group she served at various times as VP, secretary and treasurer.

A retired school librarian, Kathleen enjoys reading and travel. Members of two Civil War reenacting units, she and her husband are frequent lecturers at schools and historical societies. She has also published several articles about the fashions of the mid-19th century. She and her husband and three cats live near their son in a tiny town in eastern Pennsylvania where she teaches a novel writing course at the local community college.

From Fallen Angels Reviews
Kathleen Coddington is an amazing story teller. {…} Mistress of Deception had adventure, deception, intrigue, romance and a whole lot of goodness. I can’t wait for the next Kathleen Coddington book to come out. For anyone who loves a good-quality novel than you need to pick up a copy of Mistress of Deception.

Mistress of Deception
Kathleen Coddington

Fleeing her half brother Paolo after his attempt to have her murdered for her dowry, Isabella D’Angelo disguises herself and heads to her uncle in Rome. The journey is full of danger to both her life and her reputation.

Marco Galleazzo is on his way to Rome on an important mission. When he saves Isabella from a group of drunken mercenaries, she begs him to take her with him. Even after he discovers his newly acquired body servant is really a woman, the fear in Isabella’s eyes compels him to help her even as he fights his growing attraction to his mysterious companion.

During the long journey their mutual desire eventually ignites passions neither of them can deny. Isabella longs to tell Marco the truth about herself, but Paolo’s treachery still haunts her. If she doesn’t find the courage to trust Marco, the web of lies she’s created is sure to destroy the love blossoming between them.

And in the middle of that web—Paolo waits.

Excerpt from Mistress of Deception

Something cold and wet brushed Isabella’s cheek, waking her. Swatting sleepily at her cheek, she rolled over and tried to recapture the lingering wisps of a very pleasant dream but the cold, wet touch followed. “Go away Dido,” she murmured. A drop of chilly liquid landed on her ear and trickled down inside.

Irritated, she wiped it away and sat up, expecting to come nose to nose with her pesky mare. Instead, she was nose to scale with two large, dripping fish, dangling from a line held firmly between lean, tanned fingers. She tilted her head back, her gaze moving slowly upward past taut thighs and a muscled torso beneath a black doublet to rest at last on Marco’s face.

“Waking you up so that you can perform your duties is becoming a habit,” he remarked as he dropped the cold fish into her lap.

She stood up, holding the line gingerly between two fingers, her nose wrinkled in distaste. “Where did you get these?”

“While you and my friend over there were sleeping like the dead, I did some exploring.” He pointed over his shoulder. “There’s a stream over there behind those trees. Fortunately, I always carry hooks and line with me when I travel.”

She raised the fish, shuddering at the glassy eyes and thrust them at him. “They’re very nice,” she said with what she hoped was an admiring smile. “You may have them back now.”

He pushed the fish firmly back at her. “I caught them. You clean them.” He handed her his knife. “Better build a fire first. By the time you finish cleaning the fish the coals will be hot enough for you to cook them for dinner. Don’t take too long. I’m starving and I’d wager that when Georgio wakes up he will be too.”

Her mouth fell open. Build a fire? Clean fish? “Signori?” She hesitated not sure how to tell him she hadn’t any idea how to do either.

Marco stared at her an inscrutable expression on his face. “Let me guess. You don’t know how to build a fire.”

She shook her head.

“All right, I’ll build the fire while you clean the fish. I suggest you watch how I do this so that you can do it in the future.” He knelt and began clearing a space for the fire. A few moments later, he sat back on his heels and glanced up at Isabella who still stood motionless, fish in one hand, knife in the other. “I take it, you don’t know how to clean fish either,” he stated, his voice tinged with careful patience. Her shoulders lifted in a helpless shrug.

“How can you have been raised on a farm and know nothing about cleaning fish?” he demanded as he stood and brushed his hands on his thighs. “Surely your family butchered animals. There must have been the occasional rabbit.”

She shifted uneasily searching for a plausible answer to his questions. “We never ate fish,” she finally mumbled, unable to think of a better explanation.
Marco looked stunned. “Well, what did you eat?”

“Bread, signori. And cheese. When we did have meat my father butchered it. I did mention I sold our farm.” She flashed him an embarrassed glance from beneath her lashes. “Now you know why. I get sick at the sight of blood.”

Marco shook his head. “Well, it’s time you got over that. I’ll build the fire but you, Sandro, are going to clean these fish. I’ll tell you what to do but you’re going to do the work. Understood?”

She nodded. The thought of touching the fish made her stomach roll but she’d do almost anything to distract him from more of his probing questions about her past.

Following his terse directions, she laid the fish on the ground and prepared for the ordeal. Clamping her lips together, she grabbed for one of the fish. After removing the hook, a disgusting task that sent shudders through her, she flipped the fish over. Getting a firm grip on the hilt of Marco’s knife, she jammed it into the fish’s belly and sliced it open. Gray-green guts spilled out and landed by her knee.

She swallowed hard, her gaze riveted on the slimy entrails. Then the smell assailed her. Sweat sprang out on her forehead. Her stomach rolled and bile burned the back of her throat. She tried to stand up but her legs wouldn’t hold her. The black specks swimming before her eyes became a spinning vortex that sucked her down into blackness.

After a time, light began to beat against her eyelids, forcing her to open her eyes. The first thing she saw was Marco’s concerned gray eyes gazing down at her. “What happened?”

“You passed out.” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I’m beginning to understand why you sold that farm of yours.”

Suddenly she felt his hands loosening the ties on her shirt. In another moment he would see the bindings around her chest and her secret would be revealed. She grabbed his hands. “Stop that.” Her voice slid up an octave. “Leave me be. I’m fine. I’m fine.” Shoving his hands away, she struggled to sit up.

“Easy, Sandro.” He slipped an arm under her shoulder. “If you move too fast, you’ll keel over again. Take a moment to catch your breath.”

She followed his advice and rested her forehead on her bent knees. Her position also allowed her to discretely tie the laces of her shirt. The panicked beating of her heart began to ease as she realized her secret was still safe. Composed once again, she raised her head.

Marco had finished the task of cleaning the fish and was threading them on a long stick. “I haven’t been much help, have I?” she asked with a small sigh.

He glanced up from his work, his fingers slowing as he considered her question. “You have a lot to learn. But I knew that when I agreed to bring you along. You’re a farmer’s son, not a trained body servant, so I can’t get too upset by your blunders.”

She flashed him a grateful smile. “If you tell me how to do it, perhaps I could cook the fish for you, signori.”

Marco shook his head vigorously. “No thank you, Sandro. I’m looking forward to eating these. You might drop them into the fire. Or worse yet, keel over again and fall into the fire yourself. I think it would be best, if you just sit over there, out of the way.”

She nodded meekly and remained seated, watching him arrange the fish over the fire. Acting the part of a servant was turning out to be nearly as troublesome as maintaining her disguise. Still, she was determined to keep up her end of the bargain. She just prayed it didn’t include anymore fish.

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