Alyse gets teased before God, King and everybody in Betrothal by @Jenna_Jaxon #MedievalMonday

The heart can choose, but can it also change?

Such is the central question posed by author Jenna Jaxon in Betrothal for today's Medieval Monday installment on The Maze. 

Synopsis:
Lady Alyse de Courcy has fallen in love with Lord Braeton, a nobleman in King Edward III’s court and a man to whom she has barely spoken. Fate, however, has decreed her betrothal to his best friend, Sir Geoffrey Longford—a handsome and imposing knight, yet hardly the man she wants to wed.

When Sir Geoffrey is bound in betrothal by his father, he could not have expected the beautiful stranger to win his heart the moment they meet. But Alyse’s infatuation with his friend casts doubt on whether she can ever return his regard and their wedding day is fast approaching…  Will he have time enough to win her love?

Excerpt:
Mere seconds before she learned her fate. She could scarce affect an indifferent pose before the court when inside every inch of her quivered with anticipation of the name. His name, pray God, on the king’s lips.

Thomas.

In her mind, she heard the word.

The king straightened, glanced at her then at the man by her side.

“What say you then, Sir Geoffrey? Does the lady not speak fair? I vow she will make you a proper wife and a dutiful one as well.”

Alyse turned, until that moment unaware that Geoffrey Longford stood beside her. Chills coursed down her body as the king’s words echoed in her mind. The sensation of falling backward assailed her, as though she rushed away from the tall man at her side even as his figure loomed larger and larger in her sight.

Not Lord Braeton.

Her numbed brain repeated the phrase, trying to comprehend that instead he would be her husband. Geoffrey Longford.

God have mercy on me, for by the look of him, this man will not.

Fearful, she cringed as her gaze climbed higher, over his chest, over his chin, finally resting on the dark blue eyes turned toward her.

Geoffrey returned her appraisal, his gaze sweeping her figure as a smile crept over his face. “Your Majesty.” He spoke to the king but his attention remained fixed on Alyse. “When my father told me of the betrothal contract before I left his home, I resolved to play the dutiful son. Now, however, I find I do not wish to act that role after all.” His eyes held hers as he paused.

Dear God, does he mean to renounce me here before the entire court?

Alyse stared at the man beside her, willing herself to remain upright, despite the waves of ice and fire alternating through her body.

“Now I find I would rather play the ardent lover.”

An amused murmur ran through the Hall at his words. Sir Geoffrey grinned, his eyes sparkling with humor and something more. Despite the uneven light, Alyse saw an unfathomable promise in their dark depths. She took a shaky breath and looked away.

“I affirm Lady Alyse to be all that could be hoped for in a wife. Please you and God, we shall make the match and with all good haste.”

His self-satisfied tone and the thought of his outrageous teasing touched a contrary nerve in Alyse. She pulled her wits together and beamed brilliantly at her newly-betrothed lord. “Take care, my lord, for the wise women say, ‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure.’”

Sir Geoffrey raised a dark eyebrow while those around the banquet hall laughed. Heart pounding at her audacity, Alyse watched helplessly as he reached over and lifted her hand. “Such repentance could never be suffered too slowly, my lady, if ’twere your gentle hand that held mine through it.”

Laughter and applause washed over Alyse, who was struck absolutely dumb at the touch of his lips to her skin. Her heart pounded, and a strange roaring sounded in her ears; she wondered vaguely if she were about to faint.

Spellbound, she watched him, head bent over her now-smoldering hand, kissing it with an unhurried thoroughness that seemed to stop time. His lips scorched where they lingered, spreading a fire that consumed her body and mind. Had she the strength, she would have snatched her hand from his grasp to save herself from immolation. Other men had danced with her, held her hand, kissed it. They had never made her feel thus.

In a daze, she watched Geoffrey wrench his lips from her hand and stand, eyes widened as if amazed. His brows furrowed a moment then he spoke to the king. “May I ask, Your Majesty, when the banns will be read? I am sorely pressed to begin my repentance.”

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Announcing RAGING SEA:Reckonings by @KimHeadlee #FREE on #KindleUnlimited!

Breaking News on The Maze,

just in time for the holidays!

Those who aspire to greatness must first learn servanthood.

Read Raging Sea: Reckonings, book 3.1 in The Dragon's Dove Chronicles!

Synopsis:

Stripped of kin, clan, country, and even his identity for having failed the most important woman in his life and her infant son, Angusel begins the arduous task of rebuilding his life and reclaiming his honor. The path he treads is fraught with uncomfortable revelations, unexpected reconciliations… and unavoidable reckonings. 

Excerpt:

THE FORMER ÀRD-OIGHRE h’Albainaich Chaledon was dead.

It didn’t matter that the Otherworld wasn’t at all like what he had been taught—there was no eternal battlefield where Lord Annaomh’s Army of the Blest fought Lord Annàm’s Samhraidhean minions, as far as he could tell. He was certain he was dead.

In fact, there was no light, no pain, no smells, no heat, no chill, no sensation of any kind save the most beautiful strains of harp music he’d ever heard. The images it evoked bespoke love in its many incarnations: the frenzied passion of the Belteine fire-dance, the soaring joy of two souls bonded by the act of love, a mother’s fierce protectiveness of her children, the lament of a bereaved spouse, a lullaby for a newborn, the rapture of a long-delayed reunion. None of the ancient tales mentioned music in the Otherworld, but he supposed the Old Ones could have whatever they liked. Comforted by the melody, which was by turns jaunty and lilting and mournful and jaunty again, he wasn’t about to start complaining to his sithichean hosts.

The final notes thrummed into silence. “Well done, Eileann,” spoke a nearby male voice in Caledonaiche. “I’ll wager the Old Ones themselves are pleased by your harping.” This won the murmured assent of other men, also in Caledonaiche.

“Thank you, Tavyn.” The female Caledonach voice sounded demure, as though unaccustomed to hearing such praise.

He was about to add his lauds to that of Tavyn’s when a wave of pain battered his head and chest. Apparently, the gods weren’t done tormenting him in this life. That much was obvious by the fact that he’d somehow ended up with his own people—his former people, he amended. It was also apparent that this group didn’t recognize him, or they never would have allowed him into their company.

Caledonach warriors didn’t associate with those who had been stripped of honor.

Dragging a hand across his eyes, though unwilling to open them, he felt the folds of a bandage swathing his brow. His hand dropped to his chest, and he found another bandage where his battle-tunic and undertunic should have been. He probed his chest near the left shoulder and winced. If the wound had been half a handspan further down, he would have received one-way passage to the Otherworld.

Where am I?

He must have uttered the question aloud, for the harpist, sounding much closer than before, answered, “Rest easy, brave one. You’re in the field hospital at Port Dhoo-Glass.”

The Caledonach ward, he realized with a groan.

Someone, mistaking that groan for an expression of physical discomfort, pressed a cool, damp cloth to his cheeks and neck. He had to admit it did feel good.

The woman continued, “You were found with a gash on your forehead and a spear in your chest. If you hadn’t moved when you did, the medics would have left you for dead. You’re very lucky to be here.”

Some luck. He wished the medics had left him in the company of the ravens.

Worse, his pain-fogged brain at last attached meaning to the names Eileann and Tavyn. They belonged to the daughter and son of Chieftainess Dynann of Clan Tarsuinn, his dead father’s clan. Tavyn, he recalled with chagrin, was commander of Second Turma, Manx Cohort, the unit that had charged the Sasunach line beside his. He turned his head onto one cheek and groaned again.

A hand slipped under his head to lift it a bit. Eyes still closed, he didn’t bother to resist. No sense in rushing the inevitable. They’d recognize him soon enough.

A cup touched his lips, brimming with a warm liquid redolent with the tempting scent of honey. His eyes flickered open.

He gazed past the cup’s rim into the face of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, save one. Lustrous black hair tumbled past her shoulders to sweep toward his chest. Graceful eyebrows accented brown eyes that glimmered with more compassion than he had ever hoped to see again. The light flush of her cheeks made him think of roses beneath a dusting of snow.

Her berry-red lips gave him the gift of a genuine smile.

He swallowed a mouthful of the liquid and grimaced at its bitter taste. It was a fitting reminder of the bitterness in his soul.

“Valerian.” Her smile took on an apologetic cast. “For your pain. Shall I add more honey for you?”

“Nay.” Was his voice really as harsh as it sounded? He couldn’t help it; his worst pain valerian couldn’t cure. He grasped the hand cradling his head and moved it so he could lie flat. To his surprise, he found it difficult to let her hand go. He did his best to return her smile, though it had been several moons since his facial muscles had moved in that direction. “Thank you, my lady.” For more things than just the drink, but of course he couldn’t tell her that.

Nodding, she disengaged her hand and rose, leaving the cup on the stool beside his cot. As though in afterthought, she bent to swab his brow again with the damp cloth. “I’ll be staying at the fortress until my brother is well enough to travel. Send for me if you need anything,” she whispered, doubtless unaware that her smile—and the kindness that was its source—was causing him more anguish than a hundred spear thrusts. “My name is Eileann.”

He knew; gods, how he knew. If he had never heard her speak, he’d have known from the blue woad Tarsuinn falcon tattoo spread-winged and screeching across her right forearm, symbol of her status as their àrd-banoigin. Chieftainess Dynann would retain clan leadership for as long as she remained fit for the task, but now that her daughter was of childbearing age, the responsibility for continuing the line lay with Eileann. By Caledonach law, Eileann was free to choose her consort. That her left arm bore no tattoo meant she hadn’t yet exercised that choice.

Maybe he could… nay; he was forgetting himself. Or rather, what he had become.

Eileann nic Dynann probably had suitors lined up from one shore of Caledon to the other. Even if she didn’t, the likelihood of her choosing an outcast was less than the sun changing its course at zenith to set in the east. Best to put her out of his mind. Best for him—and for her.

As she glided by the other cots to reach her brother’s side and took up her harp to play another tune, he found he could no sooner forget her than forget the shameful events of his past that prevented him from ever trying to woo her.

This groan he made sure to muffle with the pillow.

Buy Link: Amazon Kindle Worldwide

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Spotlight: How to Reach Your Writing Goals Like a Pro by @MCSimonWrites #amwriting

 

Book Details

• Title: How To Reach Your Writing Goals Like A Pro: A Step by Step Guide to becoming a Self-Published Author [even Mark Twain talked about]
• Series: How To Master Your Life (Book 2)
• Author: M.C. Simon
• Genre: Non-Fiction, Self-Help
• Format: Paperback and Kindle
• Length: 128 pages
• Publication Date: November 18, 2015
• Publisher: IML Publishing
• Kindle Price: $6.99
• Paperback Price: $14.99

 

Synopsis

HOW TO REACH YOUR WRITING GOALS LIKE A PRO is your Step by Step Guide for becoming a Self-Published Author.

This book provides all the proven steps that you need to plan your success and see your writing goals fulfilled. It will not only help with your writing goals but if you adapt the procedures described within this book to all your life goals, you will soon become a Master of your own life.

HOW TO REACH YOUR WRITING GOALS LIKE A PRO

• addresses those who feel that writing is their calling but still don't have the confidence to do it.
• shows you how to find your answers to: who, what, when, why, and how?
• gives you the boost to overcome all your worries and finally start what should have already been started.
• proves to you that the road you wish to step onto is not as hard as you may think, or as difficult as others have convinced you of being.
• shows you how by following a good plan, you will finally see your book published from ground zero. Meanwhile, you will learn to enjoy each accomplished phase. And most of all... you will learn to relax while you are working for your goals.

 

Excerpt

Chapter 2: Step 1 - Declutter Your Mind

OK. Let’s get started!

No matter what your goal is, no matter how easy or hard you may think it is to attain, the first step that you must take is to declutter your mind.

One of the reasons for which you still haven’t reached your writing goals, is the fact that all of what you’ve learned and heard about publishing your book or about becoming a successful writer, were implemented ideas that are now blocking their fulfillment inside you.

“I have spent most of my time worrying about things that have never happened.” ~ Mark Twain. 

For this reason, it’s a great decision to first unlearn what you have learned.

Why do you need to do this? Let me briefly explain.

During our life, we’ve been brainwashed to think that certain goals are impossible to attain. I am telling you that this is one of the biggest lies that we encounter in our lives.

If you are serious about your dreams, if you really wish with all your heart to materialize your dreams, nothing… and I mean nothing can stand in your way. All you have to do is to get rid of all the garbage that was inoculated in your beliefs. Do it and don’t lose time finding out who put it in your mind, why this was done, and most of all don’t blame the ones who taught you those things. They were themselves taught by others and maybe they were well intentioned when they did it. It could have just been because they thought that, that was the ultimate truth. No matter what, this is not your problem but theirs. They were wrong, and you just started on the road to prove it to the whole world. [Read more]

 

Buy Links

Amazon US | Amazon UK | Amazon CA | Amazon AU | Amazon IN | Amazon DE | Amazon FR | Amazon ES | Amazon BR | Amazon NL | Amazon MX | Smashwords
 

About the Author

Writer, translator, engineer, researcher, project manager, blogger, eternal student... these are only a few words to describe M.C. Simon.

In a recent interview she confessed:

"I am not only M.C. Simon, the writer whose goal is to rebuild in people the trust in their own forces and in the incredible powers that they received at birth; powers that, maybe they have forgotten about somewhere inside the depth of their being.

I AM all what "I am not only", and much more! I AM who I AM. And in this form, I follow my Path to consciously touch The Absolute... The ONE who's Omnipotent, Omniscient and Omnipresent.

The same as YOU and like any other soul that accepted in these times, the challenge to experience life inside a human body, on this wonderful planet we call Earth."

 

Contact The Author

Amazon Author Page
MCSimonWrites Blog
WritersPayItForward Website
Facebook Fan Page
Twitter
GooglePlus
LinkedIn

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Celebrate #BlackFriday with my Business of Writing workshop @ChessieCon in Baltimore!

Once you've had your fill of stuffing and shopping, and if you happen to live in the metro Baltimore/DC corridor, flap on over to the Radisson North Baltimore Hotel (Timonium, MD) to attend ChessieCon 2015! 

Don't delay if you plan to attend my Business of Writing workshop, however—it's scheduled at 4:15 p.m. Friday as one of the first programming events of the con. 

Topics I plan to present include: 

• Whether or not an author should incorporate.
• ISBNs: what, why, and how many?
• Imprints demystified.
• The Main Event: Createspace vs. IngramSpark!

And I have a special treat for convention goers: the paperback edition of King Arthur's Sister in Washington's Court is now available. Mention this blog post for a 50% discount!

All panels and events for which I'm scheduled:

• Friday, November 27
  • 4:15 p.m.–5:15 p.m. The Business of Writing workshop
  • 8:00 p.m.–9:00 p.m. Women in Camelot panel
  • 9:45 p.m.–10:15 p.m. Reading from King Arthur's Sister in Washington's Court
• Saturday, November 28
  • 3:00 p.m.–4:00 p.m. KaffeeKlatch with Kim Headlee
  • 5:30 p.m.–6:30 p.m. Don't Be That Guy panel
  • 6:45 p.m.–8:00 p.m. Group book / art / CD signing session
• Sunday, November 29
  • 10:00 a.m.–11:00 a.m. E-publishing and Small Presses panel
  • 12:30 p.m.–1:30 p.m. A Princess with a Sword is still a Princess panel
  • 6:00 p.m.–midnight??? Dead Dogfish Party in the Consuite

I hope everyone enjoys a safe and happy Thanksgiving weekend!

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The nun coldcocks the bastard mercenary in Silverhawk by @BarbaraBettis #MedievalMonday

Today's Main Event on The Maze: 

Big and bold Sir Giles takes on slight and saucy Lady Emelin from Silverhawk by Barbara Bettis!

Synopsis:
He’s everything a proper lady should never want; she’s everything a bastard mercenary can never have.

Sir Giles has come to England to kill his father, who seduced and betrayed his mother. First, however, he’ll seek sweet revenge—kidnap the old lord’s new betrothed. But when Giles uncovers a plot against King Richard, he faces a dilemma: take the lady or track the traitors. What’s a good mercenary to do? Both, of course.

Lady Emelin has had enough. Abandoned in a convent by her brother, she finally has a chance for home and family. Yet now she’s been abducted. Her kidnapper may be the image of her dream knight, but she won’t allow him to spoil this betrothal. Her only solution: escape. Rescuing the intrepid lady—while hunting traitors—is a challenge Giles couldn’t anticipate.  But the greatest challenge to Giles and Emelin is the fire blazing between them. For he’s everything a proper lady should never want, and she’s everything a bastard mercenary can never have.

Excerpt:
(Sir Giles has been rescued from outlaws by Lady Emelin’s escort of soldiers and she’s insisted that she take the unconscious knight to her betrothed’s castle for treatment.)

Swollen eyelids, a puffy cheek, and bloody scrapes couldn’t hide the knight’s handsome features. Waves of midnight hair fell across his wide forehead to brush one side of his square, stubble-darkened jaw. Grit clustered on the high bridge of his nose. What shame such a strong, rugged man should be cut down. Her pulse fluttered, and she sucked in a sharp breath. Ashamed of such reaction, she squeezed shut her eyes.

Would Stephen have been so handsome, had he lived through the crusade? She hardly recalled what her youthful first betrothed looked like when he left, a hopeful squire at nineteen, to follow his foster father on King Richard’s journey. If only he’d returned from Outremer, she’d be wed now, with the family she craved.

She sighed, reached for her patient’s cheek—and found herself staring into the palest gray eyes she had ever seen. His mouth moved, and she leaned forward.

“What is it?” she murmured.

“Before…I…die…” came the hoarse whisper.

“Yes? What would you like before you die?” If it were in her power, she would provide the poor man with his wish. Drink? Food?

A strong hand gripped the back of her head, pulled her forward. That close, she saw his eyes weren’t flat gray, but clear, layered like a winter pond winking with ice. They were silver.

“To…kiss…a nun,” came the outrageous reply before his lips met hers.

The brush of his warm mouth robbed her breath for an instant. Then she snapped back with a gasp. And, with in-born reflex, slapped him. His head jerked, his eyes closed, and he lay motionless.

“Oh, Sweet Mary,” Emelin whispered, “I’ve killed him.” Leaning close, she saw his narrow, beautifully molded lips relax. His mouth curved at the corner.

At least he died with a smile on his face.

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Who killed Jack? Spotlight on The End of Camelot by @DianaLRubino #romanticsuspense

November 22, 1963,
a day that changed America forever.
Who killed President Kennedy?

Guest post by Diana Rubino,
author of The End of Camelot. 

This is going to date me, but I was six years old when President Kennedy was assassinated. Everyone who was alive that day knew exactly where they were and what they were doing when they heard the news. I was in my first grade classroom. The teacher got a call on the classroom phone and told us "the president was shot." A collective gasp went around the room. My grandmother was a huge JFK assassination buff. She’s the one who got me fascinated with this tragic event, at the time the biggest mystery since "who killed the princes in the Tower?" (I'm a Ricardian; that's for another post).  She got me embroiled right along with her.

She listened to all the radio talk shows (those who lived in the New York area might remember Long John Nebel, on WOR, WNBC, and WMCA, all on AM radio (FM was really "out there" at that time). She bought whatever books came out over the years, along with the Warren Commission Report, which I couldn't lift at the time, it was so heavy. But my interest never waned in the 52 years that followed.

In 2000, I began the third book of my New York Saga, set in 1963. The heroine is Vikki McGlory Ward, daughter of Billy McGlory, hero of the second book, BOOTLEG BROADWAY, set during Prohibition. This was my opportunity to write a novel showcasing all my current theories, and continue the saga. It took a minimum of research, since I remember all the 60's brands, (Bosco, Yum Berry, Mr. Bubble...), the fashions, the songs, and I even included a scene set on that unforgettable night when the Beatles first appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show, February 9, 1964.

About THE END OF CAMELOT:

The third in the New York Saga, The End of Camelot centers on Billy McGlory’s daughter Vikki, whose husband is murdered trying to prevent the assassination of John F. Kennedy. Vikki uses her detective skills to trace the conspiracy, from New York to New Orleans to Dallas, and at the same time, tricks her husband’s murderer into a confession. A romance with her bodyguard makes her life complete.

November 22, 1963: The assassination of a president devastates America. But a phone call brings even more tragic news to Vikki Ward—her TV reporter husband was found dead in his Dallas hotel room that morning.

Finding his notes, Vikki realizes her husband was embroiled in the plot to kill JFK—but his mission was to prevent it. When the Dallas police rule his death accidental, Vikki vows to find out who was behind the murders of JFK and her husband. With the help of her father and godfather, she sets out to uncover the truth.

Aldobrandi Po, the bodyguard hired to protect Vikki, falls in love with her almost as soon as he sets eyes on her. But he's engaged to be married, and she’s still mourning her husband. Can they ever hope to find happiness in the wake of all this tragedy?

An excerpt from THE END OF CAMELOT:

November 22, 1963
Larchmont, New York

Vikki entered her foyer and dropped her shopping bags on the floor. As she locked the door and kicked off her alligator pumps, the phone rang. She answered it in the kitchen, so she could raid the pastry box while she chatted.

“Vikki, it’s Linc Benjamin.” His ragged voice came over the line. “I have terrible news. Jack is dead.”

“What?” She couldn’t have heard right. “What did you say?”

“Jack was found in the bathtub of his hotel room this morning—”

She dropped the phone and slid down against the wall. Her glasses fell off her face. The room spun. Sunlight glared. She smelled the new coat of wax on the kitchen floor.

“Vikki? Vikki?” came faintly from the dangling receiver. She crawled over and grasped it. He would tell her it was a mistake, they had the wrong man, or it was another of Jack’s practical jokes.

“My Jack?” she whispered.

“Vikki, I’m so sorry,” he sobbed.

“Linc—no, please. Tell me it wasn’t Jack. Are you sure? There must be a mistake. Not Jack.” Her heart thudded like a hammer. A stabbing pain pierced her chest. She held the receiver away from her ear.

“Vikki, are you there?” His voice came through the earpiece. “If you want, I’ll be right over. I can tell you everything when I get there, or right now, whatever you want.”

“Now!” she demanded.

“The Dallas police found him drowned in his hotel bathtub—”

“Dallas? What was he doing in Dallas? He’s supposed to be in Chicago doing a story on the FBI!” she screeched, beyond rational thought. No, this had to be a mistake!

“I don’t know, Vikki. The maid found him. The Dallas police tried to call you all morning, but you weren’t home, so they called here, at the network. Do you want me to come over and—”

“Wait!” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Now—where is he now?”

“Parkland Hospital. They’re going to bring the bod—er, bring him back to New York after the autopsy.” His voice broke again. “God, Vikki, I’m so sorry. I feel like I lost my brother.”

She went blank, too stunned to think. Her hands shook so much she could hardly hold the phone.

“Vikki, do you want me to come over—”

“No.” She released the receiver. It swung away and banged against the wall. She curled up on the floor as the ticking clock echoed the thudding of her heart.

She wept in unbearable grief. Shutting her eyes tight, she cradled her head in her arms. A jumble of thoughts rendered her helpless.

“Please, God,” she prayed, “Let it be a mistake and Jack will come walking through the door.”

The doorbell rang. “Jack?” She forced her eyes open.

“Vikki!”

Her head throbbed with each pound on the door. 

“Vikki! Are you okay? Can you hear me?”

The voice was her father’s, and as much as she wanted him with her, holding her, rocking her, the present was too much to bear. She wanted one last visit to the past with Jack, happy and alive and free from harm.

But the raw truth seared her soul: The past is gone, and so is your beloved Jack!

Too weak to walk, she crawled to the door, reached up, and unlocked it.

Her father rushed in and knelt beside her. “Vikki, honey?”

She collapsed into his arms, heaving gut-wrenching sobs.

“It’s okay, I’m here,” he crooned, like he was singing the songs he wrote for her.

“Dad, Jack—” She couldn’t bring herself to say it yet. The words were too ugly, too real.

“Yeah, I know. He got shot. When I looked in the sidelight and saw you lying on the floor, I thought you were hurt.”

She gulped. “I answered the phone and it was…” That seemed like a hundred years ago already.

He helped her up, and she forced herself to gulp enough air to stay conscious while he said, “I’ll turn on the TV and see what the news says about the shooting—”

“No, he wasn’t shot! They found him in the tub—”

“Vikki, here, let me get you on the couch. Come on, babe, that’s it.” He helped her off with her coat. “Now, what are you saying?”

“Dad—Jack…”

“I know.” He nodded. “JFK was shot in the head. The governor of Texas was shot, too.”

“No. My Jack! They found him—” Sobs burst from the depths of her soul.

“Huh? What…your Jack?”

Unable to speak any further, she nodded.

“Something happened to him?” He sat her down on the couch.

She drew in a ragged breath and he grasped her hands.

“Oh, God. Oh, Jesus Christ, Vikki.” He held her and stroked her hair as she sobbed, her tears staining his scarf. “Okay, Dad’s here, I’ll stay with you. I’m sorry, I thought you were talking about President Kennedy. He just got shot.”

“President Kennedy?” She shook her head in disbelief. “No. Jack’s friend from the network called, and—” She couldn’t go on.

“Don’t talk. I’ll get you a brandy or something.” He glanced over at her liquor cabinet.

She didn’t even want him leaving her for a few seconds. He hung her phone up and it started ringing instantly. She heard spurts of conversation. His voice sounded like an echo in a marble tomb. He finally stopped talking and came back with a brandy bottle, a snifter, and her eyeglasses. “I found your glasses on the floor.” He took her into his arms and rocked her back and forth. “You’ll be okay, you’re strong, you’re my girl,” he murmured, and she wished he’d sing to her.

Instead he explained that President Kennedy had been shot on the motorcade route in Dallas.

Purchase The End of Camelot
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Morghe and Urien tie the knot in Ch 8/Sc 3b of RAGING SEA by @KimHeadlee #amwriting

Graphic overlay (c)2015 by Kim Headlee.

Most variants of the Arthurian legends have Morgan le Fay marrying King Uriens as a political move to strengthen Arthur's alliance with that influential ruler. In most variants, the marriage is described as a loveless one, in spite of the fact that Morgan le Fay is consistently described as a talented seductress.

My vision of the Arthurian legends, fortunately for you the reader, is so very unlike "most"—indeed, all—other variants that you must read it for yourself to experience what I mean. 

Today's excerpt finishes Chapter 8 with Morghe and Urien taking the final plunge into matrimony… Morghe's way, of course.

Previous excerpts of Raging Sea 

 Chapter 7: Sc 1 | Sc 2 | Sc 3 | Sc 4 | Sc 5a | Sc 5b |
Chapter 8: Sc 1a | Sc 1B | Sc 2 | Sc 3a |

Raging Sea Chapter 8, Scene 3b

©2015 by Kim Headlee

All rights reserved.

Morghe’s gaze met Urien’s and her lips curved into the sultry smile that always made his blood heat. He couldn’t help but return it.

Arthur placed her hand into Urien’s, gave a sharp nod to both of them, and withdrew to stand between his wife and mother.

The priest rambled on about the sanctity of marriage, and then bade Urien and Morghe recite vows to honor and cherish and respect each other. Urien mouthed his way through the affirmations while silently urging time to speed ahead to the ceremonial kiss.

“Do you, Chieftain Urien map Dumarec, vow to protect your lady wife Morghe ferch Uther from all hurt and harm?” asked the priest.

“Of course I do.” To have said anything else in front of Arthur and his mother and their allies would have been gross stupidity.

The holy man nodded and turned to Morghe. “And do you, Lady Morghe, vow to obey your lord husband Urien in all things?”

“I will,” she said in a tone worthy of a battlefield commander, “as Chieftainess of Clan Moray.” Into the crowd’s shocked silence, she reached up and laid her hand on Urien’s cheek. It was warm and had a fragrant, earthy scent. He felt his flesh tingle under her touch, and lust flared within him. “Isn’t that right, my love?”

His emotional self screamed at him to deny her, arguing that this was a foolish move that could only lead to chaos. His logical half recalled the points she had made about the Council of Chieftains and other ways that she could assist him as chieftainess that would never be permitted her otherwise.

He surveyed his clan and the other guests, all of whom were regarding him with varying degrees of confusion, expectation, curiosity, skepticism, or encouragement.

Urien caught another whiff of Morghe’s tantalizing scent and reached a decision. He unpinned his boar brooch, removed his black clan mantle, and with a flourish draped it around Morghe’s shoulders. Its lower hem pooled across the rock.

The silence was broken by the sound of one pair of gloved hands clapping; Gyanhumara’s, he realized with no small shock. He cocked an eyebrow at her, and she responded with a respectful nod.

Soon the applause swelled as her men, Arthur, Ygraine, and others added their accolades. Urien glanced at Morghe. Her smile was radiant.

“We have completed our vows. Have you not a proclamation to make?” Urien asked the priest, who was not clapping and appeared to be viewing this deviation from the proceedings with stunned disbelief.

“A proclamation? Oh—of course, my lord.” The man raised his arms. “In the sight of God and all you honored witnesses, I proclaim the lawful wedded union of Urien map Dumarec and Morghe ferch Uther, Chieftain . . . and Chieftainess of Clan Moray. May your union be fruitful and may your days be forever blessed.”

The cheers sounded very far away as Urien lifted Morghe’s veil and their lips met for the first time as husband and wife. She gave his lower lip a playful nibble. He submerged his surprise and nibbled back, earning him a demure giggle from his wife.

Their days—and nights—just might be blessed indeed.

At last they parted, and he treasured her sultry smile that hinted at those blessings to come. Hand in hand they turned toward the sea of smiling faces. With one voice he and his wife announced, “Let the festivities begin!”

*** The End of Chapter 8 ***

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The last hour of Anne Boleyn in Phoenix Rising by @HunterSJones101 #historical fiction

The Business of Writing: How much time it takes to create a DIY book cover by @Liza0Connor

Einband (vorne) von:
"Biblia graeca - Novum Iesu Christi Testamentum",
Graece. Basel, N. Brylinger, 1553.
Public domain via Wikimedia Commons.

Welcome to the final installment of a 3-part series on DIY book covers by my author-friend Liza O'Connor. 

If you missed part 1 about The Basics, you would be well advised to read this post. And I have found a page of royalty-free and cost-free stock photos, vectors, and video clips courtesy of Depositphotos!

In part 2 Liza expounded upon The Dreaded Font Rules in this post.

Today she discusses how to solicit feedback, and how much of a time sink the process of creating one's own book cover can be.

Getting feedback before the cover is final:

Once you’ve finished your custom designed book cover, unique to the world, with legible fonts, only costing (for me) about $7-$15 (cost of photos and shared cost of Adobe program [and be prepared to pay a LOT more than that for pics if you don't catch a sale ~ kih]), an easy way to get advice and comments on it is to put it up on your Facebook page. More than likely you’ll have several cover designers among your friends and they’ll tell you lots of stuff they don’t and do like. You’ll also get an even greater group of authors and readers stating which they like, but often they don’t mention why they like it best, but remember, since readers are your consumers, their opinions matter a great deal.

Normally, I create several covers. If you give them just one choice, your feedback may not be as accurate. Frequently, after days of voting, the best choice is NOT always clear. (This could mean both are equally horrible or wonderful. So try to wheedle out which.) If both are wonderful, go with your favorite, since you know your story the best. And remember, NO cover will appeal to everyone. However, a great cover will appeal to most in your genre and that’s all you can ask for.

And how much time will you spend working on covers?

It depends. Buying pics can take a lot of time. I buy mine once a year, but you may prefer to buy as you go, which could cost significantly more on a per picture basis.

You will also have to spend time learning to use your software. I spent several hours each day for three months working through all the tasks in the how to use Photoshop book I bought.

Normally, I can create a complex cover in two hours. But then I will tweak it for a week before I slap it up on Facebook for opinions. However, some books defy me at every turn. Thus, in one situation I have probably spent well over a month of labor creating a great deal of book covers for a single novel: The Darkest Days.

Last year, I probably made about a hundred covers and this year I made even more. Honestly, some covers I like on my first try and that’s it. For other covers I’ll go through endless pictures and designs because nothing suits me. And of course, there are those times that all I need to do is merge the picture with another, slap on a title and I’ve got my perfect book cover. That’s rare, and beware, if you don’t change the pictures you bought in a material way, then someone else can and probably will turn up with a very similar cover to yours.

Because of that, I recommend you avoid the handsome guy you’ve seen on thirty other covers, or at least do something to make him different. Enhance him or change his eye or skin color. You can also alter his hair color, but that is not always as easy as it sounds, depending upon the program you are working from.

And in one case, I thought I had changed the cover sufficiently, but another sci fi author just published a book that looks remarkably like mine, (which I made two years ago) and so when it comes time to publish this novel, it will need another cover.

If you want to view all my published covers, go to my author page on Amazon. The only book covers which aren’t my creations are the first three books of A Long Road to Love series and the paperback version of Ghost Lover.

If you want to read about my thought process while making covers for 2016, go here.

Liza O’Connor writes in several genres including Late Victorian, Regency, Contemporary Romance, Humorous Disaster Romance (which should be a genre), Sci-Fi and Sci-Fi Romance. Liza currently has eighteen novels, fifteen of which have covers designed by her.

The Troublesome Apprentice is the first book of my never-ending humorous Late-Victorian Sleuth series in which Britain’s greatest ‘real’ sleuth (Xavier Thorn) hires an apprentice who turns out to be female with the greatest intuition skill he’s ever known. Together they fall in love, behave outrageously, and solve a great deal of crimes while picking up fabulous characters as the series progresses.

Thank you so much, Liza, for all your wonderful words of wisdom!

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THE CHALLENGE News, reviews, and winners #FREE Nov.17! Arthurian #graphicnovel

The gauntlet is thrown. One must die.
Refusal is not an option.
The Challenge c2015 by Kim Iverson Headlee.
Art & storyboard c2015 by Wendy Carey.

Page one of the graphic novel edition of The Challenge has been delivered, and the audiobook edition is undergoing its final quality review and will be available soon too!


In celebration I'm offering the e-book edition of The Challenge as a Free Kindle Download Nov. 17!

My other Dragon's Dove Chronicles novella, The Color of Vengeance, is also free worldwide on Kindle, Nook US, Nook UK, Kobo, iTunes, Scribd, Inktera, Smashwords, and Oyster.

And if you have an Audible subscription, you may listen to Dawnflight and The Color of Vengeance audiobook editions free too!

To be among the first to receive special offers and the latest news about all my books, please sign up for my monthly newsletter, The Dawnflier. 


Meantime,  here are some of the latest reviews of the e-book edition of The Challenge:

• Harlie's Books: 4.5* "I definitely need to revisit this world soon.  Well crafted and great characters that I immediately liked and rooted for."
• I Read What You Write: 5* "This story is captivating from the start and maintains its intensity throughout."
• Fanatical Paranormal Romantical: "Can’t wait to see what the next book brings in Arthur and Gyan’s story."
• Romance Writer and Lover of Books Vikki Vaught: 4* "I was rooting for Gyan, even though she will face her husband’s wrath if she wins."

And last month's contest winners are already notified:

• Autographed note cards: Lisa H. and Tifinie H.
• Autographed copy of Dawnflight:  Joy F.
• Autographed copy of Morning's Journey: Phyllis R.

Please join me in congratulating everyone, 

and scroll down for yet more chances to win!

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All this month, you are invited to...
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— Leave a comment on any page of The Maze, especially if you have done the Twitter, Pinterest, and/or YouTube follow
...and each action this month is good for one chance to win an e-book copy of King Arthur's Sister in Washington's Court. Please enter often, and good luck!

Fiona meets a "demon" in The Dragon Knight's Axe by @m_morganauthor #MedievalMonday

Medieval Monday on The Maze today: the first encounter between the hero and heroine of The Dragon Knight's Axe, a time travel historical romance by Mary Morgan.

Synopsis:

Battled scarred, Dragon Knight, Alastair MacKay, has fled to the seas to separate himself from his powers that are connected to the land. Yet, when he rescues a woman from a slave trader in Ireland, he steps back inadvertently into a world filled with magic—taking on the role of protector and leading him on a journey to confront his greatest fears.

Research assistant, Fiona O’Quinlan loves translating ancient artifacts at Trinity College. When she falls asleep on an archaeological dig, she awakens in another time. She soon discovers a Dragon Knight’s relic has been entrusted into her care. Determined to return the artifact to the Great Glen, Fiona is unprepared for the danger ahead—losing her heart and soul to Alastair “Beast” MacKay.

Will their love be strong enough to soothe the beast and heal the man? Or will Death swing its axe, leaving them lost for all eternity?

Excerpt:

The closer he came, the more Fiona began to tremble. His face bore a deep crescent scar from his left eyebrow down below his cheek. This giant was a demon, and some actually crossed themselves as he passed them.

When he reached the platform, he narrowed his eyes and glared at the two men by her side. They instantly stepped away. As with everyone else, he was no different. He looked her up and down, though when he gazed into her eyes for a moment, Fiona saw confusion.

The demon spoke. “How much do ye want, Robert?”

“Ye cannot have her.” He spit onto the ground in front of the man.

The monster’s voice remained deadly calm. “And why would that be?”

“Ye have nothing to offer.”

Fiona saw the shift of color in the demon’s green eyes. It was enough for the man called Robert to back away.

“I dinnae want any trouble.”

The giant leaned his head down. “Would ye take these?” He pulled out a small pouch and opened it. Pulling out several stones, he held them aloft. “Amber from the Northmen’s homeland.”

Robert’s eyes went wide, but then he crossed his arms. “I will take the lot and a barrel of your whisky.”

The man arched a brow. “How do ye ken I have whisky?”

“Do ye take me for a fool, MacKay?”

“Nae, Robert, but only foolish if ye do not take my offer of ten stones and one barrel.”

The moments stretched out between the two men, and Fiona’s heart pounded in her chest. She was being traded for amber stones and a damn barrel of whisky.

***

Buy Links:

Amazon | The Wild Rose Press | Barnes & Noble | iTunes |

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Urien's final thoughts as a bachelor in Ch 8/Sc 3a of RAGING SEA by @KimHeadlee #amwriting

Graphic overlay (c)2015 by Kim Headlee.

The last thing Urien ever envisioned, when he began butting heads with Arthur in the political arena several years earlier in my story arc's chronology, was to become allied with the Pendragon through marriage to his youngest sister. 

That union became even more inconceivable to him when it appeared as though he would be making an alliance with his enemies the Picts of Clan Argyll through marriage to their chieftainess, Gyanhumara (a.k.a., Guinevere), the woman Urien desires above all others. 

Arthur and Gyan, of course, had other ideas, and the story of how they outmaneuvered Urien without causing him to start a civil war plays out in The Dragon's Dove Chronicles book 1, Dawnflight. 

In today's installment of Raging Sea, Urien has one last opportunity to address just what he has gotten himself into by agreeing to marry Morghe.

Previous excerpts of Raging Sea 

 Chapter 7: Sc 1 | Sc 2 | Sc 3 | Sc 4 | Sc 5a | Sc 5b |
Chapter 8: Sc 1a | Sc 1B | Sc 2 |

Raging Sea Chapter 8, Scene 3a

©2015 by Kim Headlee

All rights reserved.

Urien map Dumarec stood atop Chieftain’s Rock, dressed in his ceremonial battle-gear and bathed in dawn’s strengthening light, surveying the crowd that surged through the wall’s side gate following the conclusion of Easter prime mass. The Scots had declined to attend the religious service and were already occupying the far side of the courtyard. Gyanhumara and those of her men who also had not gone to mass had formed up near the section of wall protecting the chapel.

Gyanhumara . . .

She stood garbed in gleaming metal and tooled leather armor, her shorn flame-red hair stiffened with lime and twisted into spikes. Her gold dragon brooch glittered from its perch fastening her gold-hemmed, dark blue cloak. Every facet of her demeanor shouted warrior and leader of warriors, and yet all Urien could think about was the day he would strip off those armaments and adornments, the day he would at last take that which she had dared to deny him.

Her glare warned him not to raise his hopes. The lowered eyebrows framing his gaze delivered a challenge of their own.

Abrupt cessation of activity at the gate drew his attention.

After the last of the worshipers had taken their positions facing Urien, the elegantly robed and coifed Ygraine processed through the gate, followed by Arthur escorting Morghe. Gyanhumara stepped from the formation to join them.

As prearranged, Urien had not attended mass at prime with everyone else, owing to the ancient tradition that kept his bride hidden from him on their wedding day. As Ygraine claimed her assigned place in the assembly’s front row, Urien received his first clear view this morning of the woman who in moments would become his wife.

God, what a vision! Morghe was swathed in gold fabric embroidered front and back with the Boar of Moray in ebony thread. Her auburn hair lay piled atop her head and was decorated with ropes of black pearls that must have cost a fortune. A thin curtain of cream-colored lace veiled her face. And Morghe was everything Gyanhumara wasn’t: soft, gentle, refined, wise, willing . . .

He wondered just how willing she would be after he refused to grant her the privilege of reigning as chieftainess.

***
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...and each action this month is good for one chance to win an e-book copy of King Arthur's Sister in Washington's Court. Please enter often, and good luck!