Story Snippets: Rumpled Rhett (Rachel)

Earlier this year, I introduced you to one of my heroes in my Writer’s Life post “TheSocks Must Go.” Well, Rhett, my huntsman who hates his new wife’s hole-ridden socks, is making his literary debut on August 31^st and his book is available for pre-order on multiple ebook platforms. The paperback will be available for order on Amazon on the 31^st as well.

So, as a treat, I am going to offer an unshared excerpt from the novel below. This is before the infamous socks incident and immediately after all parties have agreed to the arranged marriage and accompanying deal. They have removed to a tavern for a meal, and all the men, except Rhett, have begun a celebratory round of drinks.

Cat has slipped into her usual place, sitting in the shadows far from the action in the center of the room.

 

Cat

The stranger (the Huntsman) was huge, tall, broad-shouldered, and very clearly at ease with his ability to physically intimidate. I had been watching Osbert (the reeve’s man of business) fidget and cough his way through their discussion. From the scribbling, the paper shuffling, and the Huntsman’s grim expressions, they were probably discussing the contract. Still, the Huntsman never relaxed into his seat. Those dark eyes routinely scanned the room, locating and noting the orientation of each of us, even me. No one ever kept track of me. I wasn’t sure I liked the fact he kept glancing my way.

Then, the tavern keeper’s wife appeared with his dinner. The smell of cooked meat, flaky pastry, and savory vegetables filled my nose as the woman passed with the two loaded platters. My stomach roiled and growled in anticipation of food, but I ignored it. The meal wasn’t for me. It was never for me. I would eat a few scraps of whatever remained from the midday meal when I returned home if my brother didn’t get to them first.

The Huntsman stood. I felt the occupants of the room tense, well, the still sober ones. Keeping my face tilted slightly down as though I studied the table, I watched him from beneath half-lowered eyelids. He spoke to the tavern keeper's wife and then Osbert. Whatever he said pleased Osbert. I hadn’t seen the man smile in ages.

A flurry of movement to my right drew my attention. Bess was on her feet. Red lips puckered, hand on her hip to emphasize her curves, and a come-hither flutter to her eyelashes, she was ready for the stranger to notice and respond to her unspoken invitation.

That must have been why he rose. I had noticed his gaze hesitating briefly in the women’s direction a few times.

Unwilling to watch Bess land another conquest, I dropped my attention to my hands. Chapped and raw, they needed more salve. Tomorrow, I would seek out Widow Louisa and ask for a refill of the jar she had given me last year.

“Mind if I sit here?”

The rough, deep tones resonated in my bones as my head snapped up in surprise. I just blinked at him for a moment. Why was he here? Bess wanted him. What Bess wanted, she took.

“Nod if you can’t find your tongue, or Osbert might attempt to murder me.”

“Osbert would never.”

He chuckled that odd rusty laugh of his and set his mug on the table between us. Strangely, the liquid inside didn’t smell of ale or cider. He placed the platter of food next to the mug before turning around to look for a chair. Moments later, he was sitting just around the side of the table to my left, his knee almost bumping mine.

I tucked my knee further under the table.

Despite the fact he made no indication that he had noticed my movement, I had the impression that he observed it all. I suspected that nothing slipped his notice. Instead of commenting on my avoidance, though, he calmly leaned back to untie a pouch from his belt before dropping it on the table. Then, inclining forward with companionableness as though we were the best of friends, he began rummaging through the interior of the bag.

“I have something for you.” His long fingers pulled out an even smaller pouch. This he spilled onto the tabletop beneath the protective curve of his other hand. No one could see the contents save the two of us. It was just as well because my brother and his associates might’ve been very tempted to do something rash if they could. A small pile of gold flans, three signet rings clearly made for large male fingers, and an intricately detailed moonflower made of silver and gold. From the midst of this collection, he plucked a delicate band of gold. Fashioned in the likeness of a vine, it curled in and out, winding around itself in an endless circle.

“What is it?” The question slipped out before I could hold it back. Surely he didn’t intend for me to wear it.

“A symbol.” He met my gaze. His eyes weren’t black or even brown. They were a blue so dark and intense that it swallowed the light. The color reminded me of the evening sky as the light faded, taking the wild, colorful sunset with it. The blue of the sky right before the blackness of night crept across to rule till morning.

“A symbol of what?” I fixed my attention on the ring instead.

“Fidelity.”

The reverence in his voice made me glance at his face again. Strong features, a rather large nose, and a defined chin gave him a face that could not be called handsome, not that there were many handsome men for me to compare him to. His face fit the rest of him, clearly masculine and intimidating without being ugly.

He continued. “It was given to my grandmother by my grandfather and then passed down to my father. He gave it to my mother. It is one of the few things I still possess that I know for certain was my father’s.” He set the ring on the table next to his mug before sweeping the rest of the expensive trinkets back into the tiny pouch. He returned it to the larger bag. Then, he plucked out another small pouch, which he set on the table too.

“Master Huntsman.” The tavern keeper approached the table hesitantly. “The food you ordered.” Setting a platter slightly smaller in size and content before me, he cleared his throat expectantly.

“Would you prefer ale or cider, Cat?” the Huntsman asked.

“I don’t drink ale,” I reminded the tavern keeper, not that he would know since I never frequented the tavern.

“I thought as much.” He motioned to his wife, who brought a mug of cider and set it before me. “Is that all?” he asked my companion.

“Yes, thank you.” The Huntsman didn’t bother looking up from whatever he was doing with the new pouch.

The scent of cooked meat filled my nose, making me dizzy.

“Eat, Cat.”

I glanced at him. He hadn’t even looked my way. Instead, he was fully intent on pouring some dried leaves into a small ball made of metal mesh attached to a delicate chain. This he closed and dropped into his mug, clasping the chain around the handle so it didn’t disappear into the liquid in his cup.

“What is that?” I asked.

He closed the pouch and returned it to his bag, reattaching it to his belt. “Tea.”

“Are you ill?” He didn’t appear sick.

“No.”

“I only drink willow bark tea when I am sick.” My nose wrinkled of its own accord. I hated the bitter taste.

“This isn’t willow bark tea.” A flick of his glance my way with a slight smile made me blink.

“What kind of tea is it?”

“A combination of a couple spices and herbs. A friend of mine makes it for me. Would you like to try?”

The smell rising with the steam from his cup was tempting, but I wasn’t in the mind to take another risk this day. “Perhaps another time.”

“I realized that I didn’t ask you.” He stirred his tea with a spoon.

“Asked me what?”

“To marry me.”

 I frowned at him. “You asked me if I was certain.”

“And you said you didn’t have a choice. I am giving you a choice.”

I frowned down at the ring. It lay on the rough-hewn tabletop, glinting faintly in the dim light. Around us, the crowd roared with laughter at someone’s joke, and the women in the corner chattered. Meanwhile, the man next to me waited. His calm silence enveloped us, stilling the panic that had been breaking over me in waves. Perhaps this might not be as bad as I feared.

  

To find out her answer, you can pre-order the book here.

Story Snippet: The Last Will and Testament of Captain Nemo (Mary)

 Here in the height of summer, most people find their thoughts (if not their actual bodies) drifting to the pool or the beach. For my part, I just got back from a much-needed trip to the river and it was SO refreshing.

Which got me to thinking about water, and I decided that for this episode of Story Snippets I would share an excerpt from my nautical fantasy novelette, The Last Will and Testament of Captain Nemo - a mashup of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea and Hans Christian Andersen's The Little Mermaid.

***

Close by the Rackliffe estate was a stretch of beach where, Eyrál knew, the younger Lord Rackliffe was wont to go riding in the early mornings. It was to this place that she travelled, and waited until just before dawn to swallow the witch’s draught.

How the transformation took place, she never knew. Upon swallowing the draught she found her vision distorted, her ears pierced by a deafening ringing, and her senses scattered by an overwhelming dizziness. In this condition she lay on the sand, unknowing, until Lord Rackliffe did indeed happen upon her.

He saw her lying senseless, still half in the water, and drew the natural conclusion that she was the victim of a shipwreck, as he himself had so recently been. Upon discovering that she still lived, but being unable to rouse her, he lifted her in his arms and began carrying her back to his father’s house, utterly unaware that in his arms he bore the woman to whom he owed his life.

Into this situation, Eyrál awoke: borne in the arms of the man whom she had spent the last months loving from afar. And in that moment, her love for him grew deeper still, and she leaned her head on his shoulder and rested in her love and his nearness.

Lord Rackliffe, for his part, took Eyrál back to his father’s house and saw that she received the ministrations appropriate to the circumstance of a shipwrecked woman. His efforts to ascertain her name, as well as every other line of questioning or conversation, were met only with silence, for the Mer speak a language unique to them. Eyrál understood not a word that was spoken by Lord Rackliffe or any of his household, and dared not speak a word in her own tongue for fear of betraying her identity. Instead, she maintained an unbroken silence until those around her reached the consensus that she was a mute.

As she had in the way of worldly possessions only the sharkskin garment she had been wearing when she swallowed the witch’s draught, a wardrobe was provided for her. As she had never before possessed human legs or feet, she found walking both painful and difficult. This was easily explained in the minds of her hosts, who believed she simply needed time to convalesce. She mastered her newfound limbs quickly, however, and within a few days was walking well, though her feet remained tender and delicate.

Over the span of her convalescence, Lord Rackliffe grew fond of her as one would of a foundling dog, and treated her as one, but so hopelessly in love was she that she suffered all without complaint—even with gratitude! When he had her dressed as a pageboy so that no one would question her accompanying him on hunting trips, she complied with a naïve sweetness that only made his behavior more repulsive by comparison. When he placed a cushion on the floor outside the door to his private rooms for her to sleep on at night—as if she, a princess of the Mer and the savior of his very life, were truly nothing more than a favored dog!—she accepted all with gladness.

Her sweetness of temper and beauty of spirit made her a favorite among everyone in the Rackliffes’ household, from the Lord and Lady to the lowliest servant. However, if she believed that her perfect devotion and saintly submission to Lord Rackliffe’s unforgivable cruelty would win his love, she was sadly mistaken. While she slept on her cushion outside his door and accompanied him on his hunts and attended his lavish shipboard parties, his affections were being lost to another: the temple maiden who had discovered him on the beach where Eyrál had dragged him after the sinking of his ship.

A few months after Eyrál’s arrival, an announcement was made of the younger Lord Rackliffe’s engagement to that same temple girl, the daughter of a wealthy and influential Egyptian businessman. Arrangements for the wedding were made, a grand celebration aboard Lord Rackliffe’s finest ship was planned, and of course, Eyrál was invited.

The Mer princess knew full well that Lord Rackliffe’s impending marriage would mean her death, thanks to the sea-witch’s spell, and her heart broke at the realization that the man for whom she had sacrificed everything—for whom she was about to give her life!—shared nothing of her devotion. And yet so great was her love of him, and so good was her heart, even in the face of losing both love and life, that she held up her head, smiled upon Lord Rackliffe and his new bride, embraced them both to show her goodwill, and danced with more joy and abandon than any of the other guests at the celebration.

The wedding night came. The guests, weary from their revelry, retired to their cabins. Lord Rackliffe and his bride withdrew to the tent that had been erected for them in the middle of the ship. Only the night watchman and Eyrál still stirred.

As she stood at the bow of the ship, a cry came to her from the sea. Her sisters, distressed by her rash and vain pursuit of the prince, had themselves gone to the sea-witch to seek a counter-spell, one that would allow their sister to return to her life among the Mer. The witch had granted their boon in the form of a knife. If Eyrál were to use this knife to slay the prince before the approaching sunrise brought her death, her Mer form would return to her and she would be free to rejoin her sisters.

Pained by their mournful entreaties, Eyrál accepted the knife her sisters offered and stole into the tent where Lord Rackliffe and his bride blissfully slept in each other’s arms. But so great was her love, so good was her heart, that even in the face of her own destruction she could not take his life.

She returned to the bow of the ship and looked down to where her sisters eagerly waited. But to their dismay, she cast the knife from her and withdrew to the center of the ship, away from their sight so that she might not inflict upon them the pain of witnessing her end.

The sky colored, the sun rose, and yet Eyrál did not die as she had anticipated. No, indeed, for the witch’s spell had not required the love of Lord Rackliffe himself; it had only required the love of a human—and there was a human on board that ship who loved her with body, heart, and soul: myself.

***

I hope you enjoyed this excerpt! If you'd like to read the rest of the story, you can find it here.

Story Snippets: Reclaiming Ryda (Once Upon a Duchy Book Two) (Rachel)

Reclaiming Ryda, the next novel in the Once Upon a Duchy series is debuting on April 20th. I can't wait to share it with readers. Until then, I am going to offer a bit of a sneak peek into the second chapter of this Rapunzel-inspired novel.

Weekend Reads: Ashen by H.L. Burke (Lizzie)

Skin the actual color of ash isn't part of your typical Cinderella retelling, nor is a tiny Scandanavian-like village or powers that could kill someone with a touch, but those are part of why I enjoyed H.L. Burke's YA fantasy retelling of Cinderella Ashen. It's unique plus all the normal stuff--great characters and romance.

Here's the blurb:

Stealer of warmth, bringer of death. What if Cinderella had a secret that kept her locked away?

Unable to make her own body heat, foundling Lizbete survives in the tavern kitchen, drawing warmth from the fires, the sun—and sometimes, other living beings. Her days are spent cooking alongside the tavern owner and avoiding the suspicious gazes of the villagers in her small northern town. While she quietly longs for the handsome Brynar, she knows she has no chance with the mayor’s son, even if he invites her to the First Frost festival.

When sudden earthquakes strike Brumehome, blame falls upon Lizbete, and not even her friendship with Brynar can protect her. She finds shelter in the dangerous caverns of nearby Ash Mountain. There she discovers mysterious people with her same ability to draw heat—and a fiery doom in the mountain that slowly awakens with every quake.

Now the festival Lizbete thought to avoid is her only chance to warn the villagers. Yet even with Brynar at her side, can the strange girl dubbed the Ash Lizard hope to save the town that fears her?

Not only did I love the premise for this Cinderella retelling, Lizbete is a likable, sympathetic character. Her powers and the why behind them are intriguing (I can't tell more about the why without spoilers, but that was interesting too). Brynar, her long-time friend and romantic interest, is likable as well. His struggle with what to do for his future (follow his talents or his father's footsteps to become mayor) and his relationship to Lizbete are understandable. I was a little annoyed with Lizbete for refusing to forgive Brynar for avoiding her for a while, but she gets over it eventually. I liked the secondary characters as well, and the story world, so it was a very good read.

Have you read Ashen? Do you have a favorite Cinderella retelling?