Got Gothic?

I always been a fan of the old horror movies, and of Gothic Romance.  I like that creepy, uncertain feeling, and not knowing if the hero is the good guy or the villain.  Dark Hero is my debut novel, published one year ago. In it we have all the elements of a good gothic story, a heroine with secrets who is placd in an uncertain environment away from all that is familiar to her, a tortured hero with ulterior motives and a penchant for the macabre, an old unkempt manor house on an isolated estate, and plenty of ghosts. I had fun writing this story, and it is my favorite among all my novels for many reasons.
 

Elizabeth and Donovan

 In this excerpt from Dark Hero, the heroine, Elizabeth, has just arrived at her new husband’s home for the first time:

Dark Hero, Copyright Lily Silver, 2013

      “Stay here, I’ll be right back.” Her husband admonished, leaving Elizabeth standing in the foyer to gaze up at the winding marble stairs leading to the second story. The mahogany banister had been polished not too long ago, she noted, feeling hopeful that the interior was not as neglected as the exterior grounds.

       Double doors to the right of the stairs piqued her interest. She decided to look beyond them. She was relieved to find this door unlocked, only to have hope crushed as she gazed inside. The room was dark, the shutters were drawn to block out the sunlight. The furniture was covered with white sheets, resembling ghosts in the darkened room. She crept in a few feet and waited for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. Slats in the shutters allowed jagged shafts of light to diffuse through the shadows. Something dark and furry scuttled across the floor in front of her. Elizabeth stifled a scream and stepped back, remembering Peter’s tale about hairy spiders the size of tea saucers.

        Who lives here? The house had an empty, desolate feel to it, as if no one occupied it for a very long time, at least, no one who cared.

        “Lizzie.” Elizabeth turned at the sound of her husband’s voice, his normal voice, not an affected one. He stood in the foyer, seeming perturbed that she wasn’t standing precisely where he’d left her. “Come.” He held out his hand. “I’ve ordered a bath for you. Tabby will see to your comfort while I’m out.”

       “Where are you going?” She grimaced as she left the dark room for the sunlit foyer. “We’ve only just arrived.”

       “I want to take a ride about the place while I’m still dressed as the count. Enjoy your bath and a nice nap. You look all in, darlin’.” His lips brushed hers, teasing lightly, reminding her of the tender, caring man on the voyage. He smiled down at her, and then straightened as a lone figure stepped from the shadows of the hall. “This is Tabitha Wilkes, my grandfather’s--” He paused momentarily. “Housekeeper. I kept her on after he died, and the cook.”

       Mrs. Wilkes was clad in an informal muslin gown rather than the starched black uniform that housekeepers wore in the wealthy homes in England. She was barefoot. Her white hair was unbound, cascading down her back in gentle waves. She was thin, graceful, her complexion golden from time spent in the sun instead of indoors, cleaning her master’s home.

       She did not resemble any servant Elizabeth encountered in England. Nevertheless, she smiled at the older woman. This was Donovan’s home. She was going to have to accept his odd ways and get along with the people in his employ. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Wilkes.” Elizabeth responded, knowing her mother would scold her for being familiar with a servant. Alas, putting on airs would not win her acceptance from Donovan’s household staff.

        “It’s Tabby, Ma’am. I’m not married.” The woman archly corrected Elizabeth, looking her up and down as if she were a dead rodent the cat carried in from the woodpile.

       “Don’t be impertinent, Tabby.” Donovan interjected before Elizabeth could form a response. “My wife is the grand-daughter of the ninth Earl of Greystowe. She’ll put you through your paces, old girl. You might wish to put some thought into retiring. I’m certain my lady will be more particular than I am regarding the household routines.”

        The woman bristled at his words, looking for a brief second as if she might curse out loud at them. She managed a limp smile from taut lips. “Welcome to Ravencrest, your ladyship.” The housekeeper made a polite curtsy to Elizabeth.

       “Take care of my lass and mind your tongue, Tabby. I’ll tolerate none of your cheek with her.” Donovan directed as he made his exit, effectively abandoning Elizabeth.

Elizabeth followed the woman up the stairs and down the hall to the master’s chamber. She sensed resentment within Tabby. She dismissed the impression, reasoning that she’d be cranky, too, if she was in this woman’s place and the master dropped a new mistress on the doorstep without warning and then left again. It was an awkward situation all around.

        Donovan’s bedchamber was furnished in a deep forest green that complimented the oak paneling. Very masculine, indeed, befitting a bachelor lord.

       “Rest Madame, your bath water will take a while to warm.” Tabby said, and left her.

Elizabeth stepped over to the louvered doors and peered through the slats. They gave access to a veranda winding about the second story. And they were locked. She was suddenly seized by a rush of sheer panic.

        “Watch out!” A thin, frightened voice from beyond the grave warned in the empty room. “He’ll lock you away for his pleasure. He’ll never let you feel the sunlight on your face or the wind in your hair again.”

       “Who are you?” Elizabeth glanced about. No one appeared or answered her query.

This was too much; an isolated estate, a house with chained gates and locked doors, a cranky, resentful housekeeper and now a spirit whispering cryptic warnings to her in the middle of the afternoon. Elizabeth whirled about to the double doors adjacent to the veranda doors.

       

Those, too, were locked.
Dark Hero, Copyright Lily Silver 2012

Dark Hero features a man hiding from the horrors of his past, a tortured hero who literally dresses up in costumes, affects false accents and uses false identities to keep himself safe from the world around him. He was tortured in France, held in the Bastille prior to the French Revolution. When the peasants rose up, they set him free. Donovan became a pirate for some years, and then stumbled upon a beautiful lass in England who needed his help. He rescues her, but he still lives in the shadows, like a phantom, unable to get close to others and trust them. Elizabeth must deal with his habit of switching personalities and identities, and try to soothe the beast within him and bring him back to humanity.

Dark Hero is available for sale on all digital platforms. It is the first in my Reluctant Heroes Series. In Dark Hero, and the sequel, Bright Scoundrel, there is plenty of paranormal activitiy, even though these are historical romance. I don't know about you, but I like to mix things up and try something new, without the old romance formulas.  Thanks for visiting and do have a wonderfully creepy day!

Lily Silver, aka Darklily.

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Lost in Time? Is it an accident or Fate?

I have always loved Time Travel Stories. Not necessarily romance, but also those that are just plain fun or even Sci-Fi or historical.  I guess the reason is that I have always loved history, even as a kid, and the idea of slipping into another time seemed intriguing, if only to have a peek at the past before returning to my own time with all it's luxuries.

As I grew up, I became a historian. I possess a bachelor's degree in history and also a bachelor's degree in Humanistic Studies with an emphasis in Ancient and Medieval Research. So,it seemed only natural that I would one one day write a time travel story, mixing romance and history together. Strangely, I have four full length romance novels out, three of them historical romance and one of them a contemporary, and out of the four, my best selling novel is the time travel romance. So, here is an excerpt from my time travel romance, Some Enchanted Waltz by Lily Silver, copyright 2012:

A little background for you:  Tara is a graduate student writing her master thesis on an obscure rebellion in Irish history, one that failed. She is sent back in time to that very period, and awakens after the powerful electrical jolt that sent her there unable to reconcile her surroundings with her very damaged memory.  She's scared, but trying to cope, as any of us would be. She wakes up lost and alone in a quaint castle in strange country (she's a Wisconsin girl!)  unaware that it is not only a foreign country but another time period, and tries not to panic. It gets worse as she finds she has no I.D. and no money, and no idea of who to call after this weird, cosmic hangover! She thinks she is in a posh hotel and might be kicked out soon as she has no money to pay the bill. 

Some Enchanted Waltz by Lily Silver, copyright 2012,

Chapter Five

      Tara looked about the strange room with awe.

       It was like a set from a Jane Austen Movie.

       The walls were oak paneling, the kind you’d see in an old English manor house.

Tapestries hung on the wall, and not the cheap catalogue copies you could get for under a hundred bucks. The ones before her had a rich heaviness that bespoke the dust and the weight of several centuries. She admired the scene depicting a rich medieval landscape. A couple sat on a blanket in a forest enjoying a romantic lunch. The woman had long waves of blonde hair trailing over her shoulders and faded pale silvery eyes Tara guessed were once blue. The woman’s expression was wistful as she gazed at her companion, a young man dressed in the rich attire of a thirteenth century noble. A distant castle could be seen in an opening in the trees beyond them and a unicorn was nestled in the brush in the foreground.

        As she studied the tapestry, Tara was enveloped in an oasis of much needed calm.

She’d awakened into a void. She couldn’t remember anything about her life. She didn’t know where she lived, or with whom. She did not live here, that much she did know for certain. She tried all morning to think of someone she could call to come and take her home. Nothing came. No names, no faces.  

        Calling someone. Now, there was a good reason to crumble into hysterics!

        She could not think of anyone to contact, no family, lover or friends.

        Tara rose from the bed with difficulty. Her body was stiff, sore. 

        Had she been in an car accident? She tried not to trip over the overlong white cotton gown as she shambled across the room like a zombie to the antique wardrobe. She opened the door and then the drawer inside it.  Her cell phone was there along with her car keys and her iPod.  A green hair bungee with Celtic designs lay nestled beside the items.

        No wallet. Ah, but that would make things too simple, wouldn’t it? 

        No wallet meant no driver’s license, no clue as to her home address. No credit cards  and no money. Her khaki cargo pants and lace camisole top were folded neatly in the drawer, having been washed by the staff of this odd hotel.

       She picked up her cell phone with her bandaged hands and pressed the ON button. Nothing. No bars, no signal, not even a welcome screen. Her battery must be dead.  If she couldn’t even get it to turn on it meant she’d been here more than a few hours. Damn, if she had a cheaper phone instead of this model with the expensive data package that sucked the batteries like a vampire emptying a crack addict, she’d still have battery power. Without a charger, she was screwed and it wasn’t likely they’d have one here that would work with her phone. 

       Given her weakness and confusion, Tara had to have been here for a few days instead of hours.  Her iPod still worked, for all the good that did. She could listen to Meatloaf, Madonna and Motley Crue while trying to find her way home. If her phone worked, she’d have GPS capabilities so she could figure out where she was, and at the very least she could send a text message.

       And who would she send it to? Would she recognize the names listed in her contact list?  That was the scary part. Tara was lost, like in one of those stupid reality TV shows where the contestants got dropped off in a strange land and had to find their way back home first to win a million bucks. Unlike the people on the show, she was stranded, with no instructions, contacts, money and no freaking idea of who to call to pick her up and take her to the airport. At least on the reality shows they were given detailed instructions.

       She searched the drawers of the ornate desk. There was no phone in her room and no phone book. None of the hotel literature one would expect to find in a place like this. She couldn’t even call a taxi. Even if she had a phone her speech was too garbled to be understood. The hotel maid didn’t understand her so she wouldn’t get far trying to call anyone.

Image credit: yoshiyayo / 123RF Stock Photo

      
Texting! Now that was a different matter. Or Email. Yes, that would work, if she could get to a computer. Tara wiggled the tips of her fingers, peeping out from the heavy linen bandages swaddled over her hands. Her fingers were still pretty numb and stiff, but she could probably pull off the hunt and peck method. They had to at least have a computer in the lobby. All hotels had them in lobbies now.

       The Eagles song echoed in her mind, the one about the creepy hotel you could never leave.

This wasn’t Hotel California, but Hotel Ireland. She learned that when she tried to question the maid who delivered her breakfast tray. She could only manage the word ‘where’ amid her garbled speech. The maid informed her she was a guest at Glengarra Castle overlooking the Bay of Bantry in County Cork, Ireland. At least they spoke English here--sort of. It was hard to understand Maggie’s accent and her queer way of phrasing things.

        Terror didn’t begin to explain the gnawing in her gut as her eyes darted about the stately room filled with antique furnishings. Geez, there wasn’t even a freaking television. Usually they were hidden in the wardrobe closet in the fancier hotels. Her wardrobe closet was empty save her few belongings.

         Fear was making her queasy. Tara didn’t want to vomit again, because she’d have to use that quaint porcelain pot under the bed to throw up in because no one seemed to understand her request to be taken to the restroom. There wasn’t a bathroom attached to her room, which, while odd was logical in an ancient building such as this. The hotel owners wouldn’t want to risk losing their Historic Registry standing by knocking down walls and drilling holes through stone floors to install modern plumbing in every guest room. Still, a phone would be nice so she could ring room service.

         Definitely not a five star experience here, despite the rich furnishings.

         Fatigued from her trek across the room in search of a phone, Tara returned to the bed. She clutched the velvet coverlet in her bandaged hands, ignoring the tears stinging her eyes. So, she was stuck in a hotel somewhere in Ireland with no memory of how she came to be here. And no credit card.  Damn. They’d be kicking her out of here real soon. 

         As Tara sat clutching the covers and worrying about the hotel concierge demanding payment for this lavish Irish holiday, there was a sharp rat-a-tat-tat at the door.

         Oh, God, here it comes, she though, steeling herself for the confrontation.
Excerpt from Some Enchanted Waltz, A Time Travel Romance, by Lily Silver, copyright 2012.

If you would like find out what happens to Tara, and who comes through that door,  you can purchase a digital copy of Some Enchanted Waltz through the following ebook outlets.
iTunes
Kobo 
Amazon.com 
Barnes and Noble Nook 
Smashwords.com 




 

Get Your Irish On: Part Two! Meet Kieran O'Flaherty from Bright Scoundrel

Take a little jaunt to Old Ireland with me, a land of myth, mystery, legend and magic!

As a writer, I enjoy researching the past. Often it's so intriguing that I find it hard to write a straight up historical romance without adding a little magic and mystery to the mix. With three historical romances out, two that take place in Ireland, and all three featuring Irish characters, I wanted to celebrate the season, the season of the Irish, by featuring some excerpts this month from my Irish romances. 

Weekend special!  Bright Scoundrel is .99 cents on Nook only! 
Barnes and Noble Nook link to Bright Scoundrel 

Bright Scoundrel, Copyright Lily Silver, 2013

Chapter One

Greystowe Hall, Kent, England, 1802

      “Lock up your daughters and even their maids!” James Wentworth, Ninth Earl of Greystowe thundered as he waved the latest newspaper before him. “Neither are safe from that Bright Haired Scoundrel from abroad, Lord Greystowe’s uncivilized heir.”

      Once more, Kieran O’Flaherty was the talk of the ton. He’d been lampooned in the London newspaper as it illustrated his latest ‘exploit’ for the amusement of his peers and as a way of publicly shaming him.

      “Look at this, young man.” The old earl fumed, waving the obnoxious drawing before him, hindering Kieran’s attempt to study it.  “And look at me when I speak to you.”

       Kieran pulled his gaze from the elaborate dentils in the crown molding above them to regard his grandparent with a resentful eye. He wished he’d never left the West Indies, where at least a man could frolic with a wench and not bring the wrath of the universe upon his head; his present universe being London Society and his maternal grandfather, Lord Greystowe. 

Kieran O'Flaherty

       He took the newspaper from his aged grandparent and studied the drawing on the front page. His caricature grinned back at him. This time, he’d been depicted with wild, untamed hair, a prodigious mound straining the front of his breeches and a lecherous grin. Kieran was astonished by the acrobatic pose the artist had drawn him in. It was a pose no man could sustain in reality, but such was the empty world he’d been transported to; an elite world hungry for scandal to liven up the tedium of the idle rich. He was drawn dancing a lively romp with a debutante and appeared to be pinching her arse. Meanwhile, an older woman, presumably the chit’s chaperone, was galloping alongside them. She was placed behind the dancing couple and between their profiles and offered up an exposed breast for Kieran to nibble on. The debutante had a shocked expression on her face, while the matron gave the viewer a sly wink and a smile, implying that they were having a good time. Kieran looked at the name on the print

      It wasn’t Gillray’s work. That was disappointing. Gillray would do a much better job.

      “This behavior will cease. Do you understand?” Grandfather continued to shriek.

      Was the old man so deaf that he had to scream just to hear his own words?

Nicholas Barnaby gazed at Kieran with sympathy from across the large room. Barnaby was an apothecary. He had been treating Grandfather’s heart condition for three years with an obscure bark from South America. To wit, poor Barnaby had become Grandfather’s nursemaid.

     “Yes, the earl is behaving worse than usual.” Kieran could almost hear Barnaby’s thoughts aloud.       “He’s overly agitated. It’s an unfortunate side effect.  With prolonged use the Peruvian bark seems to cause an extreme belligerence, but it’s also keeping him alive.”

Kieran and Barnaby had had this conversation many times before. He had only to look at his mentor to discern the man’s thoughts.

      “You’ve shamed me a thousand times over with your callow behavior, but this--this is reprehensible.” Grandfather went on. “You are a jacknape, a barbarian. That’s what comes from my daughter running off to Ireland to marry a godless heathen. Your father was hanged as a traitor and now you’ve made me look like a doddering old fool for merely being related to you--for unleashing you upon polite society to pollute and terrorize womankind with your shameless exploits . . . Good God, man! Can you not behave with decorum and quietly take on a mistress like any proper Englishman would do? Must you humiliate me at every turn?”

      Kieran’s lips pressed into a hard line. He tossed the offending caricature aside and squeezed the arms of the chair with his fingers. So, he flirted carelessly with a debutante at a ball and then tupped her chaperone in a back room? The widowed chaperone had thanked him for a good frolic that enlivened an otherwise dull evening, or so she confessed. They were just adjusting their appearances and were about to part ways when they were discovered--by the debutante he’d absentmindedly danced with twice with when only one was allowed--and by the girl’s Mama.

       The mother, had she possessed the slightest grain of intelligence, would have simply steered her wide-eyed daughter from that particular room. Instead, there had been shrieking on the mother’s part and then melodramatic gasping and fainting on the daughter’s, which brought forth a slew of first servants and then gentlemen to see who might be getting themselves murdered in the middle of Lord Angesworth’s annual Spring Ball.

       Kieran and the widow were fully dressed by the time the entire guest roster intruded. They were both a bit rumpled, but decent. Nothing would have been amiss if the gathered gawkers would have simply ignored the incident and resumed the festivities.

       It had gone rather badly, he had to admit. The next day the outraged mama and her faint hearted daughter were claiming Kieran had ruined the girl’s chances on the marriage mart--a strange paradox in his mind as the innocent girl could hardly have been ruined by merely seeing him with his jacket removed and his shirt covering his gaping breeches for the space of sixty seconds--and with her mother standing right beside her, no less.

      It didn’t matter. He was Lord Wentworth’s heir, the honorable Baron Grey; the future Earl of Greystowe and thus the conniving matron was demanding he come up to scratch and propose to her daughter.  Ah, the cruel maneuverings of desperate society matrons!

      The more he thought about it, the more Kieran was convinced the mother deliberately intruded upon Mrs. Weston and himself, timing their entrance to be precise knowing it could garner publicity and mayhap net them a future earl for a husband.

      Oh, but they underestimated Lord Greystowe, hadn’t they, those conniving females?

Kieran was nearly engaged--if only in his grandfather’s mind--to Miss Georgiana Pennington, the daughter of Viscount Rothbury. Rothbury was an acquaintance of Lord Greystowe’s. There were murmurings of a marriage contract being signed between them. Kieran, however, made certain he was unavailable whenever Rothbury requested to meet to discuss the particulars with him.  

       Kieran had been staying at the Wentworth London house for the season as directed by his grandparent. He was dutifully attending the balls and fetes in an effort to gain some ‘town polish’, as the old man had put it. He wasn’t about to flee London only to take up residence here, with the belligerent and domineering earl at Greystowe Hall.

       He was tired of being insulted and dressed down at every opportunity. He was tired of this wretched business of being an heir. He wished, and not for the first time, he was back on the island of St. Kitts, running the apothecary shop with Barnaby. Granted, it wasn’t a luxurious life as this was, but at least Barnaby didn’t treat him like an overgrown child and dictate an endless litany of rules and expectations for him to keep. In the Indies, when he lived as a simple apothecary’s apprentice, he earned the respect of his master and the local populace. Kieran used his magical gifts of second sight and sorcery to help others. He inherited the gifts from his Irish grandmother, a powerful druid priestess. Here, he was just Lord Greystowe’s whipping boy.

      “What have you to say for yourself, young man?” Grandfather’s ranting, mere background noise to Kieran’s musings, had finally distilled down to a direct question.

Kieran glanced at Barnaby before answering. The man was wilting in the mighty Lord Greystowe’s employ, reduced to a cringing servant of the old goat when he himself was elderly and should be enjoying the sunset of his own life. This was not how they envisioned it when they agreed to accompany Grandfather from St. Kitts to England three years earlier. Grandfather had been dying. He was not expected to last more than a few months. Little did they know the earl would rally under Barnaby’s expert care and live on to make both their lives a perpetual hell.

      “Speak up, boy. What do you intend to do to rectify the situation?”

      Anger suffused Kieran’s being. He stood. “I’m leaving England.”

     The old man bristled at his words. If Kieran thought his grandfather’s countenance couldn’t get any darker, he was wrong. “How dare you trifle with me?” The old man was shaking with fury. “This is serious, young man. You can’t just laugh it off and make ill mannered jests. Not this time.”

      “I’m not making a jest. If I’m such a disappointment then make Michael your heir. I’m off to Ireland. I don’t care if I must live in a cave or a humble cottage. I’m not listening to any more of your venom and I’m through being treated worse than one of your hired servants due to the unfortunate circumstance of our shared blood.”

      The earl stared at Kieran with his jaw sagging. The old man was beyond words for the first time in their short association.

      He had a feeling the earl’s side of the conversation was far from over.

Kieran was mortified by his outburst. He hadn’t planned it. Now that he said it, he was relieved and resolved to follow through. Ireland was his birthplace. It was a week away at most. A ship leaving England could arrive in Dublin within a day or on the western coast of Ireland within a week. 

     “Ireland.” The old man said the word without his usual contempt for the place. This time, he’d said it with a sense of awe and wonder. “Ireland. Yes . . . it’s the perfect excuse.”

Copyright Lily Silver, 2013

Rose de Lacy

Once Kieran arrives at his family estate in Ireland, he finds the place is haunted, and not just by ghosts but also by a malicious elemental being that thirsts for innocent blood. He meets an old druid hermit, and the Banshee of Roisin Dubh Castle. And that's not all, he also meets the lovely estate manager, Miss Rose de Lacy, a woman who seems completely immune to his charms.


Bright Scoundrel is book two in the Reluctant Heroes Series, and it is available through March 9th for 50% off on Smashwords.com   along with some of my other historical romance titles.  It's read an e-book week, so pick  up an ebook today on Smashwords. Many authors are participating in this event with books at discount prices.

Get Your Irish On! A Celebration of Being Irish on St. Paddy's Day!

Cliffs of Moher Image credit: burben / 123RF Stock Photo

Take a little jaunt to Old Ireland with me, a land of myth, mystery, legend and magic!

As a writer, I enjoy researching the past. Often it's so intriguing that I find it hard to write a straight up historical romance without adding a little magic and mystery to the mix. With three historical romances out, two that take place in Ireland, and all three featuring Irish characters, I wanted to celebrate the season, the season of the Irish, by featuring some excerpts this month from my Irish romances. 

Red head with beer: Image credit: dolgachov / 123RF Stock PhotoImage credit:

Bright Scoundrel and Some Enchanted Waltz take place in Ireland, while Dark Hero takes place in the West Indies, but features a hero and heroine who are of Irish descent.  Also, as many of you already know, most of my heroines have red hair. Perhaps you weren't aware that one of my heroes does, too!  To find out which one, keep visiting. We'll be having some fun this month celebrating being Irish.

I'll be spending the month of March sharing excerpts from these stories with you on this blog and offering some good prizes for those brave enough to leave a comment. 

So Grab a Mug and Get Your Irish On! 

Excerpt from Bright Scoundrel by Lily Silver, copyright 2013  
Bright Scoundrel is on sale for .99 cents March 1 & 2 on Smashwords.com

Prologue

Roisin Dubh Castle, County Galway, Ireland, January 1801

       Fierce wailing permeated the cold winter night.

       Marcus Redding sat up and tossed the covers from his legs. He listened, hoping the blood-freezing noise would not return for a second hellish chorus.

       Luck was not with them on this night, nor had it been on any night since they’d arrived in Ireland. The banshee’s cry echoed in the tower above their heads. It was a female spirit who cried mournfully, warning of impending death or so the locals claimed.

       The night was pitch black, moonless and the bedchamber blacker still in the deep gloom.

       “I can’t take anymore.” Mary rose up beside him and clutched at him from behind. Seconds passed as she clung to him, hanging over Marcus, clutching him about the neck as if the spirit would seize her unawares and drag her to hell.

      “It will pass, it always does.” He tried to comfort his sobbing bride.

      “Ahhh!” The piercing wail above their heads continued. “Ahhhhh, Ooooooh!”

The door to their chamber was flung open as if by a great force of wind. Marcus waited breathlessly for her to appear as he stared at the dark hole in the middle of the wall.

Mary crouched behind him, whimpering softly, reciting a childish prayer.

       A ghostly figure moved through the dark door, floating across the flagstones without sound as it drifted toward the bed. As it drew near he could see that it was indeed the shape of a woman, an old woman with white hair floating about her thin shoulders. She raised a finger and pointed directly at him.   “Leave now, whilst ye still can.”

      The sound of heavy marching came, as if a regiment of soldiers were walking up the drive, the stones crunching beneath their feet. The sound continued as Marcus and Mary clutched each other in the darkness and the apparition stood before their canopy bed.

The lower hall echoed with the sounds of boots, as if a regiment had invaded the fortress and were coming to seize them in their beds. Mary whimpered. Her fingernails dug into Marcus’ skin, causing pain, assuring him he was indeed awake. Thus far, the spirit had only appeared and wailed incessantly.         

      ‘T’was the first night they had more ghostly intruders than the old woman.

       Marching, marching. The staccato sounds of marching soldiers grew louder as they came down the long corridor to the tower room. Mary stood and screamed, making his heart seize. She ran into the small dressing room to the left and he heard the bolt click behind her.

       Marcus couldn’t move. He watched the doorway, transfixed by the sound of an invading army that couldn’t be real and yet, it could not be denied. A cloud of white mist filled the chamber as figures swirled about in the gloom, never pausing long enough for him to make out any more than the fact that they were human figures or had once been the souls of humans, before pain and wretchedness scored their being.

       The sound of scuffling feet, angry shouts and the sensation of chaos going on about him came from the spirit realm. He saw figures wrestling, ghostly men struggling to contain their victim and then the window beside his bed was thrust open suddenly by spectral hands. He watched as the shifting mists became a throng of men before his eyes, transparent, ghostly men wrestling with a captive as the women’s guttural keening reached a horrifying crescendo.

        The ghostly soldiers pushed their reluctant captive to the window, a mere two feet from where Marcus remained frozen in horror on the bed, an unwilling witness to their lynching. They slipped a noose over the tall man’s head, cinching it about his neck with cruel pleasure.

The crowd of men converged upon the doomed man, lifting him as he kicked and writhed, lifting him and shoving him feet first through the window casement.

        Marcus shrank back, into the bed, away from the ghostly soldiers, lest they seize him in their zeal and toss him out the window with their other victim.

       “Shawn O’Flaherty for housing rebels and engaging in seditious activities, you are hereby stripped of your title, your lands and your wealth.” An officious voice proclaimed from amid the crowd of spectral soldiers. “You are hereby condemned to hang by the neck until you are dead. Let your flesh be left hanging from your own casement windows, you and your brothers, as a warning to all that England will show no mercy to those of traitorous designs.”

        The lone man struggled against their intent, to no avail. He was tossed from the casement window as several hands held the rope from within.

        Marcus uttered an oath and placed his hands over his ears as the gasping, choking sounds of the dying man invaded his mind. The banshee tossed her gray head back and released a shriek of agony that was certain to break the very glass in the window panes. Marcus couldn’t stand it. He rolled away from the window, leapt from the bed on the opposite side and ran to the closet door, pounding and shouting for his wife to unlock it. His frantic pounding went unanswered. He shouted, pleaded and pounded on the door until his hands were throbbing, surely broken.

        The soldiers remained on the other side of the bed at the window. They were hanging another man, lifting his kicking, writhing body and shoving him through the casement. More sounds of choking, gagging, gurgling and the sound of heels kicking against the walls, seeking purchase.

        The Banshee’s cries intensified, making his heart feel as if it were about to explode. Marcus began to pray, desperate for the horror of this night to end as he huddled at the arched closet door in his night robe. He closed his eyes, trying to remember the words of a long forgotten prayer.

        The second victim’s struggles ceased. Silence pervaded, and only the creaking of the rope could be heard from the window as two bodies swung from the casement. And then, the third man’s struggles could be heard as he, too, was hefted out the window and the rope quickly snapped, breaking his neck.

        Creak, creak, scrape.

       Three bodies hanging from the window of the high tower room. Three bodies could be heard swinging from the window, along with the soft, mewlish weeping of a young woman.  

       “Leave this place!”

       Marcus opened his eyes. The Banshee was standing before him. She crouched down, close, her ancient, lined face mere inches from his. Her hair was still floating queerly about her in ghostly tendrils. Her eyes had become an eerie, glowing red.

Ghost Image credit: igorigorevich / 123RF Stock Photo

       She stuck a bony finger beneath his nose. “Leave I say. T’will be no quarter given if you stay. As long as I remain I vow no Englishman will prosper in this place. Leave, or you’ll rue the day you crossed the threshold of Roisin Dubh Castle. Leave or I vow, the sons your bride conceives beneath this roof will never live to see the light of day.”

       He nodded, agreeing with the woman. Yes, he’d be gone come daylight. He’d take Mary and flee this cursed pile of rocks. Hell’s gates opened here. He’d sell the place, cheaply, if need be and put Black Rose Castle and Ireland firmly behind him.

       Marcus Redding was not a coward. He fought Napoleon and received a medal of valor from his king. He was a British peer of the realm, a soldier and a gentleman. He was not a fool. He would not risk losing his heir. The curse of the O’Flahertys he’d been warned about when he brought his bride here for a honeymoon was not an old folk tale as he’d believed, nor a hoax to scare away the new owners.

       The curse was real. The O’Flaherty brothers were hung from this very casement, on this night over twenty years past. And the old witch who had been their mother placed a curse on the place, damning it against future habitation by anyone not of O’Flaherty blood. It was true, every word the shrinking housekeeper had uttered to his wife in warning. Every whisper between the maids who refused to stay here at night was true. His laughter and his scorn could not dispel the truth, as each night for past two months the banshee’s cries had disturbed their sleep.

       This place was cursed, and no Englishman could live here and prosper.

       Nay, no Englishman could live here and remain sane!

       The old woman continued to glower at him with those frightening, glowing red eyes. “I’ll warn ye no more, Englishman. None but those of O’Flaherty blood will be welcome within these walls. Leave us, or suffer my vengeance over those bloody redcoats who stole my sons from me and destroyed an entire generation of O’Flaherty Kings.” 

       Abruptly, the old hag disappeared, and the throng of soldiers with her. The keening and weeping stopped. Marcus could hear his own staggered breathing and the pounding of his heart in his ears made it difficult to discern any other noise nearby. A faint weeping caught his attention and the shaking voice of his wife on the other side of the door. She was calling to him now, calling his name. God, did they hurt her? He rose and jangled the latch, hoping against hope that Mary was unharmed, only frightened behind that door.

      “Unlock it, love. Undo the latch. They’ve gone. It’s safe, I vow.” He pleaded.

      The clicking sound told him she’d done as instructed. He opened the door and crouched beside his wife. She gasped, holding her hand up in front of her face as the pale, gray light of dawn filtered in from the small window of the storage room. There was blood on her hand.

      “Mary, dearest. What have you done? What have you done to yourself?” He asked, panicked beyond reason as he searched her torso for a sign of a wound. “Where are you bleeding?”

His eyes fell to the jointure of her legs where a deep red stain was blooming in the fabric of her white gown.

      “The baby.” Mary whimpered, looking at her soiled bed gown. “I’m losing the baby.”

       No Englishman will be allowed to prosper in this place.  
                 excerpt, Bright Scoundrel by Lily Silver, copyright 2013 

Thanks for visiting, and check back next time for another excerpt from Bright Scoundrel: 

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This book was so much fun to write, as I got to explore Irish myths and legends, adding some mythic beings to the storyline, along with ghosts for a very different type of historical romance, one with a very strong paranormal tone and featuring a hero who is an accomplished sorcerer aka druid priest! 

Bright Scoundrel is available on all digital sales platforms and in print form. If you would like to receive a coupon to purchase the ebook at half price, leave a comment here for me and include your email address. 

Next time, Chapter One will be featured, introducing you to a unique hero, Kieran O'Flaherty.  Don't you just love the Irish and St. Paddy's Day?