Serial Sundays: The Gypsy's Curse

      

Here it is, Chapter Three part II for your reading pleasure:  

 Copyright Lily Silver, 2013

“Worry, worry, worry. Wind’s pickin’ up,” the breathless voice chanted, as if repeating a worn out song. “Winter storm a comin’, ain’t no one in his right mind going to be outdoors today pokin’ about the master’s house. I told her. But Annie, she does more than her share o’ worryin’. Worry, worry, worry, and when it’s done and everything’s all right, don’t she go out and find more to worry over! Wears a fella out, she does. Worry, worry, worry . . .”

       

  It was the cottager, Zara realized.  He was inspecting the manor, just as he promised his wife last night. She moved quickly to the armoire. She opened the door and slipped inside before the man discovered the door to this room was ajar. She sat down carefully behind the hanging clothes and drew the cabinet door closed behind her.

         “Ah, what’s this?” The man entered the room. “Open door, but nothing disturbed.” He chatted to himself. “No squirrels, here Annie, my love. They don’t open doors, now, do they? But they do leave a fearful mess behind.”

          Zara held her breath, and tried, unsuccessfully, to still her thundering heart. She feared he might be able to hear the loud clattering beneath her ribs, and discover her hiding place.

         “Aye. But a ghost will open a door now and then, won’t it?” The gruff voice continued. “Mayhap her ladyship’s been visiting the old place, looking for her lord. He’s not here, milady.” The voice shouted, as if trying to tell a very deaf spirit her quest was a useless one. “He’s in Lunn’un. Hasn’t seen fit to visit the home place since ye left us so sudden. Can’t bear the memories, I wager.”

         “Jasper!” A woman’s voice called from somewhere below. “Where are you?”

         “Demm it, woman. Give a man a chance, would ye?” The man called out, exasperated with the woman who had dragged him from his warm lodgings in the early morning hours to inspect the manor for would be four legged trespassers. He muttered to himself a little more as he shuffled about the room. She heard him pause at the window and rattle the latch.

          Please don't open the cabinet, she prayed. Even pressed tight into the back of it, behind the shirts and jackets she would be noticeable. The cabinet wasn’t that deep, after all.

The uneven gait moved toward the door. After a moment, it closed with a defining thud.

He was gone from the room at least. It would be a while yet before he and his wife left the manor house if they were checking it, room by room, to make certain it was secure against the woodland creatures seeking shelter for the winter. She?d just have to be quiet until they left and try not to suffocate amidst the masculine clothing in the tight, coffin-like space.

*   *   *

          

Stephan returned to the townhouse with sense of purpose he hadn’t felt for a long time.  The prospect of returning to the abbey was invigorating. He didn’t realize just how much he missed his family home. The winters in the Lake District were not terribly harsh. They were tolerable, as his father used to say. The foliage dressing the trees would be gone by now, of course, and the fields stripped of their verdant glory. All the same, he felt a small stirring of excitement in his breast. He was going home, to the family seat, to the place he knew and loved as a boy. The woods and the paths winding about the lake were old friends. Perhaps, they would offer him solace this time around, instead of pointing stark, accusing branches at him as he passed along the road in the carriage, as it seemed they had when he’d fled the dark manse.

          Huntley was shocked when he informed the butler of his decision to spend the winter at the abbey. The old man gazed at him as if he had taken leave of his senses. Huntley didn’t say it aloud, but the question was in his eyes. Why, they asked with an impertinence made possible only from decades of service to the same family, would you wish to return to the place where your wife was murdered?

          Snapping his morning newspaper open, Stephan didn’t bother to answer the burning question in the old butler’s rheumy eyes. He simply began reading the news, and waited for the man to exit the room and carry out his wishes for the packing to commence. He’d have to send word to Maria in Derbyshire that he would not be attending the Christmas festivities at her husband’s estate this year after all.

          It shouldn’t come as a surprise to his sister, as he hadn’t attended them last year, either. He’d been in mourning. Maria coaxed him to commit himself to attending the annual Christmas house party this coming year when he’d spent a month brooding under her roof over the summer.  Maria, his baby sister was not one to tiptoe around a problem. She prided herself on being able to confront it head on. And thus, she’d confronted Stephan about his retreat from polite society. The chit had rung the duns over his head until he promised to attend her gala event this year. The holiday party was always a huge success and Maria had become famous for her ability to keep Christmas in a grand style since she became a Duchess.

          Well, she’d get over her disappointment, wouldn’t she? With over fifty house guests to attend to, she could hardly claim to miss him. And a quiet, uneventful Christmas spent at Huntingdon Abbey would be preferable to one spent here in London. He made that mistake last year, believing his presence in London would be overlooked as he was still in mourning. It had been just over a year, and he dared to hope the holidays would not find him.  Thanks to friends like Hadley, Christmas had been forced upon him because he had the audacity to be residing in town during the holiday.  

           Stephan took a sip of his lukewarm tea and ignored the eggs and rashers on the plate before him. He didn’t have an appetite for them this morning. Nothing cook made would tempt him. His life had been reduced to nightmares when asleep and wandering the streets of London during the night to avoid the demons clawing at his soul. Sometimes, he didn’t recall how it was he’d returned home. He blacked out. If he were given to strong drink, he’d blame the spirits for blocking his memory of the previous night’s events.

           It was a different spirit than mere alcohol that dogged his steps.

           Madness?  It was a possibility or merely an excuse.

           He scanned the headlines. The bold black print letters assaulted him.

           Heinous Murder in THE SLUM DISTRICT OF LONDON.

          The word murder jumped out at him, accusing, like the fingers of a preacher pointing directly from the pulpit. He read on, his hands rattling the thin paper as he did so.  A couple had been brutally murdered last night while enjoying a tryst in a secluded grove at Covenant Gardens. The man’s neck had been twisted and broken according to the constable, while the woman’s throat had been slashed.    

          The woman’s torso appeared to have been torn open by wild dogs before the couple were found early this morning by an attendant of the gardens. This was the third such murder in town in the last month, authorities said.

          Stephan uttered a curse under his breath, and set the paper on the table. His mind wandered back to last night. James Hadley had accompanied him to Whites. They sat before a fire, drinking and talking, or rather, James did most of the former while he did most of the latter. He didn’t remember leaving Whites, nor did he recall James taking leave of him there. What he did have was a strong impression of wandering through the streets last night, dangerously close to the gardens where the murder took place. It wasn’t a clear memory, but rather a fractured jumble of images that seemed more dream than reality.

          He brushed the curl from his damp brow, and concentrated on finding that shred of reality.  There were sounds of a couple laughing, and the strong scent of sex. How he knew that, he couldn’t fathom. There was the bittersweet taste of copper on his lips. The cool, night air had embraced him. The heavy fog lent a welcome shroud to his silent passage as he meandered through the hedges.

Stephan took a sip of the now cold tea, his mind frozen by the numb reality that he might have been in that district last night.  Had he gone to the Gardens after leaving the club? If so, had James been with him?  Could James exonerate him of any wrongdoing?

          Did he need to be exonerated?

          He released his breath, disturbed by the working of his own mind. He was being unreasonable. An old family curse had nothing to do with his current melancholy, or his detached thoughts. It was boredom, he told himself, taking up the paper again to peruse the financial page. A faint knocking sound at the front door gave him a start. He slapped himself mentally for his nervousness. He had no reason to be on edge.       

          The butler entered the dining room. “You have a caller, my lord. A young--er-- woman.” The old man corrected. “She claims you instructed her to come here last night. She gave me your card, sir, said you promised to reimburse her for her services to you last night.” The butler held up his calling card. “Do you wish to see her, sir?”

Copyright Lily Silver 2013

Serial Sunday: The Gypsy's Curse Post 2

Each Sunday I'm doing a serial thing, no not serial killer, but the protagonist in my story may be a killer! Each week I'll be posting a rough draft excerpt of one of my works in progress, and yes, they will be concurrent, so if you follow along, you'll get the story in the correct sequence. Feel free to comment or add suggestions from time to time. Happy Reading! 

 

Here is part of Chapter Two of The Gypsy's Curse. Chapter two is the hero, Stephan St. John's point of view. He's a rich landowner, although not aristocracy. His father was a rich merchant so he's still considered 'merchant class'.   Stephen has a little problem, as you'll see . . . is he a killer, or does he just indulge too heavily in drink and black out, and those grisly murders are a coincidence? 

Copyright Lily Silver 2014

            London, November 1816

            Stephan St. John flipped the collar of his coat up around his neck and exited his stately townhouse on Grosvenor Square. It was colder than a witch?s teat outside this time of year, and after dark, too, but he wanted to feel cold.

            He wanted to feel something. Anger, lust, hate, hunger. Even cold, yes, that would do.

            "Sir, if you'd just allow me to have the carriage brought around?" Geoffrey, his butler whined as he stepped out onto the front stoop behind Stephan.

            "I'm fine, don't bother." He ground out, annoyed by the butler's toadying. He clasped his walking stick in his fist and descended the stairs to the street. "Don't wait up for me."

            The butler acknowledged his command, stepped back into the house and closed the door.

            Stephan moved past the line of townhouses, past rows orange lit windows with glowing fires behind them, homes with families gathered together in cozy drawing rooms. He marched past feminine trills of laughter and male banter at the soiree four doors down from him, a gathering he'd been invited to, but didn't plan to appear at.

            A tall, sparse figure was headed toward him on the walkway, sporting a familiar limp and equally familiar grey beaver top hat. He cursed inwardly, hoping the dandy didn't recognize him in the shadows as they passed each other.

            "Stephan, is that you"  James Hadley, Lord Cavendish exclaimed, drawing to a dead halt before they passed each other. "I say, you're leaving Lady Carstair's already?"

            Stephan leaned heavily on the brass topped cane in front of him with both hands. "No, Hadley, I haven't been at Lady Carstair's soiree, nor do I plan to be. I bid you good evening." Hoping that would be sufficient, he straightened and started to move past his old acquaintance.

            "Stephan, wait." Hadley placed his hand on Stephan's arm. "Why not come with me? You need diversion. There's a new crop of Debs to be inspected, you know. They've come to town for a bit of shopping and socializing before winter sets in. Their Mamas are priming them for the season next spring, a dry run, you know. It's always amusing to see the new swans glide about, fluffing their feathers, hoping to catch the eye of a seasoned drake."

            "Not tonight, thank you." Or any night, he thought, but didn?t say aloud. "Perhaps we'll meet at White's soon." He started off again. Hadley had the good sense to let go of his arm this time and let him walk on.

            "Damn it, St. John, you need to stop this incessant moping."  Hadley's voice followed Stephan past the next set of stairs.

            Stephan stopped again, tossed his cane upward and caught it lightly in his fist. He kept his back to his companion. Few men would dare call him out so, and on a public street at that. Few men would be brave enough to confront him at all. James Hadley, Lord Cavendish, was an old friend, and thus, he was allowed a bit of latitude where others might find themselves sprawled on the street, their face bruising from a cruel left hook and challenged to meet Lord St. John at sunrise at the opposite end of a sword. Stephan remained still, biting back a sharp verbal riposte as his friend continued to take him to task for his self-imposed seclusion.

            "I know Byron's made it fashionable for men to brood." James went on. "It;s considered romantic according to the ladies, but Julia's been for dead two years. It's time to rejoin society while you still have people willing to have you, that is. Come with me, Stephan, please. You can practice your brooding on the ladies and perhaps break a heart or two into the bargain."

            "James." Gripping his brass wolf head cane, Stephan turned about to face his would be conscience. "I'm in no mood to suffer the inept wiles of a group of adolescent girls fresh from the schoolroom, nor do I wish to endure Lady Carstair's obnoxious attempts to set me up with one of this years darlings she's agreed to sponsor. Leave it alone, old man. You don't know what you're inviting in, if you did, you would be horrified, you would free yourself of any and all connection to me as quickly as possible and advise others to do the same."

            James Hadley laughed. His heels clicked on the cobblestones as he advanced, and placed a firm hand on Stephan?s shoulder from behind. "Such drama! You should take up writing poetry, or perhaps some ghoulish story, like Mrs. Shelly's. I hear she's become more popular at the bookseller than her poor husband, Percy. Where are you off to? I'll join you."

            "I'm going to walk the streets for a while, enjoy the fog." He returned with impatience.  Would this man never cease his carping and let him be?

            "Walk the streets at night to search for Julia's killer! I thought ..."   If James Hadley, Lord Cavendish, had an ounce of sense, Stephan prayed he was calling upon it now. "I thought you gave up on that old game. Its no good, the bloke who did it is long gone. Come, let's go have a drink at White's, please Stephan."

            Stephan ground his teeth, and remained silent. Damn the man, why wouldn't he just leave him to his wandering and cease this incessant carping!  "A drink then."  He muttered, giving in.

            With any luck, James would be drunk in an hour or two and then he could send the bloke to his rooms and be on his way. Stephan wasn?t looking for his wife?s killer any more. He didn't need to, he knew who it was who had slashed her throat and tore out her insides on that dreadful night two years past. It was the devil staring back at him in the mirror each morning.

                                             ____________________________

           Stephan awakened to Brisbane's shuffling movements about his room. Brisbane was pulling his master's riding clothing out of the armoire and setting up his shaving tools. The man was a godsend. Brisbane stayed with Stephan through the grueling months after Julia's death. Brisbane stayed with him when he drank himself into a stupor for weeks afterward and cursed at everyone who dared come near him. Brisbane stayed with him when the constable and the sheriff kept questioning him and doubting his answers. Brisbane stayed close when Stephan doubted himself. Another servant, with less loyalty and less fortitude, would have abandoned his post and sought a more temperate situation with a less volatile master.

         "Good morning, sir." Brisbane offered, seeing that his charge was watching him from the luxurious pillows.

         "It is morning." Stephan replied dryly. He sat up and removed the covers.

          Damn, that brandy didn't make one ounce of difference. He thought that a couple of drinks with his friend James at White's might soothe the beast that haunted his dreams or at least give him a night without dreams. No such luck. His inner demons seemed fueled by the noxious brew, not sedated, as he'd hoped. Last night's dreams were frightful. He was in the woods again, standing over Julia's body, his hands covered with blood. Only they weren't hands, the bloodied forelimbs he held out in front of him were claws.

         

There were other images mixed with Julia's mangled corpse, jumbled pieces merging together that did not make sense.  A wolf, a vicious, deformed sort of animal that most closely resembled a wolf or a bear. A wretched sound of howling echoing in his ears and the taste of blood in his mouth. Darkness, night, the moon above, and the serene lake below the hill he stood on.  Voices in the darkness, shouting, and torches marching through the trees.

          And poor Julia, crumpled like a broken doll on the forest floor, her nightgown shredded and a bloody mass of gore where her lovely ivory throat had once been. She'd been with child, his child, or so he'd been led to believe. Stephan cursed himself for opening the old wounds. It was pointless to harbor bitterness toward a woman who had died a horrible death. She may have betrayed their marriage vows but she was not here to defend herself.

            Stephan emerged from the warm bed with reluctance, his primal desire to remain in the cozy nest for a little longer. That wouldn't do. He'd only court danger by thinking of the dreams or of Julia's death. It was best to get busy, move about, concern himself with estate matters instead of moping about in a self indulgent bout of melancholy.  He stood, stretched, relieved himself, rinsed the dragons out of his mouth and then sat in the chair before the mirror so that Brisbane could make him look civilized for his morning ride.

          The mist intrigued him. Stephan loved Hyde Park at this hour of the morning, before the crush of carriages as the Ton converged on the place in the hope of seeing and being seen. It was nearly deserted, save a couple of other early riders like himself. They, too, seemed content to remain anonymous during their morning exercise.  He allowed his stallion, Hades, to wander as he listened to the birds chirping greetings to one another in the trees nearby. The dew would soon become frost, in a week, perhaps less. As he inhaled the crisp autumn air and surveyed the misty landscape, a peculiar yearning came upon him, the desire to return to his estates.

         He stayed away from the abbey since Julia's death. He shut up the place, vowing never to return to his ancestral home and the bitter memories that festered there. His steward kept him informed of the business end of the estate and the cottagers who lived nearby kept watch over the mansion in his absence.  The people of Huntington Downs were not to blame for his bad choice in a wife. Nor was the house itself at fault for his failed marriage. Yes, perhaps it was time to return to Huntingdon Abbey and face the dour ghosts and monsters straight on instead of trying to run away from them.

          It didn't work. No matter where he went, whether it be Bath where he sought refuge, London or his sister's house in Devonshire. The memories dogged his steps and haunted his every waking moment. He spent enough time trying to evade the ghosts of his past.

          It was time to turn about and confront them.

Copyright, The Gypsy's Curse,  Lily Silver 2013

 

 

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: 

        Bright Scoundrel is .99cents March 1st & 2nd Only on  
  Amazon.com 

  Smashwords.com

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?