A Gift to Readers: A Free Serialized Historical Romance!

Chapter Nine, Continued:
Zara was starting to panic. She tried to be compliant in his arms, but his determination to possess her was growing by the second. Don’t struggle, don’t fight him. She told herself silently and sternly. If she did wrestle too much, he’d awaken fully. She wanted him to go back to being sound asleep so she could admire him, like a wolf in the woods.
       You want him to take you to his bed. You want him to take you here, now, on the floor.
        She gasped, as reality came hurtling forward in her mind. Yes, she wanted this man, but not like this, not in a tangled dream as he kissed her and held her tight in his arms in a drunken stupor. If he was like most of the men in the camp, as she’d heard reported by the women about the fire, then being lost in a bottle of spirits would hinder his ability to couple with her sufficiently, even if he seemed most enthusiastic on that account presently. His hardened manhood was pressing against her belly, just below her navel, intruding, promising further conquest as his beastly tongue ravaged her mouth with wicked pleasure.
        The hand on her backside, squeezing her behind brought Zara up short. She wore only her billowy shift, with nothing beneath it to shield her skin from his warm, seeking grip.
        She gasped, and drew her lips away from him. His response was to hug her to him, still clutching her bottom in one hand whilst kissing her neck and holding her fast against him with his other hand at the small of her back. 
         How far should she let this go with the man? If she were in camp, they would expect her to seduce him and then the men in her family would claim a payment was due from the Gadje the next day to compensation them for the loss of her innocence. It was a trick played on the greedy, lusting Gadje men who visited the camps and indulged in too much spirits and then were seduced by the dancer, a ploy to elicit guilt and payment for a fake deflolike Mama.          Instinct told her to lie with him, the primal instinct of a woman intoxicated by a kiss.
         Intellect told her to stop him before they became one flesh. She would enjoy it too much.
         And she would regret it when they parted and she was left alone once more. Of that, she was firmly convinced. Zara shoved him.
         St. John staggered, and reeled back on his heels. “You, m’dear, are no ghost!”
         They stared at one another in silent shock for what seemed an eternity.
         Zara didn’t know what to do; flee or kiss him to make him forget his sudden realization.
         Fate answered for her. St. John made an odd sort of groan, and dropped to the floor like a piece of heavy furniture from a wagon. The floor beneath her shook as he hit it. The soulful murmur coming from his lips told her he still breathed as he lay sprawled at her feet.
         Great Heavens. She stared down at him with wide eyes, taking in every inch of him. The opened white shirt revealing the soft, curling hairs of his chest, the long, black legs and the alluring apex between them. His passion wilted, as it was with all men when the drink overwhelmed their senses and left them unconscious. This was the prime moment in a gypsy camp, the moment of triumph--for the girl need not truly sleep with their mark, only signal the men to carry him to her wagon and undress him, lay him in her bed. She would greet him in the morning with a demure smile beneath the covers, letting the man think he’d taken her innocence.
        No men were available to help Zara drag him to his own bed in the next room. He would lie here, sprawled, until the morning. Unless a servant found him, a male servant. She thought he had a man who tended his personal needs. Where was that one now, when his master needed him?  As if in answer to her question, she heard a scratching at the outer door. So, someone did wering. Zara was no maid, and she wasn’t in camp. She was alone. A woman alone.  If he impregnated her, she would surely suffer in the coming months, as she had no income and no protector. She’d be just like Mama.          Instinct told her to lie with him, the primal instinct of a woman intoxicated by a kiss.
         Intellect told her to stop him before they became one flesh. She would enjoy it too much.
         And she would regret it when they parted and she was left alone once more. Of that, she was firmly convinced. Zara shoved him.
         St. John staggered, and reeled back on his heels. “You, m’dear, are no ghost!”
         They stared at one another in silent shock for what seemed an eternity.
         Zara didn’t know what to do; flee or kiss him to make him forget his sudden realization.
         Fate answered for her. St. John made an odd sort of groan, and dropped to the floor like a piece of heavy furniture from a wagon. The floor beneath her shook as he hit it. The soulful murmur coming from his lips told her he still breathed as he lay sprawled at her feet.
         Great Heavens. She stared down at him with wide eyes, taking in every inch of him. The opened white shirt revealing the soft, curling hairs of his chest, the long, black legs and the alluring apex between them. His passion wilted, as it was with all men when the drink overwhelmed their senses and left them unconscious. This was the prime moment in a gypsy camp, the moment of triumph--for the girl need not truly sleep with their mark, only signal the men to carry him to her wagon and undress him, lay him in her bed. She would greet him in the morning with a demure smile beneath the covers, letting the man think he’d taken her innocence.
        No men were available to help Zara drag him to his own bed in the next room. He would lie here, sprawled, until the morning. Unless a servant found him, a male servant. She thought he had a man who tended his personal needs. Where was that one now, when his master needed him?  As if in answer to her question, she heard a scratching at the outer door. So, someone did hear him fall and the floor shake in response.        Zara moved quickly to the window and entered the secret passage. She closed the panel just as she heard the door to hall open.
                                                        *   *   *   *   *
       Brisbane hurried to his master’s side, concerned to find him unconscious in the middle of the floor. He sniffed the air, confused by the lingering scent of rosemary amid the more manly smells of hard liquor, sweat and polished leather.
       “My lord?” Brisbane leaned low over his charge and examined him. The master’s skin was hot to the touch, a harbinger of the change that was about to come. There was no hope for it. He must get the man undressed, quickly, before his body began the transformation and yet another pair of fine dress clothes were ruined by the transmutation.
       “Stay with me, sweet spirit . . . I promise not to harm you.”
       “Aye, sir.” Brisbane lifted his master’s head and pulled the shirt over it. He set the delirious man down gently as he worked to pull the hands from the sleeves. Even now, the fingertips were lengthening and changing into sharp gray claws. St. John spat, and coughed and began to writhe as the curse grew more powerful within his mortal flesh.
        The liquor didn’t help, nor did the administration of laudanum. He told his master, yet the man continued to try to douse his sorrows in the fiery potions. The sedative only hastened the master’s change. It might make him feel less pain and grief at his wife’s murder, yet, it also made it easier for the beast to emerge. Without St. John’s will to hold it back, the creature could win the battle within them as St. John’s rational mind succumbed to the drug’s power.

        Snarling echoed in the chamber. Brisbane unfastened the placket of his master’s pants and pushed the fabric over his shifting, rippling bones. The pain of such a horrible transformation could not be imagined. No one could bear it without going a little insane, he thought as he moved to his master’s feet and tugged off first one boot and then the other one.
        St. John gurgled, and the beast within him growled and snarled.
        Brisbane, from long practice, recognized the danger and stepped back. He watched his tormented employer writhe and arch as the shifting muscles and bones fairly tore the man asunder. Crushed the man and pushed all remnants of humanity within as the beast emerged from his tormented soul.  Brisbane hurried to the door and opened it, allowing the creature its freedom to roam the halls. He would follow the wolf-creature and let it out the nearest door once they reached the first floor. The beast always wanted to run free, unhindered beneath the shimmering stars.
        Human skin was quickly disappearing as the rippling, shifting into the creature overpowered St. John’s will. Ach, he should not have imbibed so heavily in spirits tonight, Brisbane thought. Once his will was vanquished, his primal nature took over.

        St. John was no longer human. Brisbane backed away from the display of sharp incisors that had grown long and sharp. His heart rose in his chest, making it difficult to breathe. This was new, this hostility toward him. The wolf usually recognized him and ignored him, much as the master would in his human form. This time, the wolf was agitated by his presence, snarling and growling low as if to warn him away from a fresh kill.
        Brisbane was no fool. He edged carefully toward the door and nodded to his master.
       The wolf turned in a circle, his ruff raised and his fangs prominent. As Brisbane reached the door, the animal gave one last warning lurch, growling and snarling at him as if to toss a few last threats at him in his retreat. This was not like the master at all. He never threatened Brisbane before. What new circumstance had brought the hackles out in the beast?
        St. John’s deep russet coat of fur shimmered in the low firelight as the beast’s attention was drawn to other things. The long muzzle was pinned to the ground as he paddled anxiously to the window and then began scratching at the wood paneling and growling low in his throat.
 Copyright Lily Silver, 2012 

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Free Serialized Historical Romance: The Gypsy's Curse

Yeah, I'm giving it away for free. Just for the fun of it. A little love story that is situated in the Lake District of England, circa 1816, during the Romantic Era. A Historical Romance with a Paranormal Twist. Why ....... just because I can. And I love to give something back to my wonderful readers.

The Gypsy's Curse, Chapter 9, part II   To read from beginning visit http://lilysilver.webs.com/

His hand imprisoned her wrist.

Zara’s instinct was to tug in order to free herself from his powerful grasp. Instead, she did the opposite, she went slack. If she tugged, she realized she would wake him and then there would be the devil to pay. She’d have to explain her reason for trespassing here in the middle of the night. She held her breath and waited, hoping he would not open his eyes.

The hand gripping her tightened about her slender wrist and she feared he might snap the bone. St. John moaned. His eyes remained closed.  “Julia . . .”

He was dreaming about his wife.

As quietly as she could, Zara released her breath, lest she pass out from lack of air. His hand remained in firm possession of her wrist. She stood before him, chiding herself for her foolishness, for getting too close to the wolf.

Wolf. Yes, that was his power animal. It was hers as well. Odd. The wolf was her protector, or so the old fortune teller claimed many years past. It was foretold when she was a child that she was a member of the wolf tribe and that her spirit animal was the fierce guardian of the woodlands.  And Stephan St. John had the power of the wolf within him.

The impression was quick, a flash of lightening in a dark room. Still, Zara trusted her vision as it was rarely wrong. She had the gift of the seer, and she had the curse of the wolf tribe upon her head. St. John had the mark of the wolf on him. She could smell it, smell his animal nature though it was hidden while in his human form.

“Julia.” He said again. This time, it was a snarl.

The hand circling hers relaxed, and then dropped to rest again on the chair arm.

Zara summoned all of her strength to remain calm and not flee the moment she was free.

Fleeing would cause a draft or worse, she would make a noise to startle him awake.

She did not want this man to be awake, not now, not knowing his true nature.

Hunter, killer, predator . . . and yet, channeled into the positive, protector, defender of the weak, guardian of the pack.

His leg moved. Zara bit her lip. She was now imprisoned between his splayed thighs. She had to retreat, but she had to do so with silence, without disturbing the beast lingering so near.

A soft moan emerged from the man/beast, almost a whimper.

Zara was immediately touched. She longed to reach forward and soothe that thick, tangled mane of dark brown hair. She still longed to kiss him. Fool, she was. Silly, bewitched little girl. Captivated by danger, the raw, sensual beauty of a man trapped in an ancient curse.

She made a sign to ward off the evil eye and stepped backwards, very carefully. Her eyes were fastened on his face, waiting, watching, fearing the abrupt opening of his shuttered eyes and the discovery by the lord of the manor; this wild lord of the wilderness.

He didn’t stir. It brought relief, followed swiftly by disappointment. The savage part of her longed to have him open his eyes and reach up to grab her and steal an earthy kiss.

The rational part of her realized she must bide her time here, take advantage of the shelter given for as long as she could and not tempt fate by giving in to her primitive desires.

One step back. And then another. She edged slowly backwards, toward the window and the hidden panel leading to the secret passageway. She was halfway to her goal when the eyes fluttered open and the man straightened in his chair at the sight of her.

“Spirit, you come again?” His deep, rich voice had a pleasing resonance, even in its roughened form from slumber. “What brings you to my lair, fair spirit of the night? Are there no sane men to haunt? I’ve left the safe shores of lucidity long ago. I scarce need your presence to remind me of my failing reason.”

Zara didn’t speak. She watched him, more curious than afraid as she noted his wavering form. He was drunk, drugged or both. He sat up straight in the chair, alert, yet his body tipped and weaved as if he were at sea.

“Why do you torment me?” He persisted. “Why have you come? What price must I pay to send thee away from me, spirit?”

She swallowed, almost smiled. “A kiss, good sir.” Zara said, almost before she realized it. “I would ask thee for kiss, before I fade away.”

His reaction was a lazy, sensual grin. Pleasure. His low chuckle echoed with her breast, and lower still to the hungry place between her thighs. “Have you had no such caress in life, beautiful wraith? Is that why you torment the damned?”

“Kisses are my penance.” She replied. “Kisses from the living to pay for a life of wickedness.” Oh, heavens above, where was all this coming from? Too much of Master Shakespeare, she guessed. The Widow Kendall favored the old bard and preferred to read him aloud to Zara in the evenings. “A kiss, from an honest man, spirit to spirit, to atone for a life of dishonesty and sin.”

            The man before her rose, wavered unsteadily and swaggered toward Zara with a meandering step. “Honest? You assume too much, little ghost.”

His quickness was deceiving. Zara was unprepared for his swift advance or for the abrupt embrace as he roughly drew her to him and captured her lips.

A kiss. Foolish woman to ask for a kiss from such a man. Zara’s lips fused with his as he inhaled her as if she were made of air instead of flesh and bone. And yet, she kissed him with all of her being, exalting in his sweet, brutal possession. His hand went behind her neck, cradling her head while preventing her retreat from his devouring kiss.

The addition of his rough tongue inside her mouth brought her senses to dizzying heights as she struggled to keep her wits about her. This was no gentle, playful kiss as she imagined when she made the bold request of the obviously drunken man. This was the sultry embrace of a man on fire, a man possessed with the primal need to mate, a need denied him for too long. 
Copyright Lily Silver, 2012
To read the next post in the serial novel,continuing this chapter or to start the novel from the beginning visit http://lilysilver.webs.com/

Free to a Good Home, Serialized Historical Romance

Yeah, I'm giving it away for free. Just for the fun of it. A little love story that is situated in the Lake District of England, circa 1816, during the Romantic Era. A Historical Romance with a Paranormal Twist. Why ....... just because I can. And I love to give something back to my wonderful readers.


Book Excerpt:  Chapter 9, Part I  of  The Gypsy's Curse by Lily Silver.
Weekly posts available on my website. If you would like to start at the beginning of the story, click here. http://lilysilver.webs.com/posts110.htm



  He had to be dreaming. The lovely young woman who appeared to him couldn’t be real.
          Stephan sat at the breakfast table alone, doing his best to appear to be eating the simple breakfast Annie, the housekeeper had prepared for him. The house was so big, so empty, so devoid of life. Stephan regretted coming, and he’d only just arrived.
          Ah, that woman--she captivated him. He dreamed of her all night long.
Lush, long dark curls. A heart shaped face, and startling eyes. He couldn’t discern the color of them in the low firelight--but then, did ghosts have an eye color? Did ghosts have generous curves?  Did ghosts speak to the living?
         His logical mind would say no, and yet, he’d heard of such queer events. They were becoming more the vogue in the romantic era. People like Mrs. Shelly and Lord Byron seemed to invite people to embrace the supernatural. And then there were those books his wife read voraciously, Gothic Romances by Mrs. Radcliffe. Perhaps his mind was merely too saturated with spirits of a different kind to pursue logic. He was certainly suffering the blue devils this morning due to his heavy indulgence.
         Ah, sweet spirit, come back to me. Whether it be my imagination or strong drink, do not leave me here alone to suffer the torments of a guilty conscience.

         Zara wasn’t sure what to do any longer. She wanted to stay, even more now that she’d seen the masculine beauty of the master of the house. And yet, the house was filling up with servants. There were three new ones here in the attic, on the opposite end where servant’s quarters were, but even so, they might discover her hiding in the storage attic if she lingered.
        It was harder to go wandering at night in search of food. Yes, there were the secret passages. She could use those if she really needed to. Zara found she resented the intrusion of people here. She’d been enjoying her solitary existence, eating and exploring, reading books, learning about the English world as she prepared to make an entrance therein. She didn’t like having to restrict her wanderings to late at night, and that with only the use of the passages between the walls. She’d love to be a guest here, able to meander about without fear of discovery or suspicion.
         And most of all, she’d love to taste the kisses of a certain gentleman.
         Tonight, she’d visit the man again via the secret passage. Maybe this time, she’d come out of the shadows and speak with him a little more.


         It was Midnight. St. John despaired of ever conjuring the same woman who haunted his dreams the night before. He sat in his private room adjacent to his bedchamber, his study, brooding before the fire. He’d had a few drinks, not as much as last night. He wanted to see her, remember her this time with a little more clarity. And yet, there was so much he wanted to forget.
         He fingered the crystal decanter, still half full, and deliberated over whether or not to refill his glass. The cool, hard surface between his fingers caressed his fevered mind. So many images he needed to forget, to banish. The brandy didn’t barricade their entrance into his mind as he hoped. Too many vile images pounded against the flimsy gate built by intoxicants.
        He tried Laudanum a few times. The sway of opiates was strong. Alluring, like that luscious woman who visited his dreams last night. He had a bottle of the heady stuff. He had only to go to his bedchamber to pour himself a draught. He caressed the brandy decanter, his fingers tracing the fine cut crystal ravines as if seeking shelter in their hard, sharp valleys.
        Moments later, Stephan rose and went into his bedchamber, seeking a stronger mistress than brandy to soothe his fractured mind.

         Zara hovered just beyond the curtain. She was trying to shore up her nerve and step out so the man could see her again. She’d been waiting, watching him, measuring how many drinks he’d had before she made her entrance. He’d had three glasses of brandy. Now he was returning with a small vial of some other substance cradled between his large fingers.
         She watched him sit down again and sip from the small vial as he stared into the flames. The substance must not be very tasty, as he grimaced each time he took a sip, as if he were being forced to drink a tincture of vinegar and herbs. Perhaps that is what it was, a healing drink. He finished it and set the glass on the small table beside his chair. He brooded, staring intently into the fire as if it held the answers to all his questions. His left leg was bent, his right extended in a lazy repose before him. He had his elbow raised and his head supported in one hand. He seemed to be getting drowsy with each passing moment. Zara wanted to kiss him. She wanted to taste his full, sensual lips and feel the warmth of his skin. She waited, wondering if he were awake.
          She might approach him while he slept and steal a kiss from him before leaving this place. Leave she must, or suffer discovery. Leave, but not right away, not tonight.
          Moments ticked by. The man seemed to be drifting into a comfortable sleep.
         Zara emerged from her hiding place behind the curtains and slowly approached his still form. He was breathing heavily, as if intoxicated, deeply so. She crept closer, step by step, until she stood just to his left, on the other side of the small table holding his ablutions. A snore, yes, a faint nasal drone that told her what she needed to know. He was sound asleep.
        She edged closer to the sleeping god, holding her breath as if it would betray her presence. She touched his limp hand as it draped over his chair in slumber. He started. And then he grabbed her wrist, imprisoning it within a strong cave of fingers and muscle. Zara gasped, uncertain of what to do. Was he dreaming? Or was he lying in wait for her?
Copyright  Lily Silver 2012

A Viking, a Highlander or a Pirate? What's your Fantasy?

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Our $15 Gift Card winner is Marie Haney! Thanks Marie for the great comment. 

 I've been asked to share why I love romance novels. 

Here it is in a nutshell: Prince Charming has morning breath. And worse, he farts......a lot!

Now, I'm not knocking anyone's real life happily ever after with Sir Farts-A-Lot. He's a good man who brings us roses at the appropriate times (hopefully), steals kisses at unexpected moments and re-formats the hard drive on our computer when it goes wonky. And his version of doing battle for his lady fair might be more akin to charging an iron shopping cart through the dangerous labryrinth of Walmart on community grocery day, blazing a path through the crowds for you to follow rather then facing a dragon or an opposing knight in a jousting match, but hey, this is today's modern reality.

So, why do I write romance? The short answer: I grew up with Star Trek  and I dream of Jeannie, so entertaining fantasy was pretty much what drew me in from the start, be it movies or reading material. My first true romance was A Rose in Winter by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss.  I loved the historical setting of 18th century England, the dark, brooding, mysterious Lord Saxon and the plucky heroine Erienne, struggling to rise above her circumstances. She was doing pretty well on her own but she still needed a hero to give her a lift. A hero entered the scene and carried her (unwillingly) away to his castle and after lots of conflict, both internal and external, they found their happily ever after. That's the basic storyline of every romance. Doesn't matter if it's a Viking or a modern day hero who is a navy seal or a shape-shifter, he comes into the heroine's life and when he does, he make her life a little better--after they kill the zombies and save the world. Or perhaps more accurately--during the conflict love grows between them. It's not so much about being rescued by someone else as it is finding that one soul-mate who completes you and makes you happy.

Forget Calgon: Will Turner Jr, can 'Take me Away!'

For me--it's all about the fantasy element of the romance. Escapist Fantasy. Being swept away to another time, another place, with a handsome rogue closing in. My husband escapes the mundane pressures of this life by shooting Nazis or Zombies in his computer games.
I love escaping the mundane pressures of this life by reading about heroines attending fancy balls, wearing exquisite gowns and being courted by some handsome rake with Hessian boots and a set of dueling pistols in his closet. A Viking, a Highlander or a Pirate he may be, but if he's noble and charming, he's the right hero for me. 

Summer Romance: Shall I compare thee to a Summer's Day?

                      Image credit: field-of-sunflowers by geargodz / 123RF Stock Photo


Summer is winding to a close. Soon we'll all be sending kids off to school, planning fall football parties or plotting the fall craft show circuits. Soon the nights will get colder. The frost will come, and the flowers will go dormant. The leaves will fall. All the beauty surrounding us in this moment, the flowers, the warm, lazy days filled with sunshine will end.

My advice: Stop what you are doing today for a few brief moments. Just stop. Yes, today. Just take time to savor the wonders of the season before it is over. Have your own personal love affair--with Summer.

Image credit: fresh-raspberries by patrickrp / 123RF Stock Photo

We're all busy, too busy these days. Even vacations become hectic marathons. We have to get to the hotel by this time or lose the reservation.... we have to attend that wedding, family reunion, birthday party so we hurry through summer......hurry.....hurry......hurry.

Well, stop it, please? Give yourself a little time to embrace in the serene beauty of summertime.

White Admiral butterfly on Echineaca, by Lily Silver

Remember the scent of freshly cut hayfields. take time to listen to the sound of crickets chirping beneath the steps, songbirds singing before they migrate to other regions. Hear the wind rustling the trees. Cherish the sight of a butterfly flitting through the garden, alighting on flowers. Savor the taste of cool, tart lemonade, sweet hand picked berries and farm market produce. If you live near a beach, take one last trip to wade through the swirling waves and get wet, cool sand between your toes. Soak up the warm sunshine, and just breathe. That's right. Just breathe.  Relax, savor the last few days of August before the hectic return to school year schedules and obligations.

Image credit: young-girl-relaxing-on-beach by volare2004 / 123RF Stock Photo

 Shakespeare sums it up pretty well in Sonnet 18: Summer is fleeting. It's lovely, but it has an expiration date. So embrace Summer. Love it, cherish it. Store up memories of her sweetness until she returns again. Have a brief fling with the lovely Golden Goddess before she's gone. Whether you like the English Bard or not, take time to savor the wonder of summertime, quickly, today . . . before summer's lease expires . .

 "Shall I compare thee to a Summer's Day? 
Thou art more lovely and more temperate; 
Rough winds to shake the darling buds of May, 
And Summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines, 
And often in his gold complexion dimm'd; 
And every fair from fair sometime declines, 
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,  
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;
Nor shall Death Brag thou wander'st in his shade, 

When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st;

     So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, 

     So long lives this, and this gives life to thee."

                 William Shakespeare

Image credit: duskbabe / 123RF Stock Photo

Sunflowers, waves and warm, liquid golden sunsets. Take a moment to enjoy the Romance of Summer. 

Oconto Harbor at Sunset, Lily Silver, 2011

Fairy Magic; Have you met any of the Good People?

        Image credit: magical landscape-with-waterfalls by ateliersommerland / 123RF Stock Photo

0My most recent book release, Some Enchanted Waltz, is a story that takes place in 18th century Ireland. As part of my research for the book, I delved into Irish folklore and found some wonderful tales about Fairy Magic, along with various beliefs about Irish fairies of the time period. Here is the premise for the book. As you can see, it's ripe with potential for a love story between Fey women and Mortal Men. 

      “At certain seasons of the year, Fairy Queens make Great Efforts to carry off the fine stalwart young men of the country to the fairy palace in the cleft of the hills. Or they attempt to lure them to their dancing grounds, where the men are lulled into dreams by the sweet, subtle fairy music and forget home, kith and kindred, and never desire to return again to their own people. Even if the spell is broken and they are brought back by some strong incantation, they are never the same; for everyone knows by the dream look in their eyes that they have danced with the fairies on the hill, and been loved by one of the beautiful race, who, when they take a fancy to a handsome mortal lover, cast their spells over him with restless power.”

The Book of Irish Cures, Mystic Charms & Superstitions

By Lady Wilde,  1896

In Some Enchanted Waltz, Lord Dillon rescues a woman from British soldiers. As an 18th century Irish lord, he is convinced Tara is a member of the Fey Race. Tara, a 21st century woman, scoffs at his assessment--but is he deluded--or has he recognized something in Tara that is very beautiful and unique? 

 In Irish folklore, there are stories of encounters with the Good People, The Other Folk or the Fairy Folk. I've read several accounts of people traveling along deserted roads at night and having met strange folk who took them to other realms, both in past centuries and even in the present one. Sometimes the mortals had trouble getting back to their realm, and had to do some very quick thinking to outwit their enchanted hosts. 

A very good book I recently found regarding encounters with the Fae Folk in Ireland is Meeting the Other Crowd; the fairy stories of hidden Ireland, [collected and edited by Edie Lenihan with Carolyn Eve Green]. In this book I read countless tales collected from interviews of people being contacted or abducted when walking home alone a road. 

Even today, in Ireland, it is bad luck to say anything derogatory about the Good People. In one such incident from Meeting the Other Crowd, two women were driving down a winding country road in their car one night, discussing the Fae. The driver scoffed at the idea, and within seconds of her derisive laughter, their car stalled, dead--nothing--nada. Now they were two women stranded alone on a dark, winding country road. After the woman profusely apologized to the other folk,  her car started again! This is recent account, from our century!  

                      Image credit: trail-in-the-misty-forest-at-dawn by nature78 / 123RF Stock Photo

So, what ever you do, don't talk ill of the Good People. They'll hear you, and you'll be sorry. In my house, we respect the Fae. If something is missing and we cannot find it, we say the fairy folk have borrowed it, and we ask them politely to return it when they are finished with it. And usually within the day, the item is recovered. Think what you will, but I do believe in fairies!

Now it's your turn. Have any stories to share, or a tidbit of folklore? I'm dying to hear your stories.

Serial Writing, Anyone? A Gift of a Free Novel

When I was younger, I remember radio shows featuring "A Chapter a Day" events where one chapter of a book was read aloud for about 15 minutes of air time. I loved those old serialized books .

In honor of the good ol' days, when it wasn't all about the almighty buck and how many people liked you on Facebook, I have decided to make one of my own novels free on  my website. http://lilysilver.webs.com/     The entire Novel will be free, and there will be two to three new posts a week until the novel is finished. If you wish to follow along on this journey, then please click the link and add my website to your browser. I will post the newest post at the top of the page each time for your convenience.

About the Book: The Gypsy's Curse is a book I began writing in 2010. It is nearly completed, but not quite. That's the beauty of it. Having readers tune in every week for a new excerpt is a motivation for me to finish the book.  The story takes place in England during the Romantic Period of art and literature, about the same time as the Regency Period. It also takes place in the romantic Lake District area of England. Zara, a gypsy, has been cast out of her tribe as it is believed she bears the 'Devil's Mark'. She is half gypsy and half Gadje blood. She is taken in by a kind old widow and lives with her on her small farm. When the widow is murdered, Zara is the suspect, and she must flee for her life. She finds refuge in an old manor house that has been closed up for a few years. The owner is a widower racked by guilt over his wife's violent death. He is a werewolf, and believes he killed her. While Zara is hiding in the house, he decides to return to the place to confront his demons. At first he doesn't realize the woman appearing to him at night is a real person. He believes it's a ghost . . .

To get you started, here is the first excerpt of "The Gypsy's Curse" Copyright Lily Silver 2012   Prologue
The sheriff marched resolutely to the center of town, hammer in hand, and the decree tucked under his arm. He stopped at the billet post, dug into his coat pocket, and produced two thick nails. He slipped them into his mouth, the blunt ends in, sharp points hanging out, and pressed the decree against the wood board. The sound of his hammering echoed about the village square as he posted the warrant given him by the local magistrate.
Wanted for questioning regarding recent murder in Lexford Woods:  Young woman of gypsy blood described as short, slim, with dark hair and bright green eyes, of approximately a score in age. The gypsy is known to frequent these parts with a local caravan, but has recently been traveling alone. Distinguishing features include a scar on the left side of her face, above the eye, and a fresh wound to the hand. The woman is armed, and considered a prime suspect in the murder at the farm of  Widow Kendall and her visiting nephew, one Jasper Leeds of Hampsell Place.
        Once finished, he marched straight toward The Griffin’s Lair for a shot of whiskey. It might be an hour shy of noon, but he sorely needed a shot of courage after the grisly scene he’d been called to this morning at Widow Kendall’s farm. The bodies of the poor souls were still swimming before his eyes, the jagged wounds, the slashed flesh and the horrified open eyes.
        Worse for it, the stench of their gore stuck in his nostrils. Even with a sound washing with plenty of lye soap, he doubted he’d be able to escape that putrid smell of human innards split wide open like a gutted deer for weeks to come.
        Wanted for questioning!  Ha, that was a bunch of rancid tripe on the part of the magistrate. All that fancy talk of evidence, motive and guilt verses innocence was fine and good for a man like Magistrate Collins, who sat behind a desk all day and didn’t have to hunt down a vicious killer himself. When face to face with evil a man didn’t argue with the devil, he took action and saved the lives of those who depended upon him.
         If he caught the little whore she’d wish she’d never been born. Question her about what, for pity’s sake? Why she’d mutilated two God fearing souls in the middle of the night.  He shook his head. The world had worked just fine without these intelligent blokes always throwing a cog in the works and bringing everything to a dead halt with their grand talk of rights and habitual corpses! Oh, she’d hang for sure when they found the bitch. He’d hang her on sight and send a message to all her kind to stay away, for good.
 Chapter One
The Lake District, England, 1816
         The Devil’s Mark! That was their excuse. That was the reason she’d been thrust out into the world of the Gadje, coldly cast out of her tribe and exiled from the family she’d known and loved.
          Zara trudged on through the woods. She pulled the woolen shawl tight about her shoulders, and pushed on. Her progress was slow as she was walking into the wind. She was tired and hungry. She’d spent last night in a cave, without a fire, lest the townspeople see the flame and discover her hiding place. The cave had been damp and cold. She finished the last of the bread and cheese she’d taken from the Widow’s kitchen before setting out on her long trek to parts unknown.
         It was late autumn. Snow would soon be dusting the woods. The small streams and creek beds would freeze over. The rivers would remain a source of water throughout the winter, but most rivers were surrounded by towns and farmsteads. As a child of nature, she knew she must find shelter soon or she might die from exposure to the harsh winter nights. Lothar taught her how to track animals and trap game from the time she was able to walk. Her uncle had unwittingly given her the tools to survive without being dependent on another. Thank the fates for Lothar and his practical, pragmatic nature. He gave her knowledge to the woods and the creatures that inhabited it that most girls of her tribe would envy. He took her with him on his forays into the bush to trap dinner, when other girls were kept close to the fire to learn other skills from their mother’s knees. But winter’s harsh pall left even the best trappers in her tribe with empty pouches when they returned to camp. That was why the caravan traveled south for the winter months.
         A deer had come across her path at dawn, when she was filling her cask with water at the icy stream, but Zara had no weapon with which to bring down such a fortuitous bounty presented to her from the wood spirit. She had no gun and no bow and arrow. Just a knife, a large hunting knife Lothar had given her when she was ten years old. Even if she had such weapons, she didn’t think she would have been able to fell the gentle eyed doe. Like her, the animal was alone in a world full of hunters, alone and without hale companions or the protection of a great horned mate.
         She stopped for a moment to recover her breath and examine her hand. Her fingers were numb from the cold. The bandage was stiff, almost frozen to the scored flesh. At least the cold weather had offered her some assistance. The outer bandage was dried from the cold; there would be no fresh flowing blood to give the hunter’s hounds a trail to follow.
         As if in protest to her hard won peace of mind, deep baying echoed the distance behind her. Zara smashed her lips together and hurried up the steep hill, as uncertain of her destination as she was of her present bearings. She returned to the woods two nights past, after awakening in the farm house to find the widow and her reprehensible nephew dead beside her. She had no memory of what happened. She’d awakened on the floor of the parlor just before dawn, with Lothar’s knife in her dominate hand, and the painful gash splitting the palm of her other hand.
        Zara knew she’d be blamed for the murders, regardless of the mysterious circumstances, simply because of her origin. A gypsy, even a half blood gypsy was always blamed for any misfortune that fell on the people nearby. If a pig or goat went missing, a horse took ill or a barn burnt to the ground, it was always the gypsies, so the Gadje claimed.
       Some villages were better than others, more accepting of their visits. They were tolerated and allowed to trade with the town for a week or driven on without even being allowed to rest their horses by angry Gadje men with guns. Each time they set up camp in a new place, the men of her band made wagers amongst themselves as to how long it would be before the Gadje showed up with guns and pitchforks, demanding that they move on to the next town. It was her misfortune to be banished when her tribe was traveling through a hostile region instead of a more tolerant one.
       As she crested the rise of the steep hill, Zara leaned against a stark, majestic oak to recover. There was a sharp stitch in her side. The silver steam of her rapid breath wreathed about her in the cold air. She was so tired. Her chest ached and she feared she might be courting the dreaded lung sickness after spending two nights out in the cold, damp November woods with no fire and no shelter. She’d walked hard for days, trying to put as much distance between herself and the Kendall Farm as she could. She didn’t dare stop to rest until she found a shelter, as she feared if she stopped too long, she would not have the will to get back up and keep going. An abandoned barn or cottage would see her through until spring. By then, perhaps the locals would have forgotten she had resided with the Widow Kendall for a time and she would no longer be hunted like an animal by the people of the town. In the spring, when the snow melted, she’d head south and try to find a caravan traveling northern to take her in. It seemed a good plan, to her fevered mind, and she scanned the valley below for a possible refuge.
       The landscape below was very beautiful. In spring and summer, it would be a veritable paradise. It would be a wonderful place for the caravan to make camp, and perhaps stay for longer than a week or two. A picturesque lake was banked by tall willow trees. The lake skirted a fenced in pasture. A deep longing burgeoned forth unbidden. This would be a delightful place to live, in a small cottage near the lake, nestled between the two hills, a cozy place---Zara gasped. She covered her mouth and made the sign with her dominant hand to ward off the evil eye. She was alone, but still, it wasn’t good to let her Gadje blood rise to the fore. And settling in one place, setting down roots was foreign to her mother’s people, it was his father’s influence, his taint in her blood that made her yearn for such wanton things.
       She turned her mind back to the task before her, finding shelter before nightfall. There had to be a farm nearby or some estate, if there was grazing land below. She studied the beguiling landscape. Not one building. She squinted, and placed her hand over her eyes. Perhaps, just past that stand of trees on the opposite end of the valley . . .?
      The sun was lowering in the sky. It would be dark within hours.
The Gypsy's Curse: copyright Lily Silver 2012

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