by Laura London
“Yes, with difficulty. Now Winnie,” said Katie, with a quick glance toward Zack, “tell the truth. Zack says people will be able to see through this disguise and be able to tell I’m a girl. Even with my hair up under my hat like it is. Is he right?”
Winnie subjected Katie’s trim form to a critical appraisal. “Oi’ll tell ya, sis. Yer so blisterin’ pretty even as a boy ’n there’s some ’at come in ’ere won’t matter to ’em one way or t’other.”
Katie was shocked. “It seems to me, Zack, that you’ve set up your business in an awfully wicked part of London.”
Zack shook his head. “That’s what I’ve been telling you, Mousemeat. It’s no place for the likes of you. There’s some bad people down here.”
“Ooh, my, speakin’ o’ bad people,” exclaimed Winnie. “Lookee there who jest walked in th’ door. It’s Nasty Ned Fabian ’n ’is nasty friends.”
Katie followed Winnie’s gesture to the front of the shop, where a rough-looking bunch of foul-mouthed, dirtily dressed men were wading their way through sloshing tankards and sloshed customers and hailing a barboy for some gin. They set themselves up at a table near the gambling aristocrats and immediately began spitting gin on each other, “accidentally” dropping and breaking their flagons, and creating a loud disturbance. They were led by a nasty-looking brute indeed, well over six feet tall, with a crude, heavy face, glowering red-rimmed eyes, and a muscular, top-heavy look.
“Damn,” said Zack in a low voice. “Why does he have to pick my place?”
“Who is he?” asked Katie.
“Those lads likes t’ mill, oi’m tellin’ ya,” Winnie informed her. “See ’at big bloody rampsman in th’ middle, there, talkin’ louder than even th’ rest o’ ’em? That’s Nasty Ned. ’E’s tried fer years ta make it in th’ ring ’n was almost top man a few times, but they say ’e played too rough ’n never really caught on. Now ’e’s got nothin’ ta do but lead ’is bloody gang o’ troublemakers ’round ’n bust up gin shops. ’E’s so mean ’e’d spit in ’is own mother’s eye!”
“He’s a lot more than mean,” said Zack. “He’s a hired fist. If he’s in here, that means only one thing, that he has some business with someone. Katie, if he calls for anything, let me or one of the boys handle him. You stay away.” He glanced worriedly toward Katie. “If I had any sense, I’d send you up to your room now.”
“Zack, you can’t send me upstairs every time the clientele gets a little rough, or how am I going to be able to work here?”
Katie brushed past Zack, who watched as she walked through the hinged gate out of the bar and made her way across the crowded shop to the customer.
“Plucky, yer little friend,” said Winnie, making her fingers walk lightly up Zack’s bare arm.
A group of students had vacated the table near the aristocrats, leaving a crop of half-empty bottles and thumbprinted glasses. Katie set her tray down and began a clinking harvest. It was a pleasant chore because Lord Linden sat no more than four feet from where Katie was working, and she was in a good position to observe him. Hankering, she thought. Myself and every other girl in London. She watched as he caught the dice thrown to him. He shook them in one long white hand and tossed them into the center of the table with a negligent graceful flip. A nearby companion rallied him at the unfavorable result of the toss, and Linden responded with a slow, attractive smile that caused Katie to take in a quick breath of the reeky air. She reflected ruefully that she had been pierced by a foil not meant for her.
A bottle crashed from a nearby table and Katie turned toward the sound.
“ ’Ey, wot’s a bloke ta do ta get some service around ’ere!” Nasty Ned bawled. He was gazing angrily at her, conspicuously waving the neck end of a broken gin bottle.
Katie took a hurried step backward. “I’ll go call Zack,” she said hastily.
Ned snaked out one hairy, muscular arm and pulled Katie in front of him. The tray she had been carrying was upset; the glasses and bottles dumped and rolling on the floor.
“Wot do we want wi’ ’im?” Nasty Ned growled. “Yer all th’ ’elp oi need.” One finger of his left hand was gone to the first joint, and he roughly caressed her cheek with the stub, “Oi’ve ’ad me eye on ya, me boy. Oi likes yer looks. We could go fer a walk in th’ alley.”
His fingers dug into Katie’s wrist through the wilted cloth of her coat. She looked down the length of the room toward Zack and Winnie, who were still deep in conversation with their friends. It seemed as if the walls of the room were expanding, carrying her farther and farther away from them. She tried to call Zack’s name, but the words were without force, inaudible above the raucous buzz of conversation. Her mind searched for an escape.
“All right, sir. But, um, first let me take off this apron,” said Katie hesitantly. Ned relaxed his grip for an instant, and Katie broke from him and began to race toward the bar. She was brought up short by one of Ned’s companions, who stood grinning evilly, blocking the narrow pathway. She turned to see Ned rising from his chair to follow her. Her foot knocked against a metal slop bucket, and as if in a dream, she took it in hand, and reaching up, overturned the disgusting contents upon the surprised features of Nasty Ned, placing the bucket over his ears as she did so. The fulsome mess that habitually lurked inside the slop bucket oozed and dripped down the clothing and person of the ruffian, who roared hollowly in the bucket like a wounded bull. Ned disentangled himself, revealing a besmirched countenance ugly with vein-popping rage.
“Oi’ll cut yer heart out ’n eat it, ya young wretch! Talk ta me blade ’ere if ya won’t talk ta me!” he roared, the repulsive slime from the slop bucket dripping from his eyebrows. From out of his pocket, he produced a thick-bladed butcher knife. He lifted it into the air and sent it whirling at her. Katie, her legs weak from fear, stumbled sideways and she felt the blade’s steely breath as it passed very close to her ear.
Lord Linden had been concentrating on his dice when the silver gleam of the knife whipped on its path through his field of vision to land with a crack in the wall in back of him. This drew a roar of disapproval from the crowd, which had been indifferent to the little argument until now. Linden looked casually toward the blade where it jutted from the wall. He directed a short, indifferent glance at Katie and then a slightly longer, slightly less indifferent glance at Nasty Ned.
“Hey, slum rat,” said Linden, and pulled the knife out of the wall with a backhanded jerk. “If you want to practice your aim, don’t place your target in front of me. There’s more room for this kind of game outside.” He tossed the knife negligently toward Nasty Ned, who caught it in one hand.
“Oi’ll go outside, all right, ’n oi’ll take this little barboy wi’ me. We’ll play a game ’e may never’ve played before.” Ned looked viciously at Katie, who quailed and clutched frantically at Lord Linden’s arm as though to anchor herself to the relative safety of The Merry Maidenhead.
Linden placed a hand on Nasty Ned’s chest and gave him a quick powerful shove. Ned fell backward heavily, upending a table in the process. He rose to his feet again, the blade gleaming.…
THE DISH
Where Authors Give You the Inside Scoop
From the desk of Lily Dalton
Dear Reader,
Some people are heroic by nature. They act to help others without thinking. Sometimes at the expense of their own safety. Sometimes without ever considering the consequences. That’s just who they are. Especially when it’s a friend in need.
We associate these traits with soldiers who risk their lives on a dangerous battlefield to save a fallen comrade. Not because it’s their job, but because it’s their brother. Or a parent who runs into a busy street to save a child who’s wandered into the path of an oncoming car. Or an ocean life activist who places himself in a tiny boat between a whale and the harpoons of a whaling ship.
Is it so hard to believe that Daphne Bevington, a London debutante and the earl of Wolverton’s granddaughter, could be such a hero? When he
r dearest friend, Kate, needs her help, she does what’s necessary to save her. In her mind, no other choice will do. After all, she knows without a doubt that Kate would do the same for her if she needed help. It doesn’t matter one fig to her that their circumstances are disparate, that Kate is her lady’s maid.
But Daphne fi nds herself in over her head. In a moment, everything falls apart, throwing not only her reputation and her future into doubt, but her life into danger. Yet in that moment when all seems hopelessly lost… another hero comes out of nowhere and saves her. A mysterious stranger who acts without thinking, at the expense of his own safety, without considering the consequences. A hero on a quest of his own. A man she will never see again…
Only, of course… she does. And he’s not at all the hero she remembers him to be.
Or is he? I hope you will enjoy reading NEVER ENTICE AN EARL and fi nding out.
Best wishes, and happy reading!
LilyDalton.com
Twitter @LilyDalton
Facebook.com/LilyDaltonAuthor
From the desk of Shelley Coriell
Dear Reader,
Story ideas come from everywhere. Snippets of conversation. Dreams. The hunky guy at the office supply store with eyes the color of faded denim. THE BROKEN, the fi rst book in my new romantic suspense series, The Apostles, was born and bred as I sat at the bedside of my dying father.
In 2007 my dad, who lived on a mountain in northern Nevada, checked himself into his small town’s hospital after having what appeared to be a stroke. “A mild one,” he assured the family. “Nothing to get worked up about.” That afternoon, this independent, strong-willed man (aka stubborn and borderline cantankerous) checked himself out of the hospital. The next day he hopped on his quad and accidentally drove off the side of his beloved mountain. The ATV landed on him, crushing his chest, breaking ribs, and collapsing a lung.
The hospital staff told us they could do nothing for him, that he would die. Refusing to accept the prognosis, we had him Life-Flighted to Salt Lake City. After a touch-and-go forty-eight hours, he pulled through, and that’s when we learned the full extent of his injuries.
He’d had multiple strokes. The not-so-mild kind. The kind that meant he, at age sixty-three, would be forever dependent on others. His spirit was broken.
For the next week, the family gathered at the hospital. My sister, the oldest and the family nurturer, massaged his feet and swabbed his mouth. My brother, Mr. Finance Guy, talked with insurance types and made arrangements for post-release therapy. The quiet, bookish middle child, I had little to offer but prayers. I’d never felt so helpless.
As my dad’s health improved, his spirits worsened. He was mad at his body, mad at the world. After a particularly difficult morning, he told us he wished he’d died on that mountain. A horrible, heavy silence followed. Which is when I decided to use the one thing I did have.
I dragged the chair in his hospital room—you know the kind, the heavy, wooden contraption that folds out into a bed—to his bedside and took out the notebook I carry everywhere.
“You know, Dad,” I said. “I’ve been tinkering with this story idea. Can I bounce some stuff off you?”
Silence.
“I have this heroine. A news broadcaster who gets stabbed by a serial killer. She’s scarred, physically and emotionally.”
More silence.
“And I have a Good Guy. Don’t know much about him, but he also has a past that left him scarred. He carries a gun. Maybe an FBI badge.” That’s it. Two hazy characters hanging out in the back of my brain.
Dad turned toward the window.
“The scarred journalist ends up working as an aide to an old man who lives on a mountain,” I continued on the fly. “Oh-oh! The old guy is blind and can’t see her scars. His name is… Smokey Joe, and like everyone else in this story, he’s a little broken.”
Dad glared. I saw it. He wanted me to see it.
“And, you know what, Dad? Smokey Joe can be a real pain in the ass.”
My father’s lips twitched. He tried not to smile, but I saw that, too.
I opened my notebook. “So tell me about Smokey Joe. Tell me about his mountain. Tell me about his story.”
For the next two hours, Dad and I talked about an old man on a mountain and brainstormed the book that eventually became THE BROKEN, the story of Kate Johnson, an on-the-run broadcast journalist whose broken past holds the secret to catching a serial killer, and Hayden Reed, the tenacious FBI profiler who sees past her scars and vows to fi nd a way into her head, but to his surprise, heads straight for her heart.
“Hey, Sissy,” Dad said as I tucked away my notebook after what became the fi rst of many Apostle brainstorming sessions. “Smokey Joe knows how to use C-4. We need to have a scene where he blows something up.”
And “we” did.
So with a boom from old Smokey Joe, I’m thrilled to introduce you to Kate Johnson, Hayden Reed, and the Apostles, an elite group of FBI agents who aren’t afraid to work outside the box and, at times, outside the law. FBI legend Parker Lord on his team: “Apostles? There’s nothing holy about us. We’re a little maverick and a lot broken, but in the end we get justice right.”
Joy & Peace!
From the desk of Hope Ramsay
Dear Reader,
Jane Eyre may have been the fi rst romance novel I ever read. I know it made an enormous impression on me when I was in seventh grade and it undoubtedly turned me into an avid reader. I simply got lost in the love story between Jane Eyre and Edward Fairfax Rochester.
In other words, I fell in love with Rochester when I was thirteen, and I’ve never gotten over it. I re-read Jane Eyre every year or so, and I have every screen adaptation ever made of the book. (The BBC version is the best by far, even if they took liberties with the story.)
So it was only a matter of time before I tried to write a hero like Rochester. You know the kind: brooding, passionate, tortured… (sigh). Enter Gabriel Raintree, the hero of INN AT LAST CHANCE. He’s got all the classic traits of the gothic hero.
His heroine is Jennifer Carpenter, a plucky and self-reliant former schoolteacher turned innkeeper who is exactly the kind of no-nonsense woman Gabe needs. (Does this sound vaguely familiar?)
In all fairness, I should point out that I substituted the swamps of South Carolina for the moors of England and a bed and breakfast for Thornfield Hall. I also have an inordinate number of busybodies and matchmakers popping in and out for comic relief. But it is fair to say that I borrowed a few things from Charlotte Brontë, and I had such fun doing it.
I hope you enjoy INN AT LAST CHANCE. It’s a contemporary, gothic-inspired tale involving a brooding hero, a plucky heroine, a haunted house, and a secret that’s been kept for years.
From the desk of Molly Cannon
Dear Reader,
Weddings! I love them. The ceremony, the traditions, the romance, the flowers, the music, and of course the food. Face it. I embrace anything when cake is involved. When I got married many moons ago, there was a short ceremony and then cake and punch were served in the next room. That was it. Simple and easy and really lovely. But possibilities for weddings have expanded since then.
In FLIRTING WITH FOREVER, Irene Cornwell decides to become a wedding planner, and she has to meet the challenge of giving brides what they want within their budget. And it can be a challenge! I have planned a couple of weddings, and it was a lot of work, but it was also a whole lot of fun. Finding the venue, booking the caterer, deciding on the decorating theme. It is so satisfying to watch a million details come together to launch the happy couple into their new life together.
In one wedding I planned we opted for using mismatched dishes found at thrift stores on the buffet table. We found a bride selling tablecloths from her wedding and used different swaths of cloth as overlays. We made a canopy for the dance floor using pickle buckets and PFC pipe covered in vines and flowers, and then strung it with lights. We spray-painted cheap glass vases and filled
them with flowers to match the color palette. And then, as Irene discovered, the hardest part is cleaning up after the celebration is over. But I wouldn’t trade the experience for anything.
Another important theme in FLIRTING WITH FOREVER is second-chance love. My heart gets all aflutter when I think about true love emerging victorious after years of separation, heartbreak, and misunderstanding. Irene and Theo fell in love as teenagers, but it didn’t last. Now older and wiser they reunite and fall in love all over again. Sigh.
I hope you’ll join Irene and Theo on their journey. I promise it’s even better the second time around.
Happy Reading!
Mollycannon.com
Twitter @CannonMolly
Facebook.com
From the desk of Laura London
Dear Reader,
The spark to write THE WINDFLOWER came when Sharon read a three-hundred-year-old list of pirates who were executed by hanging. The majority of the pirates were teens, some as young as fourteen. Sharon felt so sad about these young lives cut short that it made her want to write a book to give the young pirates a happier ending.
For my part, I had much enjoyed the tales of Robert Lewis Stevenson as a boy. I had spent many happy hours playing the pirate with my cousins using wooden swords, cardboard hats, and rubber band guns.
Sharon and I threw ourselves into writing THE WIND-FLOWER with the full force of our creative absorption. We were young and in love, and existed in our imaginations on a pirate ship. We are proud that we created a novel that is in print on its thirty-year anniversary and has been printed in multiple languages around the world.
