At First Sight Blogfest - Hate, Love, Soulmate!



Today's blogfest is hosted by Jacee. To see the other participants go here. 

This snippet is from one of my historical romances.

Brief: The two MCs are soulmates and madly in love but circumstances of war have placed them on opposing sides. 

A runner reached Axebury Hall (Cavalier household) with news that drunken deserters from Waller's army (Parliamentarians) have it in mind to attack the house with intention of rape and pillage. All the female staff have left, and the men gone to the gates to try and prevent assault upon the house. The young lady and her personal maid have set out for Knoll House to raise the alarm and, to try and secure help from a enemy captain of horse, once the love of the young lady's life.



‘We cannot go by way of the bridge. It might be dangerous if those deserters are already at the gates,’ declared Anna Lady Maitcliffe, and so they set off toward the church. ‘We shall have to go up the valley a little way and across the fields to the woods, and thence to Knoll House.’


‘Yes m ‘lady,’ said Tilly, sounding as nervous as Anna felt.

‘The lantern Tilly, we must leave it behind. It’s too dangerous to show even a speck of light with the enemy at the gates.’

Tilly stopped, opened the lantern window and blew out the candle, and then left it safely beside the church gate in passing.

They stumbled, they fell, but onward they went all the while eyes adjusting to night vision, and on one occasion almost screamed when a deer crashed across the path directly in front of them.

Tilly whispered, ‘I cannot hear a battle. No men shouting, not a sound.’

‘Nor me,’ said Anna, as they finally reached the woodland path. ‘Let us hope the deserters were ale hearty and drank more than was good for them.’

‘Drunken sops m’lady, is that what you is hoping of them?’

‘Indeed Tilly, I am hoping that.’

They rambled on making good time according to the clock striking out across the valley, and by one of the clock had reached Axebury Wood, where they stopped to get breath and to listen for any sound of enemy soldiers within the woodland. By half-past three of Knoll clock they were through the meadows, past the village and began their ascent up Knoll Hill, but with no moon it was doubly difficult and painful on occasion of their tangling with brambles. By four they had reached the end of the spinney at Knoll House boundary, and as they came up the side of the spinney a man’s voice said, ‘And where do you think you two is going my little maids?’

Tilly clung to Anna’s arm, and in reply to a man sitting on the ground, said in her sharp tongue, ‘Who be asking?’

The man rose to his feet towering above them, a blanket falling to the ground and shiny breastplate evident as he blocked their path. ‘I’ll be asking the questions around yer. Now, who be you and what you wanting yer?’

Anna stepped in with, ‘I’m here to see Morton Gantry, Captain Gantry.’

‘And you are,’ he asked, tone surly.

‘Anna Lady Maitcliffe.’

He chuckled, spat tobacco from his mouth, said, ‘That’ll be me then.’

‘Shut your silly mouth,’ said Tilly, ‘and let us pass.’

‘It is important we see Captain Gantry immediate,’ stressed Anna, concerned for the men at the gates of Axebury Hall. ‘Deserters from Waller’s forces were seen in Axebury village alehouse and heard threatening to ransack Axebury Hall and kill its occupants.’

‘You from there are yer?’ he asked, turning to gather something from the ground.

‘We are, and I must see Morton straight away.’

‘Deserters you say?’

‘Yes,’ yelled Tilly, ‘now either let us pass or go tell the cap ‘n yerself.’

At that outburst from her and her brave stance, the soldier held a musket aloft and fired it skyward.

Tilly screamed hands to ears, her former bravado to flight.

A short while after the bell over the coach house then began to ring out.

Knoll House was on alert, and by the time they reached the house soldiers were assembled out front and horses being readied. Morton appeared almost the very instant a young soldier stepped forward to accost Anna and Tilly, as they in turn hurried to the front entrance.

Halted by the young soldier Tilly stepped between to protect Anna,

‘Anna, what has happened?’ enquired Morton, dashing forward.

‘Roundheads sir,’ said Tilly, stepping aside along with the surly young soldier, as both allowed Morton access to Anna. ‘They be attacking Axebury Hall, or at least we thinks they is. That’s what they said in village alehouse, and was looking to rape us women and to kill your father who ain't there a course’

‘My men are all here,’ rallied Morton, sounding defensive of his troopers.

‘Deserters Morton, from Waller’s forces,’ informed Anna, glancing at the sleeve of his previously injured arm. ‘Can your men not go and stop them?’

He saw her eyes fallen upon his arm, and he turned about as though preferring no recollection of her former kindness and shouted, ‘Mount up men, we have deserters hereabouts and,  arms and ammunition to be rested from their hold.’

Anna lightly touched his shoulder. ‘Are you well enough, Morton, to go with your men?’

‘I’m well Anna, and all thanks to you the arm is as good as new.’

A warm feeling embraced her, his hand clasping hers so natural and comforting as he briskly led off back toward the main doorway at Knoll House. He ushered her inside, Tilly on their heels.

‘You were right to come here, Anna, and I will leave guards outside the house, and know that men are in and around the grounds, so you are quite safe here.’

In the hallway, its oak panelling and oak staircase dark and sombre beneath candlelight, Morton drew to a halt and turned to face Anna.

In his sky-blue eyes she saw love, untainted love, and it tore at her heartstrings because something in his manner expressed knowledge of her betrothal, betrothal to his father.

‘Morton, I am so . . .’

He placed a finger to her lips, as though unable to bear hearing her excuses.

‘The Lady Georgina will be roused by now, and I shall leave you in her care.'

The pause that followed seemed an eternity of eyes locked with longing, hearts pounding in unison and each knowing the awful truth, and it was all too late. Then he broke the moment.

'The sooner I go the sooner I shall return.’ He drew her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. ‘Let us hope I am not too late, and Axebury Hall razed to the ground by fire.’

‘Oh no, not that,’ she said, ‘cook bolted herself in the kitchens.’

‘I shall check on cook first chance I get, I promise.’

He stepped round her, reached for his sword and pistols and helmet left lain on a chest and strode out through the main doorway. She ran to the doorway, and there stood and watched him as he made ready for battle and then mounted his horse. As he rode off he glanced back as though sensing her there. She waved, he waved, and she feared for his life.

She loved Morton, had never stopped loving him.

Oh god, what had she done, what had she done to be so emotionally tormented by father and son?


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There's another blogfest today hosted by Erica & Christy.

To see my entry and link to other participants go here

In Loving Memory - Poetic Leanings!

In comments re my entry for "They're People Too" I said I would post up a special poem this week:

My husband, who used to be based in London, happened to be walking through Hyde Park and felt as though the ghosts of the horses killed - by an IRA bomb blast in London see news item - were walking alongside him.

Needless to say the Blues & Royals of the Queen's Royal Household Cavalry were on ceremonial duty at the time of the bomb blast. Bear in mind the horses are Irish Draught x Thoroughbred bloodstock.

Hyde Park


All Ireland hang your head in shame , We horses here were not to blame

Our blood it came from both your lands, Our mouths were held by gentle hands

No soldiers these upon our backs, But loving men who cleaned our tack

Our hooves will never ring the ground, We never heard a battle sound

I hope our deaths will make you pause, For the land you seek was always yours...

N.D.S.

( walking in Hyde Park)



Bad News Blogfest - Directly Below: They're People Too blogfest!

This is my contribution to the Bad News Blogfest - it's a snippet from my novel Unbidden Billionaire Legacy! 



Brief: This scene kicks off the next morning after Tara received a telephone call asking her “Where in hell is Rick?” She had presumed him arrived at his destination in South America. The phone call itself although disturbing and distressing, far worse is yet to come.




By eight Giorgio was the first guest to surface in the sitting room. ‘Any news?’

She felt numb and lacking in emotion. ‘I wish.’

She noted the casual way he draped his jacket over the arm of the chair, and the swivel of his hips before sinking his backside into the plush cushion seat. Liza was right. He was the epitome of elegant debonair man about town with hint of darker side yet to be revealed. His suit was dark grey, almost black, his Sicilian heritage more than evident in suntanned olive skin and dark eyes.

Oh yes, he was a handsome young individual and he knew it.

His eyes met hers and she saw ally not opponent as Liza had suggested might be the case. There was empathy reflected in his dark sultry Mediterranean eyes, unlike on the previous evening when he and Liza had embarked on a sparring match. His eyes then, had given the impression that if asked, he’d kill to keep Trans Europa Shipping under the Easterly flag, despite his name that of Giorgio Denaro: his mother Darrell Easterly’s sister, his father a Sicilian businessman.

‘Miss Tara,’ said Beattie, entering in haste waving a newspaper. ‘You better see this. It bad news.’

Tara leapt to her feet and took hold of the newspaper. The front-page headline said it all: Ricky Lindon Missing. The sub heading: Air Crash in South America and the article said: Yesterday morning rumors of a missing aircraft hit the airwaves, and coastguards and air sea rescue crews were scrambled. The golden boy of Hollywood failed to turn up on location for his latest movie some six days ago. Although hopes were raised late yesterday evening when a spotter plane reported a crash site on a remote beach, the crew saw no sign of life in or around the wreckage. This morning the aircraft was confirmed to be that of Ricky Lindon’s Learjet.

She felt sick.

She read on aloud: An air rescue team reached the remote crash site early this morning, and reported the largest section of the Learjet’s fuselage was partially submerged. It’s been confirmed there are no survivors.

She couldn’t bear to read more. ‘Yes, but it’s a week since he left. What if someone else has rescued him? A boat perhaps . . . sailing past. Fishermen? I don’t know, someone . . . some how.  It’s possible, isn’t it?’

Oh god, she was clutching at straws, but she couldn’t give up on him. Heart pounding her stomach tightened, and bile rose in her throat.

The silence of the room was a deafening void.
She hardly felt Giorgio easing the newspaper from her hands.

Beattie meantime wrapped arms around in a motherly way, and tears could not be held back.

As soon as Liza and Max entered they feared the worst, and Giorgio handed the paper to Liza. Max leaned over her shoulder as both absorbed the reality of what had happened.

Liza was first to speak. ‘Oh Tara, Tara. I am so sorry.’

She needed time to think, to seek sanctuary in her own room. If she didn't she'd scream, every ounce of strength and self-restraint fast diminishing.

What had happened?

CNN would surely be reporting the latest on Rick’s crash. ‘Give me a minute or two, Giorgio, and then we’ll go through your proposal thoroughly.’ She turned to leave, addressed herself to Liza. ‘Can you go through those pointers I mentioned yesterday, and let Giorgio have the file to read through.'

Thankfully no one tried to dissuade her from leaving, and the room fell silent as she made her exit. It wouldn’t stay that way once she was out of earshot. Always at times like these she knew hushed whispers became the norm.

As soon as she stepped inside her room she cried her grief, sobbed her hurt and despaired the longing. She felt empty and lost without him, but she had to know for sure that he wouldn't be coming back, and had to know why his plane had crashed.

Was he too tired to fly that distance, after  . . .?  Oh God, why had he left in the way that he had?

She switched on the television.

What have I done, what have I done? Oh God, that we should be so cruelly torn apart like this.

I can't, can't go on without him.

Of course, Tara does go on without him but events that follow take her (she thinks) to the brink of insanity, until the night of a masked ball (held in her honour) when truth becomes stranger than fiction. Suddenly feeling as though caught up in some bizarre Cinderella set and that of reverse role play,  she then finds herself the heroine in a Beauty and the Beast scenario.  Oh how I love writing romance and putting heroes and heroines through emotional hell. ;)

To see the other participants for this blogfest go here

Directly below this post is my contribution to Tessa Conte's "They're People Too" blogfest, so please check it out and the other participants.

My entry for "They're People Too" blogfest!

Many thanks to Tessa Conte for hosting this blogfest. I think it's probably the most difficult one to date.
I really had to put my brain into gear for this:

Through ages past we danced our life from seed to journey’s end.

WE shimmied in carpets green and gold and watched through rainbow arches. WE flounced in drifts of blue and white, oft spied beneath some wooded bough. Yet, no other it would seem as wild in dance and blaze of glory.

Why then that WE, are the chosen symbol of death, of grieving, and remembrance?

A rippling breeze, a howling gale, wind-ravaged, wet and ragged, and still we stand on spidered green. Yet, for all the whispering and singing of the grasses, and leaves all hollering from the trees, none of that can temper our vibrancy.

Why then that WE, are the chosen symbol of death, of grieving, and remembrance?

Adrift in canorous water-filled holes, fluttering through bared bones and twisted metal, we've see the lifeless souls depart, from the barbarous sins of wars and wants. Yet, still we remain, in annihilations waste, beacons all aflame.

So perhaps, most blessed then are WE, the immodest among our species, who represent death, grieving, and remembrance. For when our garish scarlet hue stands proud upon lapels, WE are the symbol of the fallen.

For battlefields and oceans deep, are a hellish place to die.

Francine Howarth





To read the other entries go here.



My Blogfeast Blogfest Entry!

This is my entry for the blogfeast blogfest hosted by Angela - to see the full list of entries go here and look for the list at bottom of Angela's post.

Crossroads!



This snippet has been snatched from one of my novels.

Sue couldn’t believe she’d just done that; driven up to the crossroads and instead of driving straight over she’d turned right. Now, here she was at Home Farm, the place of her happy childhood.


She dashed inside the old farmhouse, called out a hello and received a reply from her mother, as always in the kitchen. Sweet essence of apple drifted on the ether, and before she entered that oh so familiar room she more or less expected to see flour dusted hands, her mother in the process of rolling pastry.

Her mother glanced up, smiled, and with back of wrist brushed a wayward strand of hair from her brow, indeed exactly as visualised beforehand.

‘You’re looking pleased with yourself,’ her comment.

Sue sensed inner scrutiny, her mother’s expression implying she might know more than she was letting on. She was right, for her mother averted her gaze and flipped the edge of the pastry over the rolling pin and began lifting it from the table.

‘Is there something you’re wanting to tell me?’ she said, quiet matter of fact yet hint of secondary smile, ‘only you look as though bursting with good news, and itching to tell someone. Is it your dad, you want?’

‘What makes you think I came here to reveal something?’ quizzed Sue, as diced apple covered with brown sugar disappeared beneath a cloak of pastry.

‘Mother’s intuition.’

Sue was stunned, thinking she’d kept her secret so well. ‘How long have you known?

‘Ooooh, at least five months.’

‘Actually it’s six.’

Her mother suddenly stopped finger pressing the pastry edge, her imprints already halfway around the pie dish. ‘So you were . . . Oh my goodness . . .’

‘Yes, shockingly pregnant at the altar.’

‘Not the first time that’s happened in the family, and I doubt it’ll be the last,’ proclaimed her mother.

Her mother’s attention suddenly re-directed to the pastry and flush to her cheeks, Sue sensed this a confessional. ‘You mean, I . . .?’

‘Yes, and your grandmother before that.’

‘Well, and I thought I might be letting the side down, hence my keeping it a secret.’

Her mother picked up a knife and began trimming excess edging from the pastry case. ‘And Andy, did he know? Is he pleased?’

‘He’s ecstatic,’ she replied, as her mother hefted the pie dish to the AGA.
Then, with floured hands and all, her mother came round the table. ‘I’ve been knitting baby clothes, and your dad said I might be jumping the gun,’ confessed her mother, a tear tracking down her cheek. ‘But I knew, just knew.’’

‘What will dad say, do you think?’

‘I can’t begin to tell you how pleased he’ll be. He’s already got a little pair of Wellington boots tucked away. Teeny-weeny ones. So cute.’

Sue burst into tears, and her mother as always hugged her close.