Second Challenge/blogfest - Romantic Friday Writers

Romantic Friday Writers!



My entry today is from the same novella as last week - "Her Favoured Captain" - LOST the theme.

I swear, on my honour, it's from a romance novel. :o 

* * *



She crept close to the closed library doors, his words as clear as if she in the very room with him. “You cannot be serious,” he said, in the manner she had come to dread over the past two years. “We agreed terms, did we not?”


“We did indeed, your lordship, and had your sister obliged in my desire for a mere kiss to seal the betrothal, our agreement would be honoured in full.”

“I do not understand this sudden reluctance on Emerald’s part, for it was her wish to be sure this estate safe for future generations of Penhavean’s.”

“Nor I,” returned the earl, a long drawn sniff, and then another. She could well imagine snuff on the back of his hairy hand. A shiver of revulsion rippled down her spine, the memory of his hands upon her flesh detestable, his voice a reminder of the greater threat: unbidden attentions. He chuckled, and second icy shiver of fear streaked down her spine. “Wild little filly, to be sure, and although she sought to kill me with damnable candlestick, I will see my way to forgiveness on the proviso she comes to me before noon of her own volition, and alone.”

“In what manner do you propose this forgiveness you talk of?”

Had Ned not guessed the earl’s intentions? Had he no thought for her safety?

Silence hung heavy within the library, the weight of it pressing on her shoulders. Unable to see for herself, but ear to door she could imagine exchange of glances between her handsome brother and the bulldog-featured earl, saliva dripping from his mouth in anticipation of second close encounter with her.

“Come now, your lordship, would you have me deprived of a bit of a feel of your sister?” The earl drew breath, a sucked shuddering breath, as though delighting in the prospect of her in the room with him, and without protection as happened before. “You know how it is, dear boy. A filly trotted up and down, a ride to try out its stride, and then exchange of money to conclude the transaction.”

“You cannot be serious?” exclaimed Ned. “You expect me to . . .”

“Go for a walk,” barked the earl. “Do what ever you must, and on my honour I promise it shall be no more than a look and a feel of what I am to get for my money.”

Silence again befell the room. On his honour, the beast had no honour and would have had her the night previous had not the candelabra served her well in sending him to black void and she able to escape his clutches. What next his plan to deceive and get his way?

“That or I sell her as untried. Put her up for auction to the highest bidder. Your estate in close proximity to sea is not particular to my liking, so what say you we get this over and done with?”

“But she’s my sister, not a filly at a horse fair,” charged Ned, at last seeming on her side.

“In drunken stupor you gambled on your sister’s hand for marriage, your lordship, and lost. Last night we agreed terms on a legal document to be drawn as surety in payment of all your debts. On, I might add, proviso of my sampling your sister’s charms. Now it is up to you. Either I have her by noon or I sell her on.”

* * *



May 27th Challenge - Glitz & Glamour.

 If you would like to become a member of Romantic Friday Writers,

pin your pic on the wall,

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join the fun and get writing for next week's challenge.

Members post either poetry, snippets from novels, or pieces written especially for today's post. All supposedly no more than 400 wrds.
To keep within the specified paremeters is tough! I usually fail! ;)

If you would like to read more of today's posts select from list below.


Ann Best

Andy David
 
Andy McDonald
 
Francine's Romancing the Blog
 
J.L.Campbell
 
Kittie Howard
 
L'Aussie's Writing Blog
 
Laura Bambrey
 
Li
 
Madeleine
 
Margo Benson

N.R.Williams

Raquel Byrnes

Roland Yeomans

What is Writer Voice? How do you recognise it?

So, what is writer voice? How to recognise it! Have you got it, already?

Answer: It's your writer fingerprint!

There's a lot of myth associated with and regards to interpretation of writer voice.

Want to know more and get into a discussion about this, then pop over to HWH, grab a cup of coffee and let's talk writer voice!



TRA's Inanimation Blogfest

If you're here looking for Romantic Friday Writers challenge it's below this blogfest post.  

This blogfest is hosted by The Red Angel in celebration of 100 followers.

As the title suggests the subject matter inanimate theme!



I’d been sitting there for 50yrs: same porch, same house and same view. New folks and new kids moved in and out a half dozen times, and the garden rearranged as many if not more. New owners always assumed I to be a forgotten item, and the kids always said, “don’t throw it away, IT’s kind of cute.”

Year in year out, the seasons changed; I got baked, frozen, and on occasion a duster flicked over my rainbow coloured self. When that happened a frisson of something indefinable warmed my cold-to-the-touch form, for I felt loved if but for fleeting moment.

Kids, visiting kids, used to stand and stare at me, kind of like they’d wished they’d had one just like me. Adults, though, a wary eye cast in my direction, their verbal responses unrepeatable. I’d oft pondered why I existed at all if so regrettably bizarre. Then, a rather cute and inquisitive old dear came to visit one day, capacious handbag the like I’d never seen before. She too stopped to stare, and then in kindly manner laid a pat to my head and whispered: “Rather fetching plumage, dear chap, I quite like the look of you.”

Well, strike me pink, shortly before saying her good byes, I found meself snatched from the porch and careful secreted to bag. Now I do sit all proud and mighty with friends a plenty; our plumage dusted daily, and us all loved and treasured. Paradise is this house, a china parrot’s paradise.

To see entries by other participants, go here: TRA

Romantic Friday Writers challenge/blogfest

For this week's challenge the theme is "Dire Moment".

Brief: mine is the opening to a historical novel. Unfortunately, at 400 words the hero has yet to step centre stage! 

How could his stable be empty? She rushed across to a stable lad, straw and dung already pitched to wheelbarrow. “Where is Tobias?” His face flushed pink, and before she could question him further two shots echoed across the valley. “No-nooo,” her wail, yet her voice seemed somehow distant, not hers at all.

“I be so sorry yer ladyship, but his lordship said as how Tobias were finished. No good to any man.”

“Where, where has he taken him?’

“To the meadow.”

She turned, fled, and on approach to the meadow her heart sank for her brother came striding through the gateway a triumphant air. “How could you do that?” she screamed, heart wrenched by loss of Tobias.

“It had to be done, Emerald,” replied her brother, pistol to hand. “Would you have had him die a slow death?”

“But he looked and sounded so much better this morning.” Tears flooded forth, and it felt so good to pummel her hateful brother’s chest in childlike rage. “We thought him quite well, his breathing sound?”

Ned’s strength far greater than hers, and in spite of pistol in hand he managed to brush her aside and hold her at arm’s length. “We, who is we?”

“Your head groom, who else. Jenkins felt sure Tobias had not broken his wind despite persistent cough, and if you walked him to the meadow did you not hear his steady breath?”

“It is done, Emerald.’ He let slip his grip on her shoulder, and began to stride away. “The horse is now out of its misery, and no more to be said about it.”

“How dare you, take that tone with me. Tobias was my horse.”

He paused, turned to face her his hooded eagle-like eyes those of hardened soldier used to death and of killing. “Your horse, yes, and had you heeded my warning to ride in the manner befitting a lady, Tobias would be alive now, not dead.” She sensed him angered at her for reasons beyond compassion toward her horse, Tobias mere weapon in his arsenal of do as you are told or suffer the consequence. He wished to crush her defiance in refusing the Earl of Moorby’s hand in marriage: confirmed in venomous outburst. “With nothing to hold you here, now perhaps you will see your way to acceptance of the Earl’s offer of marriage.”

“You beast, utter beast. You murdered Tobias, and I shall never forgive you, never.” She drew sob-choked breaths and ran to the meadow. “Poor, poor Tobias. I shall love you always.”

She could not bear to stay there in bright sunshine, for his blood-streaked head and dappled grey lifeless body tore at her heartstrings. She ran across the meadow, the woodland edge a tear-laden blur of green and shadowed gloom. Once inside beneath its comforting cool canopy she trod the path that led to the creek. She would not be wed to a man twice her age. The waters, the waters of the creek, so cold, so inviting: she and Tobias would soon gallop forever.

To see entries by other participants, go here and select from thumbnail images in sidebar.

Above image is clue to the hero's status!

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