Tag Archives: best paranormal romance novel

Sweet Saturday Snippet from Murder Mystery Ghost Story Romance Somewhere My Love–Beth Trissel


NEW SOMEWHERE MY LOVE COVER2

Excerpt from Chapter Ten

Julia huddled in a chair looking strained and vulnerable.  She bore an unsettling resemblance to Ophelia, almost as if Shakespeare had written the lines with her in mind. If only Will could have five minutes alone with her.  He’d sooth her troubled spirit, he was sure, but they hadn’t had five minutes…

His grandmother tapped her cane, her eyes  bright. She wasn’t concerned about Julia, or anyone else for that matter. Nothing and no one was paramount to her except this play, and she was single-minded about getting it off the ground. She cleared her throat. “All right, folks. Let’s begin,” she said in an unusually strong voice. “Thank you for taking part in this momentous occasion.”

A polite round of applause followed, and she paused to nod graciously before continuing. “For those of you new to the play, I will give you the setting.” Here, the old lady came into her own, bent forward, her tone filled with mystery. “Imagine if you will the handsome young prince Hamlet. His  beloved father is dead and Hamlet’s grief is black. Rather than opening with the funeral, though, we shall commence with the haunting.”

Anyone in the assembly unaware of a ghostly presence in the play perked up with interest. And everyone seemed more attentive, despite themselves, as the story teller wove on.  “We shall have props later, but for now, envision this hall as a dark medieval castle in Denmark at the dead of night. Hamlet has heard his father’s spirit roams the battlement at this haunted hour. He  and his friends are there watching for the royal specter. We will make do with one friend until I can recruit others.” She swept her hand at Will and one of the gardeners. “William, Dave, center stage.”

Will knew his lines but Dave, whom his grandmother had pressed into playing Horatio, held a dog-eared script in his callused hand. He bent his red neck over the pages and squinted. “Which is me, Mrs. Wentworth?”

“I’ve marked your part,” she told him. “And we’ve abbreviated the lines, a sort of condensed version.”

Shakespeare would turn in his grave at the butchering she’d done to his work, but there was nothing for it other than to enter into the spirit of the evening. Will strode to the middle of the hall, his mind only half on the play. He was suited for the part of Hamlet, though, feeling brooding enough. He glanced around as if seeing only dark battlements and rubbed his hands together, blowing on them. “‘The air bites shrewdly. It is very cold.’”

Dave nodded, his head ringed with the hat hair effect left from his gardening cap. He rubbed a grizzled chin with thick fingers, stumbling as he spoke in his Southern twang. “‘It is a nipping and an eager air.’” He paused. “What does that mean?”

“He agrees with Hamlet that it’s cold,” Will explained. “My line. ‘What hour now?’”

Dave glanced at his wrist as though that would enhance the scene. “‘I think it lacks of twelve,’” he drawled.

Will shook his head at him. “No watches then, Dave.”

Their director interrupted at this point. “Let’s get on to the ghost,” Queen Nora said in her erratic manner.

Dave adopted a bug-eyed expression Will supposed was intended to mime fear and pointed shakily. “‘Look, my lord, it comes.’”

Will raised his eyes to the second floor landing where Joe, the other gardener, stood beckoning to him with white fingers. The lime dust powdering him from an application to the lawn lent some credibility to his ghostly effort, but not a lot. Will pressed his fist to his mouth, partly to keep from laughing, and then dropped his hand so as not to muffle the words.

“‘Angels and ministers of grace defend us…be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn’d, bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell. Thou  comes in such a questionable shape. I’ll call thee Hamlet, King, father. What may this mean that thou should revisit us?’”

Dave grabbed his sleeve. “‘It beckons you to go  away with it, but do not go.’”

A nice touch, Will conceded. He shook Dave off. “‘It will not speak, then I will follow it,’” he said, and left Dave to dash up the stairs.

His grandmother called out, “Skip ahead to the parts I specified!”

Will stumbled as Joe lunged at him, more in an attack mode than as a fearsome specter, and gripped his shoulders. “‘I am thy father’s spirit doomed for a certain term to walk the night and for the day confined to fast in fires,’” Joe declared in his gravelly bass voice.

Will recited his part automatically, his chief concern escaping this ape-man unscathed. Joe was a hard worker, but not the sharpest knife in the drawer.  Moaning as though he were portraying Jacob Marley, Joe gave Will a teeth-rattling jar. “‘If thou didst ever thy dear father love—’”

“‘Oh, God,’” Will said, both as Hamlet and himself.

“‘Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder,’” Joe demanded.

“‘Murder?’” Will echoed.

Jon tightened his hold. Surely, he was the most hell-bent ghostly king any actor had ever portrayed. “‘Now, Hamlet, hear me,’” he growled, like a hit man about to eliminate him if he didn’t take heed. “‘Tis given out that sleeping in my orchard a serpent stung me. The serpent that did sting your father’s life now wears his crown.’”

“‘Oh, my prophetic soul—my uncle,’” Will said.

“‘Aye,’” Joe groaned. “‘That incestuous, adulterous beast with witchcraft of his wit and traitorous gifts. While sleeping in my orchard, my custom always in the afternoon, thy uncle stole with juice of cursed hebona in a vial and in the porches of my ears did pour the leprous distilment.’”

Joe clutched him by the throat. Was Hamlet ever so beset upon? With a credible effort at lamentation, Joe roared  in mock agony, “‘If thou hast nature in thee bear it not! Let not the royal bed of Denmark be a couch for luxury and damned incest. As for thy mother leave her to heaven and to those thorns that in her bosom  lodge to prick and sting her. Fare thee well. Adieu, Adieu. Hamlet, remember me.’”

Joe released Will and he staggered back, gasping for breath. But the prophetic plea coupled with the warning of treachery struck him as significant. He sensed it had to do with Cole. Was  there something more he should do about his distant cousin? Cole had been struck down with a sword. Everyone knew that, didn’t they?

Or was there more to the story? Some crucial aspect left untold?

***Somewhere My Love is available in Kindle at Amazon. And in Nookbook. The novel is also available in print.

***For more authors participating in Sweet Saturday Samples Click HERE.

My ‘Somewhere in Time’ Series–Beth Trissel


The idea behind my ‘Somewhere in Time’ series (shortened to ‘Somewhere’ on several of the books) is that the story opens in an old home, so far vintage Virginia homes, and then transports the reader back in time either in the same wonderful old house–I love old homes–or another place entirely, such as the Scottish Highlands. As is the case in my Scottish time travel romance novel, Somewhere My Lass, and the sequel I’m at work on now, Somewhere in the Highlands. Both stories convey the characters to and from early 17th century Scotland via a portal in time. All of which is inspired by my fascination with the past. The unifying characteristic of the series is the paranormal/time travel element, but the stories themselves aren’t necessarily tied together. Though some of them are and will be. It’s the encompassing theme that really matters, and one  I faithfully adhere to.

Doors play a big role in this series. Behind every door lies a secret, an intriguing puzzle to be solved, so these romances are also suspenseful mysteries.

I came up with the idea for my Somewhere in Time series about 5 years ago while watching one of my favorite British mysteries, Midsomer Murders.  I enjoy the historic setting of these modern day mysteries, but especially when the story flashes back to an even earlier time in an old manor house or church to get to the root of the mystery. So I thought, why not incorporate that with my love of romance and history. Story Ideas sometimes come from the most unlikely sources. Actually, they often do. Not to mention all of the inspiration I’ve gleaned over the years from dreams.

“Man … can go up against gravitation in a balloon, and why should he not hope that ultimately he may be able to stop or accelerate his drift along the Time-Dimension, or even turn about and travel the other way.”~ H.G. WELLS, The Time Machine

“Once confined to fantasy and science fiction, time travel is now simply an engineering problem.” ~ MICHIO KAKUWired Magazine, Aug. 2003

Moreover, I’m intrigued by ghost stories, and Virginia has more tales than any other state. I find myself asking if the folk who’ve gone before us are truly gone, or do some still have unfinished business in this realm? And what of the young lovers whose time was tragically cut short, do they somehow find a way?  Love conquers all, so I answer ‘yes.’  The theme behind light paranormal murder mystery, ghost story romance Somewhere My Love, the first in my ‘Somewhere in Time’ series.

Time Travel, Ghosts, and Reincarnation.  Sacred relics and fated lovers. Fantasy, mystery, magic, and above all romance…

“Know that love is truly timeless.” ~Author  Mary M. Ricksen

Somewhere My Love:

Fated lovers have a rare chance to reclaim the love cruelly denied them in the past, but can they grasp this brief window in time before it’s too late?

Blurb: Two hundred years ago Captain Cole Wentworth, the master of an elegant Virginian home, was murdered in his chamber where his portrait still hangs. Presently the estate is a family owned museum run by Will Wentworth, a man so uncannily identical to his ancestor that spirit-sensitive tour guide Julia Morrow has trouble recognizing Cole and Will as separate. As Julia begins to remember the events of Cole’s death, she must convince Will that history is repeating, and this time he has the starring role in the tragedy. The blade is about to fall.

“As I read Somewhere My Love, I recalled the feelings I experienced the first time I read Daphne DuMaurier’s Rebecca long ago. Using the same deliciously eerie elements similar to that gothic romance, Beth Trissel has captured the haunting dangers, thrilling suspense and innocent passions that evoke the same tingly anticipation and heartfelt romance I so enjoyed then, and still do now.”

~joysann for Publisher’s Weekly

“Beth Trissel has written a captivating ghost story entwining a contemporary love story with the mystery of a murder from the nineteenth century. The wonderful characters and evocative historical details caught my attention from the first page.” ~Author Helen Scott Taylor for paranormal romance Somewhere my Love

In Somewhere My Lass, I journeyed back to 1602 Scotland and more deeply explored my Scottish roots.  I’m at work on the sequel.

An ancient relic, a medieval crypt, a mad highlander at their throats and time fast running out. Mystery, suspense, romance,Somewhere My Lass.

Blurb: Neil MacKenzie’s well ordered life turns to chaos when Mora Campbell shows up claiming he’s her fiance from 1602 Scotland. Her avowal that she was chased to the future by clan chieftain, Red MacDonald, is utter nonsense, and Neil must convince her that she is just addled from a blow to her head–or so he believes until the MacDonald himself shows up wanting blood.

Mora knows the Neil of the future is truly her beloved Niall who disappeared from the past. Although her kinsmen believe he’s dead, and she is now destined to marry Niall’s brother, she’s convinced that if she and Neil return to the past, all will be right. The only problem is how to get back to 1602 before it’s too late.

The balance of the present and future are in peril if she marries another, and the Neil of the present will cease to exist. An ancient relic and a few good friends in the future help pave the way back to the past, but will Mora and Neil be too late to save a love that began centuries before?

Reviewed by: Silvermage of Night Owl Reviews ~’Somewhere My Lass was a wonderful time-travel romance. I enjoyed that the time-travel went from the past to 2009 and not the other way.”

“Somewhere My Lass presents a convoluted time-twisting conundrum which becomes more intriguing as it goes along. I found the romance of it touching, the enigma baffling, and the resolution unexpected. A light, interesting blend of contemporary and historical fiction.” ~joysann, Publisher’s Weekly

Speaking of wonderful old homes, the image below is of the old Virginia family home place that lies at the heart of many of my stories and is the setting for my ghostly Christmas romance novella, Somewhere the Bells Ring.

Chapel Hill - old VA family home place

Nostalgia about the late 1960’s and an earlier era, WWI, coupled with a vivid dream inspired this vintage American Christmas ghost story. 

‘Although Somewhere the Bells Ring has a holiday theme, it’s an anytime read for Romance Lovers.’

Blurb: Caught with pot in her dorm room, Bailey Randolph is exiled to a relative’s ancestral home in Virginia to straighten herself out. Banishment to Maple Hill is dismal, until a ghost appears requesting her help. Bailey is frightened but intrigued. Then her girlhood crush, Eric Burke, arrives and suddenly Maple Hill isn’t so bad.

To Eric, wounded in Vietnam, his military career shattered, this homecoming feels no less like exile. But when he finds Bailey at Maple Hill, her fairy-like beauty gives him reason to hope–until she tells him about the ghost haunting the house. Then he wonders if her one experiment with pot has made her crazy.

As Bailey and Eric draw closer, he agrees to help her find a long-forgotten Christmas gift the ghost wants. But will the magic of Christmas be enough to make Eric believe–in Bailey and the ghost–before the Christmas bells ring?

For Somewhere the Bells Ring:

“Ms. Trissel captivates her reader from the moment you start reading the first page. She has written a compelling love story that spans some fifty plus years and keeps you entertained every step of the way with the story within a story…I fell in love with Ms. Trissel’s characters and look forward to the next delightful story ready with Kleenex box in hand. A must read for every romance fan.”
~Reviewed by Robin for Romancing the Book

***All three of these stories are available at Amazon and two of them are also at other online booksellers.

Sweet Saturday Snippet from The Bearwalker’s Daughter–Historical Paranormal Romance Novel


`Excerpt from Chapter Three

Autumn, 1784, the Allegheny Mountains of Western Virginia, the Scots-Irish Gathering in the McNeal Homestead

Guilt pricked Karin’s conscience. Stealth was at odds with her nature, but an inner voice summoned her, an irresistible melody. She instinctively knew where the music came from and that she must heed the age-old rhythm.

She crept into the main room. The dancers had succumbed to grogginess. Shadowy figures slumbered before the reddish-orange logs in the hearth, rolled up in blankets and deerskins on the floor boards. Other dark forms were bedded down in the loft overhead.  Some hardy souls had ventured out into the wind-tossed night after the startling end to the celebration. They’d headed home, but many folks remained within the stout walls of the homestead.

Popping wood settled in the hearth with a shower of orange sparks. Karin paused in mid-step.

No one stirred, except to snore and grunt in their sleep. Generous draughts of strong drink contributed to their unresponsive stupor. Saint Peter himself would have been hard-pressed to wake them. Like a vagrant spirit, she easily stole through the sprawled assembly and into the chamber where they’d taken Jack McCray.

A single candle burned on the circular bedside stand. The fringed pouch which laid on its walnut surface had been stained with use and the horn worn translucent so that it revealed the black powder within. The potentially lethal tomahawk gleamed in the flickering light. That same glow illuminated its owner stretched out in Joseph’s place, his long torso and legs spread the length of the mattress.

She needn’t worry that Jack grew chilled. Two brown striped wool blankets snugly wrapped him. She stopped beside his slumbering form, trembling with the cold and shaken by her daring in being where none would want her, except possibly the recipient of her scrutiny. Thankfully, he was unaware of her presence.

Had Jack even known what words escaped his lips when he’d whispered that strange message to her? Likely it was simply the wanderings of a confused mind borne of injury, but mystery veiled everything about the handsome stranger. Even lying there senseless, he drew her as if on the keenest wind.

She trailed her eyes over his face, pale beneath his bronzed skin, though not as drained of color as she’d feared. The covers rested partway down his muscular shoulders and chest. White linen swathed his upper   right arm where she’d applied the bandage. As far as she knew the only clothing he wore was an elkskin breechclout and a woven belt at his waist. He wouldn’t part with his knife. Grandpa had stripped off all else.

The restraints of modesty posed no hindrance to Neeley who’d sponged more of their guest than was seemly for Karin to do. An herbal scent clung to Jack’s clean skin and his freshly combed chestnut hair spread over the pillow. Unaccustomed to a man in this state of undress, Karin returned her close study to his face, disturbingly attractive with a familiar quality in his youthful but ruggedly masculine features.

His even brow and nose bore a strong resemblance to Joseph’s, not so large as to be out of proportion, but distinctive and definitely McCray. Beneath the dark whiskers roughening his firm chin she saw the same small cleft, a family trait. Jack lacked his brother’s reddish tones, though, and was a warm brown from his sun-kissed skin to his hair. More like Uncle Thomas.

Here lay no boy newly sprung to manhood, but a well-honed frontiersman and Lord only knew what else. Joseph paled in comparison with his striking brother, partly because Jack was new and different. Wonderfully so. But she couldn’t stand and stare at him all night.

She laid her hand on his forehead, relieved to find no sign of fever. Neeley was familiar with all the healing herbs and had taught Karin well. Jack’s robust health would also aid his recovery. Confident he was on the mend, Karin let her curious inspection drift to the white stone suspended from the leather cord around his neck. Pink lights in the quartz shimmered with rosy iridescence. Intrigued, she reached out her hand to the polished surface—freezing as he groaned.

His eyes opened. In that instant, any resemblance between the brothers vanished. Jack’s seeing, yet not seeing, gaze fixed on her with a feral gleam.

Fear rushed through her. Snatching her hand away, she spun around.

Not fast enough.

She gasped as he snagged her wrist and jerked her down onto the bed. Snaking his sound arm around her chest, he pinned both arms at her sides. His injured limb was equally able—the pain seemingly forgotten in his craze.

Whipping out his knife, he poised it at her throat. Just like that, she was a heart-pounding slice away from death. Surely her chest would burst.

“What do you want?” he demanded hoarsely.~

***To visit more authors taking part in Sweet Saturday Samples click HERE!

***The powder horn and pouch pictured above once belonged to Daniel Boone but has been stolen.  For more on that visit: http://www.boonesociety.org/articles/danielboonpowderhorn.htm

The Bearwalker’s Daughter is available in Amazon Kindle for .99!

Sweet Saturday Snippet from Paranormal Romance Somewhere My Love


Julia huddled in a chair looking strained and vulnerable.  She bore an unsettling resemblance to Ophelia, almost as if Shakespeare had written the lines with her in mind. If only Will could have five minutes alone with her.  He’d sooth her troubled spirit, he was sure, but they hadn’t had five minutes…

His grandmother tapped her cane, her eyes  bright. She wasn’t concerned about Julia, or anyone else for that matter. Nothing and no one was paramount to her except this play, and she was single-minded about getting it off the ground. She cleared her throat. “All right, folks. Let’s begin,” she said in an unusually strong voice. “Thank you for taking part in this momentous occasion.”

A polite round of applause followed, and she paused to nod graciously before continuing. “For those of you new to the play, I will give you the setting.” Here, the old lady came into her own, bent forward, her tone filled with mystery. “Imagine if you will the handsome young prince Hamlet. His  beloved father is dead and Hamlet’s grief is black. Rather than opening with the funeral, though, we shall commence with the haunting.”

Anyone in the assembly unaware of a ghostly presence in the play perked up with interest. And everyone seemed more attentive, despite themselves, as the story teller wove on.  “We shall have props later, but for now, envision this hall as a dark medieval castle in Denmark at the dead of night. Hamlet has heard his father’s spirit roams the battlement at this haunted hour. He  and his friends are there watching for the royal specter. We will make do with one friend until I can recruit others.” She swept her hand at Will and one of the gardeners. “William, Dave, center stage.”

Will knew his lines but Dave, whom his grandmother had pressed into playing Horatio, held a dog-eared script in his callused hand. He bent his red neck over the pages and squinted. “Which is me, Mrs. Wentworth?”

“I’ve marked your part,” she told him. “And we’ve abbreviated the lines, a sort of condensed version.”

Shakespeare would turn in his grave at the butchering she’d done to his work, but there was nothing for it other than to enter into the spirit of the evening. Will strode to the middle of the hall, his mind only half on the play. He was suited for the part of Hamlet, though, feeling brooding enough. He glanced around as if seeing only dark battlements and rubbed his hands together, blowing on them. “‘The air bites shrewdly. It is very cold.’”

Dave nodded, his head ringed with the hat hair effect left from his gardening cap. He rubbed a grizzled chin with thick fingers, stumbling as he spoke in his Southern twang. “‘It is a nipping and an eager air.’” He paused. “What does that mean?”

“He agrees with Hamlet that it’s cold,” Will explained. “My line. ‘What hour now?’”

Dave glanced at his wrist as though that would enhance the scene. “‘I think it lacks of twelve,’” he drawled.

Will shook his head at him. “No watches then, Dave.”

Their director interrupted at this point. “Let’s get on to the ghost,” Queen Nora said in her erratic manner.

Dave adopted a bug-eyed expression Will supposed was intended to mime fear and pointed shakily. “‘Look, my lord, it comes.’”

Will raised his eyes to the second floor landing where Joe, the other gardener, stood beckoning to him with white fingers. The lime dust powdering him from an application to the lawn lent some credibility to his ghostly effort, but not a lot. Will pressed his fist to his mouth, partly to keep from laughing, and then dropped his hand so as not to muffle the words.

“‘Angels and ministers of grace defend us…be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn’d, bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell. Thou  comes in such a questionable shape. I’ll call thee Hamlet, King, father. What may this mean that thou should revisit us?’”

Dave grabbed his sleeve. “‘It beckons you to go  away with it, but do not go.’”

A nice touch, Will conceded. He shook Dave off. “‘It will not speak, then I will follow it,’” he said, and left Dave to dash up the stairs.

His grandmother called out, “Skip ahead to the parts I specified!”

Will stumbled as Joe lunged at him, more in an attack mode than as a fearsome specter, and gripped his shoulders. “‘I am thy father’s spirit doomed for a certain term to walk the night and for the day confined to fast in fires,’” Joe declared in his gravelly bass voice.

Will recited his part automatically, his chief concern escaping this ape-man unscathed. Joe was a hard worker, but not the sharpest knife in the drawer.  Moaning as though he were portraying Jacob Marley, Joe gave Will a teeth-rattling jar. “‘If thou didst ever thy dear father love—’”

“‘Oh, God,’” Will said, both as Hamlet and himself.

“‘Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder,’” Joe demanded.

“‘Murder?’” Will echoed.

Jon tightened his hold. Surely, he was the most hell-bent ghostly king any actor had ever portrayed. “‘Now, Hamlet, hear me,’” he growled, like a hit man about to eliminate him if he didn’t take heed. “‘Tis given out that sleeping in my orchard a serpent stung me. The serpent that did sting your father’s life now wears his crown.’”

“‘Oh, my prophetic soul—my uncle,’” Will said.

“‘Aye,’” Joe groaned. “‘That incestuous, adulterous beast with witchcraft of his wit and traitorous gifts. While sleeping in my orchard, my custom always in the afternoon, thy uncle stole with juice of cursed hebona in a vial and in the porches of my ears did pour the leprous distilment.’”

Joe clutched him by the throat. Was Hamlet ever so beset upon? With a credible effort at lamentation, Joe roared  in mock agony, “‘If thou hast nature in thee bear it not! Let not the royal bed of Denmark be a couch for luxury and damned incest. As for thy mother leave her to heaven and to those thorns that in her bosom  lodge to prick and sting her. Fare thee well. Adieu, Adieu. Hamlet, remember me.’”

Joe released Will and he staggered back, gasping for breath. But the prophetic plea coupled with the warning of treachery struck him as significant. He sensed it had to do with Cole. Was  there something more he should do about his distant cousin? Cole had been struck down with a sword. Everyone knew that, didn’t they?

Or was there more to the story? Some crucial aspect left untold?

*Somewhere My Love is available in digital download and print at The Wild Rose PressAmazonBarnes & Noble and other online booksellers.

***For more authors participating in Sweet Saturday Samples Click HERE.

Follow the White Rabbit With Time Travel Romance Somewhere My Lass


Yep, they tumbled down the rabbit hole.

Excerpt from Somewhere My Lass: 

An angry howl shattered the quiet night. Mora startled, and Neil’s racing heart pounded even harder. “Damn.”

Fergus jumped. “Cripes! He’s here. Even if he stole a car, he couldn’t drive it.”

“He must’ve found someone very obliging to drop him off.” There was no time for anything. Directing the beam up the steps, Neil sprang forward pulling Mora just behind him. “Upstairs now, Fergus, unless you want to face him alone.”

“Hell no.” Fergus shot after them. His gadget clicked away like a metal detector at a garbage site. “That portal should be wide open tonight.”

The front door rattled. The wood resounded under a battering fist. Muffled curses carried from beyond the stout barrier. “Told you we needed a taser,” Fergus panted.

Neil envisioned the force needed to fell a hippo. “I doubt that brute would be down for long.”

“Long enough to make our getaway.”

A great shoe kicked at the wood, accompanied by ferocious grunts. “Hide in my room—gun’s under my bed and loaded,” Neil flung over his shoulder.

“I’ve never fired one!”

The door gave way with a shattering bam!

‘“Aim and shoot! Can’t miss at close range.”

They tore down the upstairs hall. Ahead of them loomed the door to nowhere, eerie in the single beam of light surrounded by shadows. The intricate carvings on the old oak suddenly seemed quite ancient, and Neil wondered just where his family had acquired this particular antique. But only for a moment. Mora at his side, he lunged forward and grasped the knob.

Unbelievably, it turned. Without the key. Heavy feet pounded up the steps behind them. “We’re going now!” Holding tight to her hand, Neil threw the door wide with his other. Blackness greeted them. But not snowy blackness. Either the falling flakes were unaccountably blocked on this side of the house, or—

“MacKenzie! God’s blood, I vow ye die this night!”

“Go on!” Fergus shouted. “I’ve got my spray!”

Neil couldn’t leave his friend to face this psycho alone anymore than he could leave a child. He spun around and shone the beam behind them. They’d need the light to see, though how to wield that and his knife—he needed to get his gun. But Mora clung to his hand. How could he fight and grip her?

To his amazement, Fergus faced their pursuer. The advancing Scotsman cast a long shadow, the personification of terror. His eyes glinted with the vengeance he swore. But Fergus stood his ground. Pepper spray in hand, he let a pungent miasma fly up into his enraged face.

With a yowl, the MacDonald covered his eyes and stumbled back. “Damn ye to the eternal flames!”

He careened into a heavy side table then lurched into the wall with a thud. Down he crashed to the floor. He lay still. Possibly knocked out. Fergus’s bravery had bought them a second. If he sped back downstairs, he could get away. The keys were still in the car under the driver’s side mat. “Go!” Praying they didn’t tumble two stories down, Neil rushed through the open doorway with Mora.~

An ancient relic, a medieval crypt, a mad Highlander at their throats and time fast running out.  Mystery, suspense, romance…SOMEWHERE MY LASS

“Ms. Trissel masterfully blended the past and the present in order to create a lovely romance that spans centuries.” ~Poinsettia, Long and Short Reviews

*Available in eBook formats from the Wild Rose Press, Amazon Kindle, Barnes & Noble’s Nookbook, and other online booksellers.