Tag Archives: best 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.

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


Excerpt From Chapter Five:

The_Bearwalkers_Daughter_Cover3Autumn, 1784, the Allegheny Mountains of Western Virginia, the former McNeal homestead, a log cabin

Jack slowly withdrew his palm from Karin’s lips. Why did his light touch feel so right, his low voice stirring to her shivery center?  She was as heady as if she’d finished off that flask he’d pocketed. Maybe the fiery brew had affected her more than she realized?

No. These sensations went far beyond a few swallows of whiskey. Tumultuous cannons fired inside, tumbling her into an uncertain world of red moons and shooting stars, her universe exploding. And there was no one to hold onto, except him. She almost grabbed his hand, and thought better of it.

What, then? What should she do?

In stillness, she kept her eyes fastened on his, colored the hue of the woods in summer. She couldn’t look away. Then a quavery sigh escaped her. “Oh, Jack.”

Tenderness washed over his face. “Let me guide you.”

“I suppose I must.”

A smile lifted the corners of his masculine, deeply sensual, mouth. “Let’s begin with your mother. What else have you been told of her that might be of use? Let your mind journey back and the past flow through you.”

Rain drummed on the roof and wood sizzled in the hearth as Karin ferreted out every scrap she’d ever heard, weighing some, discarding others. Then a memory returned like the whiff of a nosegay long since forgotten. It might mean something.

“Neeley once said Mama sat curled by the fire much of the time in those last days, staring into the flames as if she saw something.”

Jack eyed the glowing hearth. “Not something. Someone.”

His insight took Karin aback. “You mean him?”

“Probably.”

She gestured at the bed built against the wall, its high back lovingly carved by her grandfather. “Neeley only just told me Mama died there where I was born.”

“That’s why the bed was left behind when they moved,” he said quietly.

She bit her lower lip. “I didn’t realize.”

“You were a child then. How could you?”

A red haze flashed through Karin like sparks set to dry leaves. “Someone might have told me sooner.”

He looked bemused. “What good would that have done?”

“I would know. And knowing matters.”

Jack held up his hands. “So, now you do.”

Crossing both arms over her chest, she said, “Of this I’m certain, Mama was kind and beautiful. Whatever she died of, ’twas a broken heart. Papa should have come to her, whoever he was. I would tell him so to his face if I could.”

“Whew.” Jack drew back as if at a sudden wind. “You’re not such a milksop after all.”

His exaggeration lessened Karin’s ire only slightly. “Well, it makes my blood boil. Why did he leave her to grieve herself to death?”

“If you want answers, begin by finding that necklace.”

She blew out her breath in frustration. “Neeley says she cleaned this cabin from top to bottom and never found anything out of the ordinary.”

“Maybe she wasn’t meant to.”

Karin sat up straight. “You think maybe I am?”~

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

***To visit more authors participating in Sweet Saturday Samples Click HERE!

*Royalty free images

Sweet Saturday Sample from Historical Fantasy Romance The Bearwalker’s Daughter


The_Bearwalkers_Daughter_Cover2Excerpt From Chapter Five

Autumn, 1784, the Allegheny Mountains of Western Virginia, the former McNeal homestead, a rustic log cabin

Jack slowly withdrew his palm from Karin’s lips. Why did his light touch feel so right, his low voice stirring to her shivery center?  She was as heady as if she’d finished off that flask he’d pocketed. Maybe the fiery brew had affected her more than she realized?

No. These sensations went far beyond a few swallows of whiskey. Tumultuous cannons fired inside, tumbling her into an uncertain world of red moons and shooting stars, her universe exploding. And there was no one to hold onto, except him. She almost grabbed his hand, and thought better of it.

What, then? What should she do?

In stillness, she kept her eyes fastened on his, colored the hue of the woods in summer. She couldn’t look away. Then a quavery sigh escaped her. “Oh, Jack.”

Tenderness washed over his face. “Let me guide you.”

“I suppose I must.”

A smile lifted the corners of his masculine, deeply sensual, mouth. “Let’s begin with your mother. What else have you been told of her that might be of use? Let your mind journey back and the past flow through you.”

Rain drummed on the roof and wood sizzled in the hearth as Karin ferreted out every scrap she’d ever heard, weighing some, discarding others. Then a memory returned like the whiff of a nosegay long since forgotten. It might mean something.

“Neeley once said Mama sat curled by the fire much of the time in those last days, staring into the flames as if she saw something.”

Jack eyed the glowing hearth. “Not something. Someone.”

His insight took Karin aback. “You mean him?”

“Probably.”

She gestured at the bed built against the wall, its high back lovingly carved by her grandfather. “Neeley only just told me Mama died there where I was born.”

“That’s why the bed was left behind when they moved,” he said quietly.

She bit her lower lip. “I didn’t realize.”

“You were a child then. How could you?”

A red haze flashed through Karin like sparks set to dry leaves. “Someone might have told me sooner.”

He looked bemused. “What good would that have done?”

“I would know. And knowing matters.”

Jack held up his hands. “So, now you do.”

Crossing both arms over her chest, she said, “Of this I’m certain, Mama was kind and beautiful. Whatever she died of, ’twas a broken heart. Papa should have come to her, whoever he was. I would tell him so to his face if I could.”

“Whew.” Jack drew back as if at a sudden wind. “You’re not such a milksop after all.”

His exaggeration lessened Karin’s ire only slightly. “Well, it makes my blood boil. Why did he leave her to grieve herself to death?”

“If you want answers, begin by finding that necklace.”

She blew out her breath in frustration. “Neeley says she cleaned this cabin from top to bottom and never found anything out of the ordinary.”

“Maybe she wasn’t meant to.”

Karin sat up straight. “You think maybe I am?”~

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

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

Sweet Saturday Snippet from Paranormal Romance Somewhere My Lass (New)


From Chapter Five:

The sidewalk outside Fergus’ townhouse

Mora leaned into Neil’s support. “These police, be they soldiers?”

“Yes, in a way.” What were police called in Scotland? Bobbies, or was that only England? Guards, maybe.

Sassenach,” she hissed, a Scottish term he vaguely remembered as meaning outlander; one he hoped she wasn’t applying to him.

Through the wool plaid cloaking her, he felt the soft warmth of her body, marveling again that she was flesh and blood. She seemed to belong in another realm, an ephemeral being that might vanish with the dawn, though her anger at the hospital had been tangible enough.

Mora trembled in his arms as another gust of wind shook them both. “We’ll soon have you out of the cold and you can lie down.”

She waved her hand at their surroundings. “’Tisn’t the chill or m’ head that vexes me so much as  all this.” She tilted her face up at him. “I do not ken,” she said, using the Scottish dialect for understand and do not sounding like doo na.

The perplexity in her eyes made Neil want to hold her all the more and sooth away all her fear and confusion, if that were possible. He only just refrained from clutching her to his chest. “I’m sorry. You’ll feel better after a rest.”

Even a small American town like Staunton must seem very strange in comparison to what she knew, or thought she did. Given her peculiar state, it was difficult to say. “Easy. Let’s get you indoors.” He slowed his pace to accommodate her shorter stride.

Mora gazed up at the street lights. “Sech great torches. How do they light them, wie huge ladders?”

“Electricity.”

“What manner of fuel be this?”

How could she not know? “Perhaps you’re accustomed to gas?”

She eyed him as one trying to translate a foreign language. “Sum disorder of the stomak?”

“Uh, no.” Maybe she hailed from some relic of a manor house with oil lamps or actual torches like they used in medieval castles. “Never mind. I’ll explain later.” Or not. He’d probably cause her further confusion.

Fighting to maintain a confident air despite mounting qualms, Neil guided her up the paved walk and brick steps to the narrow landing. A potted chrysanthemum drooped beside the wizened pumpkin smiling in toothless welcome leftover from Halloween. Fergus wasn’t much of a decorator.

Lifting his free hand, Neil banged the knocker on the olive-colored door. “Fergus!”

No answer.

Mora gripped the iron railing with one hand. “Be this an alehouse ye’ve brought me to?”

“Of sorts. We’ll definitely be served refreshments.” Neil hoped she liked coffee. “It’s a townhouse.” What did they call townhouses in the British Isles, semi-detached, or was it attached? Likely it didn’t apply in her case anyway. “My friend, Angus Fergus, lives here.”

“Ah. He’s the tavern keeper, is he?”

“And a great deal more.”

Likely his eccentric business partner/best friend was settled in his favorite recliner with his laptop, tv remote in one hand and his caffeine molecule emblazoned mug in the other. Coffee was a food group to Fergus and one he took seriously. Even so, he might have dozed off in between caffeine highs or was preoccupied with one of his many gadgets.

Neil pressed the buzzer. “Fergus! Open up.”

“Not locked,” came the muffled reply.

Mora shook her head. “He leaves his door unbolted for all to enter at such a late hour. What of thieves? Every barrel of ale will be pilfered and all his cattle carried away.”

“I’ll caution him.” Though where Fergus would keep any cows in this development was questionable. As for the barrels, he’d probably fill them with his favorite specialty coffee.

“He ought to keep watch,” Mora added, clearly shocked at the lax security.

“Indeed.” Neil opened the door and ushered Mora into the living room, a catchall for Fergus’ beloved electronics. Techie magazines, comics, and the remains of fast-food meals littered the beige carpet.

Fergus didn’t look up from the leather upholstery. As usual, he was absorbed in his laptop. “Hail Caesar,” he said, offhandedly.

“Whyever does he call ye by sech a name?”

At Mora’s heavily accented query, Fergus arched his neck and peered up at them through the retro fifties glasses he didn’t really need. Fergus was all about Geek as the new kewl and more boyish looking than his actual age of twenty-four, further enhanced by his slender build. He had a quirky appeal, Neil supposed, but wasn’t exactly a babe magnet.

Fergus widened pale blue eyes and his reddish eyebrows rose above the thick black rims. “Who the—”

Neil could have said, “Mary Queen of Scots,” and Fergus wouldn’t have commented. Not the way he goggled at Mora.

The remote slipped from his usually nimble fingers. “Holy mother of—Neil what in the h—” Without finishing his exclamation, Fergus sat upright and straightened the recliner with a thump.

Mora must think Fergus couldn’t complete a sentence, while nothing could be further from the truth. It amused Neil to see his normally articulate friend so at a loss. Come to think of it, Fergus was never at a loss. Until now.

He set the mug on the end table and his laptop on the coffee table stacked with Calvin and Hobbes and Far Side books. Alongside these, virtual jellyfish floated in a purplish mood lamp and an ambient orb device transitioned between a rainbow of hues to show changes in the weather, the time, and most anything else Fergus might want to check the status of. An enormous fan of prime geek websites, Fergus stocked everything a computer nerd could want. But Neil might as well have taken Mora into outer space.

She stared from the suspended jellies and the iridescent sphere back to Fergus. “Magic?” she asked Neil in a whisper.

“Sort of.” Although highly creative, Neil wasn’t nearly as taken with techie gadgets as Fergus, preferring to lose himself in his art. But together, they made a great team. Fergus was even like a younger brother. Neil swept his hand at their gaping host. “Fergus, meet Mora Campbell, recently arrived from Scotland.”

“Seriously?” Fergus got to his feet in Star Wars Jedi slippers.

“Seriously.” Neil wasn’t certain how much information to give out about Mora and the old country of Scotland she seemed to hail from.

Eyes still dazed, Mora nodded. “Most serious. ’Tis a grave matter that brings us to ye, sir. I am betrothed to Neil, son of Robert MacKenzie.”

Fergus combed his fingers through a thatch of orange hair, a not so subtle tribute to cartoon character Bart Simpson. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he worked his clean-shaven jaw. Bart had no stubble and Fergus was a purist. “Dude—you’re engaged? Some online dating thing?”

“No. And it’s a long story.” Not one Neil was privy to the details of, which made sharing them a challenge. Not to mention Fergus would think he’d gone nuts. “Mora’s suffered a concussion and needs to rest. My house is off limits just now,” he explained instead.

She crinkled that adorable nose dusted with freckles. “Sassenach are come. We only just escaped from a vile chamber called a hospitale. There were no holy men at their prayers,” she added in a shocked tone. “No sacred Communion dispensed. How could sech a place care for poor and dying wretches of this world?”

Fergus considered, briefly. “How indeed?” He eyed Neil for an explanation he was unable to provide.

However, Mora appeared satisfied with Fergus’s response, at least as much as one who thought she’d fallen down a rabbit hole could. “If ye would be so good as to make provision for us this night, Mr. Fergus, and might I trouble ye for a ladies’ maid?”

“Sure,” he stuttered, regarding her as though she’d requested a meeting with a deceased saint. He angled a pronounced glance at Neil in a silent request for suggestions. He had none.

Fergus fished around in that quick mind of his and came up with, “I’ll call my cousin, Wrenie. She’s kind of a maid. Waitress, anyway. I’ll see if she’s free.”

“Is the poor lass imprisoned?”

Fergus rubbed his fingers over his chin. “Uh, not the last time I checked. Although the fashion police have a warrant out for her.”

Before Mora reacted to this wisecrack, a large plasma screen TV snarled at them in surround-sound and reverberated off the walls.

She startled against Neil and raised a trembling finger. For a moment she stared mutely, and then said, “A murderous beast—there—in that box.”

Neil glimpsed the polar bear from a popular TV series. “It’s just the television. Telly,” he amended, in hopes of sparking a glimmer of recognition.

Nothing. So much for Mora having watched nature shows, or anything else for that matter. Had she been totally cut off from civilization? How’d she make it through life without ever seeing a television?

He tried a different track. “Only a picture.”

“But it moves. ’Tis haunted, that portrait.”

Fergus hit the off button on the remote. “Dude, she’s better than the sci-fi channel.”

She is the sci-fi channel, Neil thought.

“Why does the Fergus address you as duke?”

How could Neil explain slang, he pondered, enjoying her spin on Fergus’ name. “It’s only an honorary title.”

“Yer friend must respect ye greatly.”

Fergus swept his thin arm down across a T-shirt that read, Go ahead, make my data, with a courtly flourish. “Inestimably. Come on, Neil. You two are in a play, right? Some community theater thing?”~

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

**Somewhere My Lass is available from The Wild Rose Press, Amazon Kindle, Barnes & Noble’s Nookbook, and other online booksellers.

***To Visit More Authors Participating in Sweet Saturday Samples Click Here.

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.

Sweet Saturday Snippet from English Historical Romance Into the Lion’s Heart


“A Brilliant Historical Romance!” ~Wanda at Romance Writers Reviews

Chapter Three:  October 1789, the King’s Arms, Dover,  England

With a petition to the Blessed Virgin that Captain Evans might find her très adorable, Cecile Beaumont lifted her burgundy-striped skirts and swished down the narrow steps from her second floor bedchamber to the scrubbed flagstone entry.

Fortune smiled on her and determined seamen had salvaged her trunk before The White Rose sank and bore all her worldly possessions to the bottom of the sea. That the forceful captain persuaded them to surrender her goods, she did not doubt. They’d plundered some of the cargo. Uproar followed, soldiers arrived, and shots were fired—a minor distraction to Cecile after the upheaval in France.

Her all-consuming focus centered on her doubtful ability to masquerade as Mademoiselle Devereux. What other choice had she? She must remain in England!

Robust voices assailed her from the thronggathered in the main room of the King’s Arms. She paused outside the arched doorway framed with darkened oak, then stepped uncertainly inside. The massive hearth, flickering white tapers, and oil lamps shed light on the guests, mostly men, quaffing ale and recounting the adventure of the day in lively animation. One man even stood on his hands— comical if Cecile hadn’t been so taken aback. And hardly a female was to be seen. Those women she spotted were serving wenches or more common folk. Surely it was improper for a young lady, whom Cecile made every effort to emulate, to progress unescorted among the boisterous assembly? Her rescuer had invited her to meet him here whenever she was ready. Or was he her guardian, host?

Whatever he was, her chest pounded like the surf when she spied Captain Evans seated alone at a corner table. His bearing instantly set him apart from the others. His companion, Sir Thomas Archer, must still suffer from his malady, poor man. The captain stared into the hearth as though oblivious of the surrounding commotion. His blond head shone in the mellow glow. He’d changed into a reddish-browncoat, fresh linen—not in the least frilled—fitted leather breeches, and boots buffed to a high gloss. His attire emphasized his rugged masculinity while declaring him a gentleman of the first order. And so he was, his late father a lord, she’d been told.

Should she hurry to his side, or remain as shewas? Calling out to a gentleman in public was unthinkable except under the most grievous circumstances. Hovering inside the doorway while male eyes roved over her didn’t qualify as dire, but she squirmed under their open appraisal. One bold man winked at her. Another made a gesture obscene in any language.

Cecile shrank back. Maybe she should hasten to her room and await a knock on the door. Her empty stomach protested and her heart drummed in expectation of meeting with the captain.

As if sensing her predicament, he glanced around. His blue gaze locked on her and the rowdy assembly faded into the background. A giddy swell surged through her middle, more potent than when she’d met the finest of French aristocracy, and stronger than any emotion she’d ever known—except fear. A goodly measure of that mixed in with the current coursing through her.

If violent emotion seized the captain upon sighting her, he gave no indication. Acknowledging her arrival with a nod, he got to his feet and strode to where she waited. The hint of a smile, reflected in his eyes, provoked a rush of hope in Cecile.~

Historical romance Into the Lion’s Heart is reduced at The Wild Rose Press and available in various formats (even ePub) to suit any e-reader or electronic device. So if you haven’t popped into the Wild Rose Press lately, or ever, give it a try.

**** For more SWEET SATURDAY SAMPLES, please visit: http://sweetsatsample.wordpress.com/2012/01/14/the-sweet-list-01142012/