#WednesdayGuest: Jennifer Chase author of Scene of the Crime

SCENE OF THE CRIME by Jennifer Chase, Mystery, 300 pp., $.99 (Kindle)

Title: SCENE OF THE CRIME
Author: Jennifer Chase
Publisher: JEC Press
Pages: 300
Genre: Mystery Suspense

A calculating cold-blooded predator closes in…

When a community has barely recovered from a ruthless serial killer six months earlier; now two more horrifying murders hit the radar again. It leaves police burdened with two of the most shockingly contaminated crime scenes ever documented in California’s law enforcement history. The Slayer works behind the scenes as a sinister puppet master, precisely pulling the strings, taunting the police without leaving any viable evidence, and orchestrating his killer hit squads.

The sheriff and district attorney bring in the best investigators. Reunited again, Dr. Chip Palmer, a reclusive forensic expert, joins DA Inspector Kate Rawlins to sort through the crime scene aftermath in search of the truth—all without a probable suspect or a solid motive. Complicating the investigation—sparks reignite between the two.

Ratcheting up the suspense, Chip suffers a nasty fall hitting his head, impairing his perception and giving him a mind-blowing ability for specific detailed recall. Palmer and Rawlins assemble an unusual team including a rookie detective, a forensic supervisor, and an ex-military operative turned bodyguard. After one of their own is kidnapped and the investigation is taken over by the FBI, the now rogue team must pull together their own resources—alone—with a killer waiting to take each one of them out. Scene of the Crime takes no prisoners and leaves everyone fighting to stay alive.

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Chapter 1

NOTHING CAPTURED HIS ATTENTION. IT wasn’t as if he wasn’t looking for anything specific or that he didn’t care about anything, but everything became like white noise. Looking down, he spotted a couple squashed beer cans, which had resulted from the constant compression of car tires repeatedly running over them. Now they lay in the gutter unnoticed—as discarded litter. Out of boredom, he kicked the aluminum pancakes with his worn out running shoes. The compressed disks clattered a ways before landing back in a different part of the same gutter, just as his life.

Roger Case was in one of those moods where everything seemed futile. It was a time when his temperament plummeted; he entertained the spirit of defeat, which was becoming more common these days. His concentration slipped farther into the dwindling mindset of drugs and crime to the point of mania. Rationalizing his motives, he preferred to enact self-medication.

He needed something strong to take away his thoughts of negativity. The repetitive movements of his hands and arms worsened. He wanted anything that would take away his fears, his depression, and his unrelenting obsession for the next quick fix. Roger knew that even when he felt the most empowering high that there was a high price to pay—and it was predictable and inevitable—the hard, downward crash.

Roger hadn’t always been teetering on that slippery slope, dangling over the life of crime; in fact, he still remembered when things were normal and even mundane. He grew up in a typical middle class family with his mom and dad, along with his older brother and sister. Reflecting on those memories now, he would trade just about anything to have those times back.

Now he waited with anticipation for his contact. It was going to make everything better—at least for a while. He convinced himself that just a little bit of crystal meth would help him get back on track—to see things clearly again. It wasn’t as if he was a full-blown addict, he just needed something to help motivate and push him in the right direction.

He heard a hollow scraping noise and stopped to listen. Standing quietly, still straining to hear, but that sound never repeated. He looked around. Curious. The sound seemed to resonate in his head instead of around the street. Upon further inspection, he realized it came from inside the cement structure.

The old water treatment plant had been decommissioned by the county some time ago, now outdated, and was nothing more than an eyesore gathering the grime and deteriorating aspects of time gone by. Something loomed in Roger’s vision and waited in darkness—he strained his eyes looking into the long structure that seemed to lead to nowhere.

Maybe his connection made a change of plans and the meeting place was at the cement sinew, and out of sight from any onlookers, or cops happening by on their route. It was possible. At this point in Roger’s life, anything was possible.

Roger contemplated his options for a moment and then decided to check it out. He turned toward the water treatment plant and headed inside. The first thing he noticed was the temperature difference—cold and damp compared to the warmer street areas.

He slowed his pace, unsure if he should call out or announce his presence. Fidgeting nonstop with his hands, pressing his fingers tighter and then releasing them, Roger moved farther into the tunnel.

A shuffling sound came from the other end.

“Hello?” he finally said, his voice weak and tinny which made him unconsciously twitch.

A muffled dragging sound was the responded answer. It resonated from the back-left area.

“Hey, I don’t have time for this… you either want the money or not.” He tried to sound tough but his nerves were frayed. It wasn’t something he was used to feeling. In fact, Roger couldn’t remember the last time he felt scared, frustrated, angry or anxious.

The damp cement tunnel seemed to pull him closer to the heart of it—into the bowels of no return. Instead of turning around and leaving, Roger slowly moved deeper into the cavern. It was as if someone or something else had control over his body. His insatiable curiosity had put him in troubling situations throughout his life. It contributed to him getting into deep trouble with a growing rap sheet to prove it.

Most memories had a calming effect on Roger, which had initiated his fidgeting to cease and his hesitation to subside. He didn’t understand many people’s fears and phobias, most things were just benign and didn’t amount to anything remotely scary or debilitating.

There it was again—a dragging sound followed by what he thought were hushed whispers.

Kids.

He would smack a kid if they jumped out at him or gave him any crap. Most likely, they were tagging gang symbols and looking to get into trouble.

There was the distinct sound of two people whispering to each other.

Roger tried to sharpen his vision but the darkness played tricks on him with weird shadow figure apparitions. He blinked his eyes quickly trying to concentrate on the area and where the kids were hiding; his eyes began to water from the extreme effort. Wiping away the aggravated tears, Roger felt his surroundings close in tightly around him as his perception changed. The darkness seemed to give a strange rippled effect.

The voices became louder. There was nothing sinister about the voices, but they were speaking faster with more of an urgent tone.

“Hey, you little maggots, I know you’re here,” stated Roger.

He stopped and stood still.                                                         

The darkness still loomed around him, but there was a quietness that overcame him.

A brief hundredth of a second, a peculiar whizzing noise filled Roger’s ears and then a brutal blow struck his head and knocked him off his feet. With a ringing in his head and a groggy consciousness, he tried to sit up but more savage blows pummeled his body. It sounded as if a tree splintered just before it fell in the forest. His breath caught in his lungs. Everything went dark.

The anonymous whispers stopped.

All buzzing in his ears stopped.

Roger Case’s heart stopped too.

Jennifer Chase is a multi award-winning and best-selling crime fiction author, as well as a consulting criminologist. Jennifer holds a bachelor degree in police forensics and a master’s degree in criminology & criminal justice. These academic pursuits developed out of her curiosity about the criminal mind as well as from her own experience with a violent sociopath, providing Jennifer with deep personal investment in every story she tells. In addition, she holds certifications in serial crime and criminal profiling.  She is an affiliate member of the International Association of Forensic Criminologists, and member of the International Thriller Writers.

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Other Books in the Series

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Jennifer Chase is a multi award-winning and best-selling crime fiction author, as well as a consulting criminologist. Jennifer holds a bachelor degree in police forensics and a master’s degree in criminology & criminal justice. These academic pursuits developed out of her curiosity about the criminal mind as well as from her own experience with a violent sociopath, providing Jennifer with deep personal investment in every story she tells. In addition, she holds certifications in serial crime and criminal profiling.  She is an affiliate member of the International Association of Forensic Criminologists, and member of the International Thriller Writers.

WEBSITE & SOCIAL LINKS:

WEBSITE | TWITTER | FACEBOOK

Visit us at Pump Up Your Book!

 

#FridayGuest: Spine Chillers: Big Bad Wolf by Nancy Gray

Nancy Gray has published a number of works including her middle grade series Spine Chillers. She also published her YA fantasy series Blood Rain. Her short story “Chosen” appeared in Jim Henson’s The Dark Crystal Author Quest: a Penguin Special from Grosset & Dunlap. Her work also appears in various anthologies.

Nancy Gray has been writing for over ten years. Gray lives in South Carolina with her husband and two daughters. She enjoys books, video games, anime, manga, and horror.

Her latest book is the mid-grade horror, Spine Chillers: Big Bad Wolf.

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BOOK BLURB:

Jane is ecstatic when she gets the role of Red Riding Hood in her school play, but she didn’t realize that they’d be using the stuffed wolf prop as the Big Bad Wolf. That tattered old prop has always scared her and, lately, she has been having strange dreams about it that make it seem like it’s something more.

Jane will have to get help to save herself from the hungry spirit that has haunted her people and her nightmares before it consumes her, or worse, escapes the prison of the last creature it took to sate its horrible appetite.

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What’s inside the mind of a middle grade horror author?

I can’t speak on behalf of all middle grade horror authors, but what I specifically want to do is to show my main characters to be courageous in the face of something that frightens them. I want to inspire others that they are capable of enacting great change in their lives and their minds.

The monsters in my stories depict different aspects of archetypical fears, and often the characters have to overcome a flaw in their own personalities to survive against them. Basically the monster in the form of a primal fear is also symbolic of the challenges that the characters have to overcome.

Much like many other authors, I love my characters and my monsters. I also enjoy seeing the results of the conflict between the two when the story is finished. I don’t think the mind of a middle grade horror author is much different than that of any other author of fiction. We like to tell a good story and by doing so entertain and allow the reader to have a glimpse into something that they wouldn’t otherwise get to experience. The only difference is how this is executed. In my novels I try to give my readers a good, safe scare.

What is so great about being an author?

For me it’s great to be an author because it allows me to really exercise my imagination. I feel as though I’ve breathed life into a character or a story that didn’t exist until I thought it up. It makes me feel wonderful to know that I’ve created something that makes other people happy as well.

Even though I might not know what an individual gets from my writing, I know that I’ve given them a story that might help get through some difficult times. At the very least, I’ve been able to entertain them and help them escape into something they love. Reading is something that I’ve always loved, and being a writer helps me understand more about what goes into making a good story. It makes me appreciate what I read even more.

When do you hate it?

I’ve never hated being an author. I really enjoy writing. There are times that I’m disappointed. Most of the time facing a rejection makes me feel a little down. Some writers actually stop writing if they face too many rejections, but I haven’t let that stop me. Facing rejection is just another part of writing, and if you can get over the initial disappointment it improves your writing in the future.

Even when other people haven’t liked a certain story of mine I never regret that I wrote it. There are some pretty poor examples of my writing that I don’t like to share with others, but writing a story that isn’t any good and being able to recognize why shows how much you’ve grown as a writer. I have felt embarrassed for sharing a story that I realized later was mediocre at best, but it isn’t ever enough to make me hate writing. 

What is a regular writing day like for you?

To be honest I have a great deal of responsibilities that don’t have anything to do with writing. Just like a lot of people, I have to get up early and take my children to school. I need to have some coffee to wake myself up enough to function throughout the day. I do chores to keep my house clean, read a book or the news, and sometimes take a short nap if I’m lucky. However somewhere in my routine I make time to write. I usually have a window of about three hours to write while my children are in school or taking a nap. 

My family comes first in all things, but a satisfying writing day for me is if I’m able to type up at least two thousand words. If I’ve managed to do chores and write my quota for the day, I feel accomplished in a way that makes the rest of the evening very good. If I don’t get to write at all it generally puts me out of sorts, but I try to make up with it by writing more the next day. Every now and again I have a day that I can write the entire day, such as if I have a deadline to meet and someone I trust is watching my children. If I have that opportunity I take it. Sometimes if I feel particularly inspired during one of those days I forget to eat, so I have to police myself and force myself to stop and take breaks.

How do you handle negative reviews?

That depends on the type of negative review. Even though I want my work to be seen, I write what I feel. I know that I can’t please everyone. Why a person likes or dislikes a book is a very personal thing based on their experiences. When I get a negative review, if it is constructive and gives me a good reason why the story didn’t work for the individual in question, I take it seriously. A writer can always improve, and sometimes a negative review can help you see the flaws in your writing and can make it better. A review that is bad but helps me as a writer might even be one that will prompt a response from me. If the review makes a very good point possibly even an apology.

However there are sometimes reviews that are not constructive. These are scathing reviews that simply insult the author and aren’t useful. Usually they are really hurtful. Honestly while I have had negative reviews before, I haven’t ever had one that wasn’t constructive, but I know others who have. A bad review that isn’t offering constructive advice is probably one I would ignore. Biting back at that sort of thing doesn’t help, and in cases like that usually that’s what the reviewer wants you to do because they probably wanted to get a rise out of you in the first place. 

How do you handle positive reviews?

I try to remember what caused the reviewer to like my work so that I can incorporate what they liked into other books as well. I write a response thanking them if this happens. A good review really helps a writer to know what they do well. It also goes a long way in increasing the confidence of a writer and generally making their day. When I have a good review it makes me feel good about what I do, and it makes me want to write more knowing that I have a fan looking forward to it.

Positive reviews are very useful to an author in many ways because it never hurts them, it makes others want to look at their book, and it shows them where they excel. If you want to write a positive review for the author the best place to write it is on the store page. A good review on the store page helps a writer sell more copies of their book, and it makes the book come up more often on search engines. Either way though, on a store page or on a personal page, I appreciate a good review.

What is the usual response when you tell a new acquaintance that you’re an author?

Usually the acquaintance then asks what genre I write about. This can be a bit of a problem for me because I’ve written many different genres. Usually I tell them the genre I am currently writing. Right now I would say that I write middle grade horror and tell them a little bit about the Spine Chillers series. 

Generally speaking people seem impressed by the idea. They tend to say that they’ve thought about writing a book before. They say they don’t have the time or the talent, but if it is something you really want to do you make time. Talent or lack of talent can be made up for with hard work. 

If there is someone reading this who wants to write a book, then try it! If there is something that you think would be beneficial for your intended audience to hear, then you should at least try. Becoming a good author takes patience, time, and practice. I believe there are many potentially great authors out there that have never even written a short story.  

What do you do on those days you don’t feel like writing? Do you force it or take a break?

On the days I don’t feel like writing I usually take a break. I might try for a few minutes but if I’m not “feeling it” in my case I know it’s better to stop. I try not to take a break that lasts over a day, but what I generally do is switch to writing something I feel like writing or doing something else for a little while and coming back to it. 

I’ve found that if I don’t feel like writing and I try to force the issue my writing hurts for it. I make more mistakes, write something that is subpar, or end up forcing the characters to do something that isn’t in their nature. Also breaks can be inspiring. I get inspiration from reading books, playing video games, or even just leaning back and thinking for a little while. Giving myself time is usually how I push through feeling uninspired.

Any writing quirks?

I’ve tried to get over my writing quirks for the most part. There were mistakes that I used to make consistently, particularly with repeating words. I have test readers read my work and tell me if there is a word that I say too often or if there is a comma usage error that I’m particularly prone to stumble over. I feel that grammatical mistakes are particularly bad if writing fiction for children, so I have people proof my work for grammar. 

In terms of quirks in my work that aren’t bad, I’ve been told I have a very straightforward writing style. I try not to make my descriptions of the setting too long, and I let the reader use their imagination to fill in the blanks about where the character is or what the characters look like. I allow the characters and their interactions drive the plot, and I try not to let my narrative voice explain away anything. Keeping my “voice” in the background is what I’m trying to do to simply to move the story along to the next scene. 

I also prefer not to switch to the perspective of another character unless it is only once in the beginning (the prologue) or at the very end. Even then I don’t do it very often. I like to keep the perspective of the main character throughout the whole book.

What would you do if people around you didn’t take your writing seriously or see it as a hobby?

Well to be honest, I do know people who don’t take my writing seriously and think that I do it as a hobby. I don’t hold it against them. Sometimes friends don’t like to read your stories because they’re afraid that they won’t like them. I respect that decision, and I while I talk about my writing when I’m enthusiastic about it I try not to make it the only thing that I talk about. 

Also some of my friends don’t like the genre that I write. Many of them prefer science fiction, so I can’t expect them to want to read something that they probably won’t like for personal preference. I wouldn’t want them to try if they wouldn’t enjoy it. As for others who I don’t know that think of my work as being only a hobby, I pride myself in being a professional. I don’t need the approval of others to act that way.

Some authors seem to have a love-hate relationship to writing. Can you relate?

I can’t really relate to this. I don’t think I’ve ever really hated writing. I enjoy coming up with new stories and creating characters. Something that I’ve observed is that people have a natural desire to create. Writing is another medium for creativity, just like drawing or painting. I can’t think of many people who have a love-hate relationship with drawing or painting so I don’t know why it should be different in writing. 

Don’t get me wrong, there are times when I don’t like something that I’ve written. There are also times when I get frustrated if I’m not inspired enough to write or recognize that what I’m writing is of lesser quality than I would like. During those times I take a short break from writing, but I still don’t hate it. I think some people hate the things they’ve written previously, but recognizing that something isn’t your best work isn’t the same as hating the process. 

Do you think success as an author must be linked to money?

Lots of people have different definitions about what makes a successful author. In my opinion, success as an author isn’t measured in money. Granted that making money through writing is an author’s dream job, but the real question is would you still write if you didn’t make any money from it at all? In my experience, the answer is yes. 

I write because I enjoy it and because I have stories I want to tell. Even if I only wrote as a hobby and shared my work only with my friends and family I would still do it. Many people in creative fields don’t pursue them as a career in the hopes of making lots of money. Most of the time people don’t make much money in the arts, but attempting to do it allows them to try to make a career out of something they are passionate about. 

What has writing taught you?

Writing has actually taught me a great deal about myself. It shows me that I am capable of finishing a project and taking constructive criticism. I used to have trouble finishing anything that I started, but writing has given me more patience and perseverance the more that I do it. It’s very rare now that I start a story and don’t finish it. 

The characters in my books have aspects of my personality that I have identified only by writing them out. I’ve learned a great deal about my own flaws and the ways that I’ve grown. Looking back at my work over the years shows me the things that I value and how I’ve changed. 

Leave us with some words of wisdom.

Never give up! It can be frustrating starting out as a writer, but the only way that you won’t become one is if you give up on it after any rejection. Keep working hard, and only write what you feel. Don’t force yourself to write something that you don’t want to write because your readers will be able to tell. Also keep reading. Reading will help you grow as a writer.

#TuesdayGuest: Brenda B. Taylor, Author of A Highland Emerald @rayburnlady

A Highland Emerald by Brenda B. Taylor, Scottish Historical Romance, 268 pp., $12.99 (paperback) $3.99 (Kindle)

Title: A HIGHLAND EMERALD
Author: Brenda Taylor
Publisher: Bethabara Press
Pages: 268
Genre: Scottish Historical Romance

Aine MacLean is forced into an arranged marriage with Sir William, Chief of Clan Munro, yet her heart belongs to a handsome young warrior in her father’s guard. She must leave Durant Castle, the home of her birth on the Isle of Mull, and travel across Scotland in a perilous journey to her husband’s home on Cromarty Firth. William agrees to a year and day of handfasting, giving Aine an opportunity to accept him and his clan. He promises her the protection of Clan Munro, however, Aine experiences kidnapping, pirates, and almost loses her life in the River Moriston. She doubts the sincerity of William’s promises and decides to return to Durant Castle when the handfasting ends. William determines to win Aine’s heart. Will the brave knight triumph in his fight for the bonnie lass?

A Highland Emerald is the third book in the award-winning Highland Treasures series. The novel tells the story of Aine MacLean and William Munro and is the prequel to A Highland Pearl.

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Chapter One

Isle of Mull

Isle of Mull

Scotland, 1486 A.D.

My father sat on his usual chair in front of the crackling fire, staring at the flames with dim eyes, a fur robe wrapped around his broad shoulders, the deerhound curled at his feet.

“Where are you going, Aine?” he asked with his back turned toward the stone, spiral staircase where I stood. “Come, sit with me for awhile.”

I pushed the arisaid from my shoulders, letting it drop to the floor, then stepped over the wrap, making my way to the stool where my mother's embroidery frame stood. I took a seat and watched the flames.

Without turning his head, my father, Lachlan Og MacLean, eighth Chief of Clan MacLean and fourth Laird of Durant Castle, asked, “Where are you going?”

“How did you ken 'twas I?”

He never ceased to amaze me with his uncanny knowledge of events around him although his eyes, so dimmed by injury, saw very little.

“I heard the rustle of your skirts.” Da extended his hand for me, so I rose and hugged his neck. He smiled, embracing my arms. “And I ken your scent, lass. ’Tis so like your mither's. You use the same scented soap as she.”

“Aye, but from so far away and with the smell of burning wood and dog in your nostrils?”

“Your odor is a different pleasantry among the usual burning wood and dog. It stands out in my memory as does the pleasant odor of your mither.”

He smiled broadly, showing still straight, white teeth beneath a greying beard. I could almost feel his penetrating gaze upon me as in the days before a battle injury took his sight.

He asked, “Where are you going this dreary night?”

“Here, Da. To sit beside you and talk of the feast on the morrow.”

“Don't try to deceive me, lass. I heard the sound of your arisaid dropping to the floor. You are planning a tryst, I feel certain.”

His dimmed gaze pierced through to the depths of my soul.

“I could see the turn of your head toward him each time he spoke at the eve’s meal.” A line formed between my father’s brows and a shadow darkened his face. “You are to marry the Munro.”

“I dinna love William Munro.” My voice began to rise, and I struggled to control the cry climbing from the depths of my heart. “I wanna marry him, Da. You promised I could wed for love, not convenience.”

The cry emerged from my lips. I buried my head on his shoulder and sobbed.

Da rose, grabbed my hand and pulled me to face him, wrapping his powerful arms around my shoulders. He stroked my hair and planted a kiss atop my head. Disturbed, the great dog stood.

My heart ached to please Da, I loved him so. His tender embrace brought back memories of my childhood when he comforted me after a fall or some aggravation caused by my three older brothers. We stood for a long time.

He gently pushed me away, looking into my eyes and planting a kiss on my forehead. “I only want the best for you, sweetling. You’re my heart, you ken. I dinna wish to leave this world without you being in the care of a good mon. The Munro is a good mon.” He hesitated then added, “With wealth and title.”

I looked into his faded blue eyes that once shone with the brilliance of the azure sky on a sunny day. He could only see the outline of my face whilst standing close, now. “If you truly desire the best for me, you'll let me marry the love of my heart, not some bloat because of his title. Titles mean naught to me, Da.” Tears streamed from my eyes, wetting my cheeks. I pulled away from his grasp, swiping at the wetness with a sleeve.

“The Munro is a good mon and a fierce warrior. ’Tis nae better for a husband. He’ll be here on the morrow. We’ll have a feast to celebrate your marriage.”

“He’s old. I’m only eighteen summers. I shan’t attend.” Sometimes the stubbornness of my nature overtook good sense. I knew not to speak to my father in such a manner. He also possessed an immovable streak, and his word overruled my desires.

“He’s no’ old, Aine. A few years your senior, but no’ old by any means. When he’s my age, then he’ll be old.”

I continued to sniff, wetting the front of his léine.

“All right, Aine. If that’s the way this game is to be played. You'll be watched until after the celebration and you depart with the Munro.”

The words spewed from Da’s mouth. A sinister, dark shadow cloaked his face. Muscles twitched in his jaws and his hands clenched in tight fists. I stepped back. He abruptly turned, making his way up the stone steps to the upper story bed chambers, feeling the wall for security. When his foot struck the arisaid I’d dropped on the stair, he reached down, seized the garment, flung it with a vehemence I rarely witnessed from him, and continued up the staircase. The large dog followed at his heels. Not knowing what to do, I grabbed the arisaid, wrapped it closely around my shoulders, pulled the hood over my head, then ran toward the door of the great hall. Ellic waited in the garden. I wanted to be near him, feel his embrace, and listen to the sweet words he would whisper in my ear.

I pulled on the large oaken door, reinforced with bands of iron, and stepped into the damp, grey air of gloaming. The large figure of Da’s luchd-taighe, Sion MacLean, filled the portal when I tried to close the door. He put up a massive arm, keeping the door from closing. I stared at him, and he back at me.

“Did Da send you to watch me?” I asked the huge brute.

“Aye,” he answered, stepping out of the keep, but leaving the door open.

“I’m going to meet Ellic Garvie, in case you are wondering. He waits for me in the stables, so be sure to report my tryst to Da. He kens, anyway.”

Ellic Garvie, one of the warriors in Da’s slaugh and a member of his luchd-taighe, held an attraction for me and I for him. I turned on my heels.

Sion grabbed my arm, jerking me toward the door. “You're no’ going to the stables this eve.”

I tried to jerk my arm from his powerful grasp, but he held tightly whilst pulling me toward the door.

Pushing me inside, he said with a hiss, “Stay put, lass, or Laird MacLean will lock you in your room.”

I didn’t answer, only returned his gaze. The big oaf. The door closed in my face, and I heard him walk away. Giving the guard time to leave the keep’s vicinity and enter the outer bailey housing the stables, I carefully opened the large door to squeeze through so only a slit of light shone on the cobblestones, closed the door, then made my way to the garden enclosure beside the keep. Upon entering the garden, I glanced back to make certain no one followed, then took the rose-lined garden path to the very end. Ellic’s dark form emerged from the shadow of an apple tree beside the stone wall. I rushed into his strong, powerful arms. He pulled me close, and I buried my head on his chest. Tears fell from my eyes, wetting his jacket.

Ellic held me away, my eyes met his in the last light of gloaming. Their dark color grew darker and ominous as his lips brushed mine with a tender caress. I could not help but respond. The kiss grew harder, more passionate until he broke away, holding both my arms.

His ale-tainted breath fanned my face. “I love you, Aine. You must come with me to Oban. My aunt works at Dunollie Castle as the lady’s maid. We’ll be married there and I can join the slaugh of MacDougall and perhaps become part of his luchd-taighe. The Laird of Lorne provides well for his people.”

My voice hitched remembering Da’s words. “I canna. Da is having me watched now. The Munro is arriving on the morrow for our marriage ceremony.”

He looked around. “Where is your guard?”

“I sent him to the stables looking for you, but I feel certain he will come here soon.” His lips hushed my words, taking my breath away. I turned my head from his and snuggled into his broad chest, feeling the prickly wool of the great plaide draped over his shoulder on my cheek. “I love you so,” I whispered.

He took my chin, raising my face to his. “Then come with me tonight.”

Suddenly, a vision of my life wed to William Munro flashed through my mind. He was an older man and lived a long distance from Durant Castle, my home. I wanted a young, powerful warrior like Ellic. Da may disinherit me and no longer call me his daughter, but my heart could do naught else.

“Aye. I will come with you. Tell me the way.”

“Who is your guard?” He stepped back, rubbing his chin in deep thought.

“The brute, Sion. He will ne’er let me slip by him to meet you.”

Ellic grew silent, then backed to the stone wall, pulling me with him and gathering me into his arms. We kissed as a full moon rose in the east, casting white, silvery light into the garden. His brown hair glisten in the moonbeams. Ellic was the most handsome of Da’s guards. The thought of leaving him to marry another twisted the inner most part of me into a tight knot. I knew at that moment, I could never marry the Munro.

“Sion will drink and make merry along with the others at the feast. He’ll sleep instead of watch at your door, then you can slip out and meet me by the postern gate.”

“What of the guards at the postern gate? Da will have extra posted during the festivities with so many warriors inside getting drunk.”

“Fret no’, my men and I will take care of the guards. A birlinn is ready to take us across the Straight of Mull to Dunollie.”

The thought of leaving with Ellic made my heart thump until I felt certain he could hear its beating.

“Now go. Sion will find us soon, and you shouldn’t be seen with me.”

He gave me one last lingering kiss, then pushed me toward the garden gate. I hastened down the path, glancing back for one last look at my love, but he was gone. The bright moon lit the pathway out of the garden. I emerged, but did not see Sion in the bailey. Suddenly, a large hand grasped my arm, pulling me along toward the keep. I tried to jerk free, but could not escape the clutches of the powerful guard.

“So you sent me on a wild goose chase to the stables whilst you kept the tryst in the garden. Laird MacLean will be anxious to hear all about it.” He pulled harder.

“Stop you big oaf! I’m no’ a sack of barley to be dragged about.” I wrestled, yanking at his grasp once more and tried not to budge from the spot, but he kept pulling until I stumbled.

We reached the keep’s entrance. He pinned me in front of him, using both hands to open the heavy door, then pushed me through the portal. I tripped on the threshold and fell to the stone floor, bruising my hands and knees. Sion grabbed my arm, helped me up, and pulled me to the spiral staircase. Several of the luchd-taighe milled around the great hall. Some glanced our way, but said nothing. They never interfered with another’s orders. I saw none of my family. Sion followed me up the stairs then to my bed chamber. Opening the door, he pushed me through.

“I’ll send for Breda to care for you, for you'll no’ be coming out until the feast on the morrow.” He stood, eyes stormy. “I’m sorry you fell. I dinna mean to push so hard, but what I do and tell you is for your own good. The laird is determined to keep you away from Garvie or whomever you're meeting.” We continued to stare at each other. Determination rose like bile in my throat. “Do you understand, m’lady?”

“Where are my brothers? They’ll no’ let this unfair treatment continue. I wish to speak to Gillian.”

“Sir Gillian is telling Garvie of the laird’s wishes. Since the mon is a member of the MacLean’s guards, he’ll be allowed to stay and enjoy your marriage feast. Make nae mistake, m’lady, he will be watched.”

The door slammed closed, and my face burned with rage. Where are my brothers and my mother? They would never allow such rough treatment inflicted on my person. Surely, they would come to my rescue if they knew. Surely. I flung myself onto the bed, sobbing. My tears wet the coverlet, so I sat up on the side of the feather mattress, reached for a hand kertch on the small table, and blew my nose. Removing the arisaid and flinging it to the floor, I examined my bruised hands, then pulled up my heavy skirt to look at my knees. A small cut bled on one knee, but they were mostly scrapped and blue. I dabbed at the cut with the hand kertch.

A knock sounded. “Who is it?” I rose and rushed to bar the door if necessary. Sion was not coming back into my room.

“’Tis Breda, Lady Aine. I’ve come to help you prepare for bed,” the maid called through the door.

“Come,” I answered with a sob.

The door opened slowly. Breda entered and observed my cut, bruised knees. She searched my eyes, hers filled with anxiety. “I’ll fetch the healer, Lady Aine. That cut should be cared for.”

“Nae, Breda. Washing with a clean cloth is all that’s needed.” I dabbed at the blood. “Rinse this in the basin, then wash the cut again. It’ll be much better with the cleansing.”

Breda poured water from the pitcher into the bowl, then rinsed the cloth. She brought it back and began to rub on the cut knee. The cold water felt good and stopped the bleeding. She rinsed the rag then washed the cut once more.

Handing me the cloth, she said, “I’ll empty this bowl and fetch more water. Are you certain you dinna wish for me to call the healer?”

“Nae. Bring my mither, and if you see my brothers, send them also.” I needed their broad, understanding shoulders to cry on. My brothers usually took my part in any squabble I had with Da and Mam. Da complained they spoiled me ’til rotten, which in truth they did. One major problem my siblings’ overprotectiveness afforded was their interference with beaus and suitors. No man was good enough for their young sister, and Da encouraged this attitude.

The large oak door opened with a bang. My brother, Young Lachlan, strode to the bedside and pushed Breda aside, examining my knee. He took both my hands, turned them over, then looked into my questioning eyes.

“I’ll speak to Da about Sion,” he said with shards of light glinting in his eyes.

“Nae. Please dinna make matters worse with my father. These are naught but scratches.” I didn’t want my brothers interfering in my relationship with Ellic. They probably knew about our courtship since they knew all the comings and goings in Durant Castle. My brothers were Da’s eyes and ears now.

“You ken the Munro is coming to finalize the marriage contract.” Lachie dropped my hands, lifting my chin to search my eyes. “What are your feelings on the matter, Aine?”

“I care no’ to meet the mon, much less marry him. He’ll take me away to that godforsaken place on the other side of Scotland he calls Ferindonald.” Tears brimmed my eyes. “Away from my family and home. Away from you, Lachie. I dinna care if he’s titled. I’ll no’ go with him.”

“I’ll speak to Da this eve, before the Munro arrives. You're a bonnie woman, Aine. Surely he can find a suitor closer to Durant.”

I buried my head in his wool plaide and wept, wetting the garment.

He stroked my hair for a long while, then pushed me away and planted a kiss on my forehead. “Take care of your wounds, now.”

Lachie turned on his heels with his sword clanking in the scabbard buckled around his waist. Breda began washing the cut on my knee again. She was a good caretaker and I planned to keep her with me wherever I may go, especially if the object of my journey happened to be Fàrdach Castle on the Cromarty Firth.

Mother pushed past Lachie in the doorway. He addressed her, then moved on. She rushed to me, taking the wet cloth from Breda and wiping the wound on my knee. She examined the cut, then turned to the maid and told her to fetch, Màdra, the healer. I tried to tell Mother I did not need the healer, but she would not listen.

“You may get blood on your night shift and bed linens. The cut needs a bandage and the scrapes need plantain salve.” She searched my eyes. “Perhaps willow bark tea for pain, also.”

“Mam,” I protested. “The wounds are small. I dinna need willow bark tea or anything else.”

Mother told Breda to fetch the healer anyway. The maid left, gently closing the door whilst Mam took a clean shift from the trunk at the foot of the bed and told me to stand. She assisted with the laces of my kirtle, then took the garment over my head. She did the same for the blouse, and hung both from a peg on the opposite wall. I grabbed the shift from the bed and put it on. Although a fire blazed in the fireplace, the air felt cold on my body. I moved closer to the fire. A knock sounded on the door. Mother answered, then Breda and Màdra entered the room. Breda held a mug.

I sat in a small upholstered chair beside the fire whilst mother took the other. Màdra quickly examined my hands, opened her leather healer’s bag and withdrew a small glass container of salve. She spread the cool balm over the scrapes and bruises on my hands with nimble fingers, then raised my shift and examined the cut on my knee. Shaking her head, she wiped the seeping blood away with a clean cloth, smeared plantain salve on the cut, then placed a linen square over the wound, tying it in place with another, larger strip of linen.

Màdra searched my eyes, then motioned for Breda to hand me the mug. “I can tell by your eyes, you’re in some pain, m’lady. Please drink the willow bark tea.”

I looked at Mother who nodded. I could not fight the three of them, so taking the mug from Breda, I drank the bitter tea. The nasty brew would help me sleep and get the rest required to resist the demands of my father. I rose and walked toward the bed. Breda placed the mug with the remainder of the tea on the bedside table, pulled back the bedcovers, tucked the coverlet under my chin, then pulled the fur blanket on top of me.

Mother stood beside the bed, brushed the hair from my face, and kissed my forehead. “Don’t hesitate to drink the remainder of the tea if you wake and feel pain.”

I hated being treated like a bairn. “Mither, I am fine. Please stop treating me like a bairn.”

“You'll always be my wee lassie, Aine. No matter how old you are.” She took Breda’s arm, and the three women left my room.

I lay in bed searching the plastered ceiling, thinking of Ellic, and waiting for the potion to take effect on my wakefulness. Mayhap I should do as he asked and slip away with him in the birlinn to Dunollie Castle then beyond. Someplace unknown to my family where we could live in peace the rest of our lives. Maybe I would do just that.

 

The desire to write historical fiction has long been a passion with Brenda B. Taylor. Since elementary school, she has written stories in her spare time. Brenda earned three degrees: a BSE from Henderson State University, Arkadelphia, Arkansas; a MEd from Sam Houston State University, Huntsville, Texas; and an EdD from Texas A&M University, College Station, Texas; then worked as a teacher and administrator in the Texas Public School system. Only after retirement could she fulfill the dream of publication.

Brenda and her husband make their home in beautiful East Texas where they enjoy spending time with family and friends, traveling, and working in Bethabara Faith Ministry, Inc. She crafts stories about the extraordinary lives of ordinary people in her favorite place overlooking bird feeders, bird houses, and a variety of blooming trees and flowers. She sincerely thanks all who purchase and read her books. Her desire is that the message in each book will touch the heart of the reader as it did hers in the writing.

Her latest book is the Scottish Historical Romance A Highland Emerald.

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