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Download a PDF of the first chapter here.
For Sebastian Delacroix, stepping into Hard Knocks Gym was like coming home.
He paused just inside the entrance, listening to the grunts from bags being punched, ropes being jumped, flesh being pummeled. Smelling the pungency of sweat and blood and testosterone. Yeah, nothing like the gym to welcome him back to New Orleans.
“Look what the wind blew in.” An older man, with liberal doses of salt shaken into the pepper of his hair, walked up and slapped Sebastian on his back. He remained still with an effort; Armand Duparte still packed a punch and he knew it. “Sebastian Delacroix as I live and breathe! When did you get back?”
“Hey, old man.” Sebastian gave as good as he got, clapping his mentor on the shoulder. “My plane landed late last night, then I spent the morning taking care of business, setting things in motion. I figured I could come in and work the kinks out this afternoon and check in with you.”
“You know you’re always welcome.” Armand Duparte stepped back, giving Sebastian the once-over. Again, he stood still as the older man’s keen gray eyes took his measure much like he’d done twelve years ago when an eighteen-year-old Sebastian had first stepped foot in the gym full of fight, raw talent, and absolutely no discipline whatsoever.
Duparte was the closest thing he had to a father figure and though he’d resented the trainer’s hard-ass methods and harder attitude, his mother had bought him the gym membership as a last-ditch effort to keep him out of trouble. Eventually Sebastian had recognized that Duparte had exactly what he’d needed. Duparte had given Sebastian more than he could ever repay. He’d missed the old man more than he’d admit.
“What sort of business brought you back to town?”
Sebastian hesitated. So many things brought him back home, business being one of them. He had a much larger goal in mind than moving his billion-dollar empire back to his hometown, though. Goals that included making up for past mistakes, making right the things he’d turned so wrong. Making the future better than the last five years had been.
“We’re in the process of moving DJD Holdings back here,” Sebastian explained, hedging. He wasn’t ready to share his true plan yet, especially not with Duparte. If anyone could make him question his approach and his intentions, it was his mentor.
“I know that, and I didn’t have to read the Business Chronicle to find out either,” Duparte said. “I heard it from Raphael, who’s already splitting his time between here and Baton Rouge. I thought he was handling the relocation effort.”
“He is.” Sebastian made a mental note to throttle his partner, Raphael Jerroult, who always talked too much for his own good. “Raphael closed the deal on our offices last week, and he’s in the process of transferring some of his people in from Baton Rouge. We’re going to keep the offices in Los Angeles just to maintain a presence.”
“So then you’re here because . . . ?”
Sebastian gritted his teeth. He knew Duparte wouldn’t leave him be until he knew the truth, just as he knew Duparte already suspected what that truth was. He’d put off the reveal for a little while longer though, as he decided what to tell his mentor—and how to get his help.
“I’m here to loosen my muscles and get my house in order. How’s the equipment holding up?” he asked, gesturing at the wide array of equipment bearing a black-and-blue Hard Knocks Athletics logo.
“Pretty good.” Duparte looked around the gym. “Then again, the manufacturers know I’d knock them upside the head a few times if they retrofitted my gym with shoddy equipment.”
“Which is why it’s the best equipment on the market.” Sebastian had thrown in some of his prize money with Raphael and another of Duparte’s Lost Boys, Gabriel Devereaux, and with his permission, had adopted the gym’s name for their first company, Hard Knocks Athletics. They now supplied fitness equipment to some of the most successful college programs and sports franchises in the country, and were making inroads in the home gym market. It didn’t hurt that all three of them were champions in their respective disciplines—boxing for Sebastian, Muay Thai for Jerroult, and mixed martial arts for Devereaux. They’d each gone on to make millions in other areas, with Raphael officially taking the helm of his late father’s business, JerTech. Sebastian had branched out into several other businesses, but Hard Knocks would always have a special place in his financial heart, thanks to the man in front of him and his penchant for taking in Lost Boys.
Lost Boys. That’s what Duparte and many others had called the stray youths Duparte collected in his gym. Young men with nowhere else to go, with violence the only currency they dealt in. They were all around the same age, and had been taken under Duparte’s wing about the same time. All of them had bonded through blood, sweat, and the chips on their shoulders. Sebastian couldn’t count many people as friends, but Jerroult and Devereaux had his loyalty and his back, as he had theirs.
“The best equipment,” he repeated, allowing his pride to spill into his voice. “We wouldn’t put your name on just anything. The Lost Boys owe you more than that.”
Duparte nodded. “Speaking of Lost Boys, where’s Gabriel?”
“Hell if I know.”
Duparte shook his head. “Don’t see how you boys can run a multibillion-dollar empire when you don’t even keep track of each other.”
“We don’t need to be face-to-face. That’s what smartphones are for.” Sebastian couldn’t remember the last time they’d all been in the same time zone, much less the same room. Gabriel still fought in MMA matches and bloodier underground cage fights, probably to battle some personal demons. They had their once-a-week videoconferences for the decisions that needed consensus and brainstorming, and e-mails and phone calls otherwise. But they’d all planned to return to New Orleans for their company, for Duparte, and for their own personal reasons.
He thought about his own personal motives—or rather, one large motive. The only reason that mattered, the reason that had pushed up his timetable. The cause: the biggest fight of his life. The goal: total victory. The prize: the only woman he’d ever loved.
Duparte folded his arms across his chest. Though the man had at least two decades on Sebastian, he still had the strength, toughness, and form of a fighter with the added ability to see through anyone’s bullshit. Which he did now. “You don’t want to share, fine. Maybe loosening your muscles will loosen your tongue. You want a bag or someone to spar with?”
Sebastian raised his fists. He may have been a couple of years out of the ring, but he kept his fighting form. Today, though, wasn’t about teaching any young up-and-comers a lesson. “Bag’s fine.”
“Come on, then. I’ll get you taped up.”
He followed Duparte over to a quieter corner of the gym, dismissing the curious stares and smartphones pointed at him as he crossed the floor. He supposed it wasn’t every day that a former heavyweight champion strolled into Hard Knocks Gym, especially one who had managed to parlay his prize money into a billion-dollar empire. His presence in the gym would be all over social media within minutes. He just had to hope it would hit the Web too late for his quarry to run back to Vegas.
“You boys aren’t the only ones who’ve come back around.”
He set his bag down on a nearby bench and pulled out his wraps. “Oh yeah? Which one of your other strays decided to come back home?”
“Not my stray. Yours.”
The deceptive casualness of Duparte’s tone put Sebastian on alert. “I don’t have any strays.”
“Maybe you do, maybe you don’t. You’ll know for sure if you stay around for another hour or so.”
“Stop speaking in riddles, old man, and just say what you need to say.”
“I will, as soon as you stop beating around the bush and tell me the truth of why you decided to return to New Orleans now, and showed up in my gym today of all days.”
Instead of answering immediately, Sebastian concentrated on wrapping his hands. Duparte took the wraps from him as if Bas were some noob fresh off the street and made quick work of wrapping his knuckles and wrists for the practice gloves.
“Okay, I heard some rumors out of Vegas,” he admitted as Duparte handed him his well-worn training gloves. “I decided to check it out.”
“Which you could have done with one phone call.”
“Some things need to be checked out in person,” Sebastian replied. He pulled his sweatshirt off, then spent some time warming up, working the business kinks out of his muscles, slipping into the fighter mind-set that was never far away. “It’ll make it easier to put my plan into motion.”
A grin split the old man’s features just before he roared with laughter. Sebastian waited with gritted teeth for Duparte to pull himself together. One did not punch their mentor no matter how much he deserved it. “What’s so funny, old man?”
“You,” Duparte answered, wiping at his eyes. “A plan. You think having a plan is going to work?” He laughed again. “I’ll be in my office. Be sure to stop in before you leave. I can’t wait to hear all about your plan.”
Chuckling again, Duparte made his way to the back of the gym and the office he kept there. Sebastian turned to the bag to start his workout. He always did his best thinking while pushing his body, and today was no exception. With each strike he plotted and planned his next moves. Because while business had brought him back to New Orleans, a woman would be the reason he’d stay.
Renata Giordano, champion boxer and the love of his life. The one who’d gotten away. Granted he’d been a dick and pushed her away, but it didn’t make being without her suck any less.
After her father had died, she’d leaned on Roddy Cooper, her trainer who became her manager, then her fiancé. Not that he could begrudge the man for stepping up when Sebastian had stepped back. As far as he’d been able to follow from a state away, Roddy Cooper had done a decent job of managing Renata’s career. That she’d also fallen in love with him and became his fiancée was Sebastian’s cross to bear.
Growling, he pounded the bag harder. He had never been a turn-the-other-cheek kind of guy. He didn’t believe for a moment that a grown man who called himself Roddy was a better choice for Renata than he. Rumor was, she’d broken up with her asshole of a fiancé and manager, packed up, and left Las Vegas. There was also talk that she’d been signed to a championship bout to take place later in the year, but now she had no trainer, no manager, no support system. There was only one place she’d go for help, only one place she would trust. Which was why he was back in New Orleans ahead of schedule but ready to reclaim his prize.
Silence rolled across the gym, eventually reaching Sebastian. He caught the bag, stopping its swinging motion, then turned to face the door.
A woman stood in the entrance dressed in black fitted pants and a gray hoodie, gym bag in hand. Sunlight spilled in around her, highlighting the red streaks in her dark brown ponytail even as it cast the rest of her in silhouette. Women were a rarity at Hard Knocks. He didn’t think there were any even on the cleaning crew. Most women took a step inside, realized the only classes were competitive weight designations, and quickly retreated.
This woman didn’t. Instead, she strode into the gym as if she belonged there and knew the layout. Knew that nothing was soft in Hard Knocks, not even the towels, and neither was she. Sebastian could admire a woman like that, a woman who owned the space she claimed, and dared anyone to knock her out of it.
Sebastian’s gut tightened. He knew of only one woman who’d made a place for herself in this gym, one woman who trained hard and punched harder than many of the wannabe fighters who came through Duparte’s doors. Was she here already?
He narrowed his gaze as the woman walked toward his area. He knew that walk. Knew the tilt of her head, the swing of her shoulders, the sway of those hips. Knew every inch of that toned body, the strength of her punches and her legs wrapped around his waist. Renata.
She unzipped her hoodie one-handed as she crossed the floor, revealing one of those sports bra tops and the Mona Lisa equivalent of six-pack abs on a woman. His hands curved inside his gloves. Good God, the years of dominating the ladies’ light welterweight championship had been good to her. Most of that weight was solid muscle, though she had curves where it counted. High, tight breasts he could cup in his hands, an equally cupable ass, thighs that could grip a man and hold him in place as they fucked each other stupid. Defined arms that powered a serious punch and a brutal right hook, but fingers so soft and sure when they wrapped around his cock. All that awesomeness born of a Sicilian father and Puerto Rican mother, Renata was a whirlwind of passion and energy that he’d loved getting caught up in.
Fuck. With a growl he renewed his attack on the punching bag, imagining Roddy Cooper’s face on the polyurethane cover. Cooper had had years with Renata that should have belonged to Bas. He’d known the moment it happened that he shouldn’t have walked away from her. Shouldn’t have let his fucking fear and newfound sense of honor push away the best thing that had ever happened to him.
After another vicious punch, Sebastian stopped the bag then turned to face her again because he couldn’t not look at her, even when it hurt. She strolled through the gym, oblivious to the stares that followed her. Oblivious to him.
He gritted his teeth as she made her way to the back offices, obviously here to meet with Duparte about training for her fight. Duparte had been her trainer previously, before she and her father had moved to Vegas. Before Bas had given her a reason to uproot her life here in New Orleans. Yet she’d walked right past him as if he didn’t exist.
To hell with that. He yanked his gloves off then pulled a towel out of his bag, wiping sweat from his face. Five minutes. He’d give Renata and Duparte a chance to get reacquainted and then it was his turn. Time to put his plan into action.
He’d get Renata back. If she didn’t knock him out first.
In honor of St. Patrick’s Day and all things Irish, here’s an excerpt from my Irish medieval historical romance, Devil’s Angel. Enjoy!
The people of Dunlough have just experienced heavy battle losses. Conor, thinking his dearest friend has died, rides off alone to grieve. Erika goes after im.
The pale apparition dismounted, silver hair gleaming in the moonlight. “Conor, I’m not the Mórrigan. I’m Erika.”
“I do not.” The specter’s words were quiet, compelling. Her hands went to her cloak, sending it billowing to the ground. It was followed by her baldric and sword. “I am your wife, and I’ve come to take you home.”
Laughter tore from him, brutal and harsh and mirthless. The Mórrigan stepped back, and he laughed anew. “And what is your home? A cold black place filled with the screams of the damned? Can it be any worse than what I endure now?”
“Conor, listen to me. Look at me.” Her dress fell to her feet and she stood, glorious and nude before him. “I am real. I am your wife.”
“No!” His words were a snarl of denial. “Enough of this—it ends now!”
Brandishing his sword, he raced across the clearing. The Mórrigan made no sound, did not reach for her sword. Did nothing but stare at him with his wife’s eyes.
A cry of anguish tore from him. He could not do it. Merciful heaven, he could not strike down the witch that wore his wife’s face.
The hand clasping his sword fell to his side and he dropped to his knees, the defiance drained. “Do what you will,” he whispered, weary in mind and soul. “I am beyond care.”
Movement, the Angel of Death coming closer to him. She knelt before him, one hand reaching out to touch his marred cheek. The rush he ever felt at his wife’s touch coursed through him, illuminating his dark misery. She melted against him, pressing kisses over his ravaged face. He pushed his fingers into her hair, drawing her closer, needing her touch and her scent. “Erika.”
As quick as he grasped her he pushed her away. “Return to the dun.”
“I will. With you.” Her voice was cool as moonlight.
“No!” He stumbled to his feet and away from her. “I was near to killing you—do you not recognize that? You were close to being beheaded!”
“Yet I was not.”
How could she be so calm when he was seething inside? “Leave me be!”
“No.” She rose and came closer, and the tremble in her voice reached him. “I will remain with you, Conor. You will not turn me away. I will not let you.”
Her essence stole into him as she stepped close behind him, cooling the madness that burned his soul. He turned into her, pressing his burning cheeks into the softness of her hair. “Angel of Death, become angel of mercy. Will you show me mercy? Can you heal me?”
She stroked the dark silk of his beard. “I would like to try.”
With a groan he crushed her against him, capturing her mouth in a kiss that hovered on brutal. His hands were clumsy on his clothing and he heard the rip of fabric. He knew he should slow his pace, but need rode him with the desperation of a drowning man reaching for a rope just beyond his reach. “Touch me, Aingeal,” he commanded, his voice grating. “Burn me with your light. Make me forget.”
She came to him, molding her body to his, lightning melding with thunder. It was she who pushed him to the dew-covered grass, she who rose above him, straddling his thighs, her hands wrapped about his hardness.
He could not bear the waiting. Grabbing her waist, he surged inside her with one swift invasive thrust, causing her to gasp. There was nothing gentle about this joining, and beneath the storm of need the part of him that could still reason despaired for causing her pain.
“Conor, look at me.”
He did, and what he saw stole his breath. Her pale skin was aflame with desire, her eyes glittering with the same need he felt in himself. He kept his eyes on her, needing the glory of her flesh in the moonlight to banish the darkness. Fingertips scored his chest as she rode him, meeting him wildness for wildness, needing the comfort as much as he. They were warriors, their passion warring with tenderness. Need drove them, the need to be united, to be lost and found in each other.
He matched her stroke for relentless stroke as she moved above him, head tossed back, breasts thrust upward. Her pace increased, and passion blocked all but her image from his mind. When she arched backward, his name tearing from her throat, he was engulfed in silver flames that seared his heart, mind and soul. His release, when it came, was violent, shattering, bursting over and around them like thunder.
Spent, they collapsed against each other, their breaths mingling on the night air. It was a long moment before they could bear to part, but the night air forced them into their clothing. Conor wrapped Erika’s cloak about her then settled her against him tight, unwilling to be parted from her for long. “Why did you come?”
“You needed me.”
He did, and most desperate. “I didn’t believe you were real. What would you have done if I had not stopped? What would I have done had I killed you?”
“Yet you didn’t. Think on that instead.”
He shook his head, unable to put into words the horror he felt at how close he had come, how his madness had near driven him to…
Her hands on him were soothing, comforting. “Tell me, what drives you so?”
“I will not speak on it.”
“Even to me?”
His sigh trembled. “How can I be called Devil, and not face my demons alone?”
Erika cradled his cheeks in her sword-calloused hands. “I am your wife. You no longer need to face anything alone.”
I’m currently working feverishly to finish the second novella in the Billionaire’s Club: New Orleans trilogy, which features a hot Muay Thai champion named Raphael who really has a thing for ropes. I so love this guy! But not as much as I love Sebastian. And then there’s dark and dangerous Gabriel…sigh!
Anyway, I thought I’d share a little promotional postcard I just ordered. Enjoy!
I’m running a contest over at Coffee Time Romance. I’ll be giving away a beautiful pendant made in Ireland of Connemara marble! here’s a peek at it:
For more about the contest, please visit: http://www.coffeetimeromance.com/ContestPage.html
Conor mac Ferghal welcomed death.
He pushed a dying raider from the point of his sword, moving closer to the thick of the fighting that centered on two giants on a mist-shrouded hill. Their dress and the wicked-looking battle-axes they wielded bespoke their Viking heritage. Even in the heat of battle, Conor admired the way the fair-haired warriors worked together, standing back to back and holding their own despite the odds against them.
And the odds were against them, Conor knew. His admiration of their skill would not stop him from vanquishing them. He would have vengeance, and he would give no quarter. He wasn’t known as the Devil of Dunlough because of his charity.
A shout cut through the screams and groans of the wounded and dying. “The Angel of Death! The Angel of Death comes!”
Everyone, friend and foe alike, seemed to halt as a form materialized from the cloying mist. A pale horse broke through, bearing a rider wrapped head to toe in bleached garments that seemed to make rider and horse more apparition than reality. The conical iron helmet and sword gleamed in the weak afternoon sunlight as the pale warrior drove the horse up the hill to the Northmen.
“Stand your ground, men,” the Devil called, crashing the hilt of his sword into a raider’s face. “Remember what befell our village. Leave the supposed Angel of Death to the Devil of Dunlough!”
The pale warrior now stood beside his companions, wielding the shimmering sword in graceful, deadly arcs. As he drew ever closer, Conor noticed how the taller two men protected the smaller. Their leader, perhaps? The Viking’s conical iron helmet, with nose and eye guards, concealed from Conor all but a pair of startling lavender eyes that blazed with hatred and a chin devoid of even the slightest beard.
Very few of the Northmen went without beards. A youth, then. Conor refused to feel compassion for him. Becoming a warrior meant preparing to fight and preparing to die. He had seen younger ones than this meet their end in battle, mere boys who did not deserve death. This one did. Pushing to the forefront of his men, the Devil engaged the enemy.
The young Viking moved with a lethal ease that belied his years, parrying the blow Conor dealt him. He smiled as the familiar bloodlust coursed through his veins. It was always thus, when he found an opponent worth his skill and concentration. The darkness would come later, after the blood had dried.
The two combatants matched each other blow for blow, neither uncovering a weakness in the other. This one would not go down easily. The thought had no more than crossed Conor’s mind when one of the Viking’s companions stumbled. The youth buckled, thrown off balance as the other Northman fell at their feet. When the young Viking turned to the fallen man, Conor seized the opportunity, slashing his adversary deep in the thigh.
The resulting cry of pain was so feminine that Conor checked the killing blow that would have bit deeply into the leather tunic and cleaved the man in two. It was a futile effort. The tip of his sword pierced the pale leather and embedded itself in the Viking’s side. He gave Conor a look of utter disbelief before slumping to the ground, his hand stretched toward his fallen companion.
Conor took a deep breath, seeking the freshness of the early spring breeze over the smell of blood and death as he scanned the field. His opponent had been the last to fall. Even now his men availed themselves of whatever riches they could glean from the fallen among their enemies, a curious mixture of Irish and Northmen. Satisfied that all was secure, he knelt beside his fallen enemy. With a sense of foreboding, he removed the iron helmet. What he saw stole his breath.
The Viking was not the untried youth he’d thought, but a woman, the most striking woman he had ever seen. The helmet had obscured a heart-shaped face with high, sharp cheekbones and near translucent skin. Hair so pale it was almost silver was pulled into a plait as thick as his wrist. Her brows were gossamer wings, as were the sooty lashes that fluttered against her cheeks. A blade-thin nose perched above full, pouty lips and a defiant chin that reduced her features from ethereal to fascinating. The skin was pulled taut across her cheekbones and throat, an indication of the unkind life a bandit led. Even in unconsciousness there was a guarded demeanor to her expression that gave her an air of otherworld mystery.
Conor glanced up. Ardan, his second, stood beside him, protecting him as always. Ardan was a hardened warrior with a ruddy, weathered face and red hair sprinkled with gray. He had the unswerving loyalty of one whose life had been saved many times by the man he gave allegiance to. A man of few words but great wisdom, Ardan had been Conor’s friend since the younger man’s days in fosterage, and one of the few people he trusted without question.
The surprise on Ardan’s face matched his own. “Yes, it is a woman.”
Ardan spat down the hill. “You’ve strange luck with women trying to kill you.”
“True.” Conor let the comment pass. If any other than Ardan had said the same to him, that man would not get home under his own power. “At least this one had the decency to meet me face to face on the field of battle, unlike my dear-departed wife.”
He fingered the scar that ran down the left side of his face, a gift from his late wife. “This land will fall into the sea before I let a woman put an end to me.”
Seeking a pulse, Conor touched the fallen woman’s neck, wondering at the frisson of awareness that coursed along his fingertips. He found her life-beat. It was there, but weak.
As he brought his hand away, his fingers brushed a neck-chain. He pulled it free of her tunic to discover an exquisite crafted cross hanging on a braided silver chain with a gilded Hammer of Thor. He grinned in spite of himself. ’Twas obvious the woman meant to be well prepared when she left this world.
Tucking the pendant back into the woman’s tunic, he lingered over the satiny feel of her skin. So delicate to be so deadly. He shook his head to clear it of such inane poetic thoughts and rose to his feet.
“Is she?” Ardan asked.
“Dead? No. The Angel of Death? I believe so.”
Ardan cursed under his breath, a long and colorful sentence that would have stunned Conor with its length in other circumstances. He felt the urge to curse himself.
The Angel of Death.
Conor had dismissed the stories as colorful tales spun by bards at the royal court. The idea of a woman, Viking or Irish, garbed completely in white and riding into battle was impossible to believe. Yet the proof lay before him.
Ardan regained his composure. “Why would herself attack our village?”
“A good question.” Conor’s voice was flat. “The village has naught to offer but cottages of fishermen and the tenants who raise tribal cattle. Even the Irish riding with her and her Northmen should know that our treasures, such as they are, are kept close to the dun.”
He looked down at the unconscious woman. “The stories call the Angel a defender of the defenseless. Perhaps the stories are false. Unless someone sent her.”
If Ardan was surprised by Conor’s statement, he did not show it. And why should he, Conor thought. After all, someone was always after the Devil of Dunlough.
Ardan prodded one of the mail-clad Vikings with his foot. “Her man could be one of these two.”
For an inexplicable reason, the idea that the legendary Angel had followed her lover into battle made Conor’s jaw clench. He forced himself to calm. “You could be right, Ardan. They were defending each other.”
“This one lives yet.”
The Devil wiped his blade on the second Viking’s breeches, then sheathed it. “Bring them,” he ordered, calling for his horse. With an ease that belied his size, he swung astride. “Send for the priest to bless the dead and dying. If the Angel and her companion survive the journey, I will have Gwynna tend to their wounds.”
“You won’t execute them then?”
He shook his head, steadying his mount with a quiet word. “Someone sent the Angel of Death to slay me. I would have answers from her before she dies.”
Ardan issued orders, then swung aside his own mount as the famed warrior and her still-living companion were thrown over a horse without ceremony. “Where do you think she’s from?”
“I don’t know,” Conor replied. “There are Viking strongholds aplenty here. Sitric Silk-beard holds Dubh Linn, and more Northmen control Waterford, Wexford, Limerick and even Dun na Ghall to the north. She could be from any of those.”
A frown shaded Ardan’s features. “If she was, we would have heard of her before Clontarf.”
Clontarf. The word caused a chill deep in Conor’s soul, even two years later. Clontarf, where the tenuous peace that the High King Brian Boruma had forged through decades of warfare had been shattered with his death. Where Irish and Viking fought against Irish and Viking for the ultimate control of the island.
Where Conor had lost his soul and gained a kingdom.
“Have a care with our war-prizes,” he told a thin, red-haired youth as he secured the Vikings to the mount. He turned his own mount towards home and away from the mesmerizing figure. “We’ve a way to go, and more war bands could be about.”
Ardan drew alongside him. “Think you she was sent by Ulster?”
“It is probable,” Conor answered. “There’s little love lost between us, though you’d think with the other three kingdoms as well as Connacht fighting old Máel Sechnaill for the High Kingship, they’d have more sense than to send their men to sure death against us.”
“Who said that Ulstermen had sense?”
The men around them laughed at the joke, and Conor let them have their mirth. They’d had little to laugh at over the last two years that he’d been ruler of the tuath and chieftain of the tribe. He knew he was a prize worth catching for his many enemies. Near six and a half feet tall, he towered over his men. With his penchant for wearing black while his men wore the saffron yellow warrior’s
leine, his dark brown hair that was almost black, and the ever-present scar, many thought him more demon than Irishman.
It did not bother him, the moniker that he’d acquired. Devil he was, through and through. And despite the name, despite the scar, men of the tribe flocked to Dunlough for the honor of serving the mac Ferghal. Flocked to fight beside the man who threw them into battle again and again, a man who made himself a target, the center of many battles. It was his duty, he told himself. He fought because he had to, and he fought with a zeal that went beyond the typical Gaelic zest for life.
No one knew what that zeal cost him.
He wrenched his thoughts back to the present as the dun came into view. Bards often said Dunlough was cradled in the bosom of Eire, and he agreed. Hidden in the northwest of Connacht, bounded by rugged, rocky hills to the north, crystal lakes and streams to the south, the mountain Slieve Torc to the east, and the ocean to the west, Dunlough was as wild and glorious as its people. The dun itself sat on a verdant hill surrounded by earthen walls. A stream ran around the base of the wall and cascaded down the hill where it joined a larger river on its way to the dark lough that gave the dun its name.
Oh, people had laughed when his father’s father and his father before him started adding stone to the timber and thatch. They stopped soon enough when they came to seek solace from raids by Vikings and Ulstermen alike.
The dun had grown to a considerable size over the last two centuries. Its solid construction ensured that the people of Dunlough were well protected. Indeed, the remoteness of the northern part of the kingdom protected it from the brunt of the trials and tribulations that encompassed the rest of the island.
Of late, the warriors of Dunlough were riding out to challenge raiders, not armies. Rumors spoke of the Gaill-Gaedhel, the “foreign Irish”, riding again.
Mercenaries descended from the mixing of Irish and Viking blood, their ferociousness had caused them to be called “the sons of death”. They cared little for who they attacked as long as plunder was to be had.
That thought had Conor drawing sharp on his reins. Sons of death and the Angel of Death. Were they related? His village had been attacked. The Angel of Death was nearby.
Coincidences were not something that Conor had much faith in. If the woman was truly the notorious Angel of Death, why was she in Connacht? Why attack his poor village? Why look at him with such hatred in her eyes?
He would have been well within his rights had he slain the Angel in battle. But the Viking female had captured his curiosity. No, she would not die soon.
The Devil was a patient man. He would find the answers he sought. When he did, all the angels in heaven and hell would not keep this angel safe.
I’m excited to announce that I’ve made another sale to Samhain! The working title is DEVIL’S ANGEL and it’s a historical romance set in Ireland in 1016!
You’re probably saying: “WTH? I thought she was a contemporary romance writer?” And I am. I will continue to work on steamy love stories set in the here and now, and possibly later, and possibly an alternate here and now. But DEVIL’S ANGEL is probably the closest I’ve come to a book of my heart. I mean, seriously–medieval Ireland at the end of the Viking Age? Who’s reading that, much less buying it?
Luckily for me my editor loved the story, as soon as I have more information on it, I will let you know. I’m really hoping to do more stories set in medieval Ireland and stories of the Viking Age, so I’m crossing my fingers that people will enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
Some of you may have been wondering where the hell I’ve been. Some of you may have forgotten. That’s okay, life gets like that sometimes. And I got slapped int he face with a big ol’ steaming pile of life.
That was then, and this is now. And I’m exciting to be back writing and researching and focusing on the things I enjoy, like translating the images and words and voices in my head into something intelligible that induces others to read on.
With that in mind, I have some news on the the writing front. Hopefully I’ll be able to share that in that in the next couple of weeks or so. I’m pretty excited about it, and I hope you will be too!
I found this article through CNN, and thought it worth sharing. Writer Judy McGuire listed four pitfalls to avoid:
• Language: Yes, it helps if he speaks a foreign language you don’t understand, but that’s not what I’m talking about. Pronouns like us or we are to be avoided like an open sore and all talk of plans further into the future than an hour or two away is verboten.
• Meals: Acceptable FWB dining situations include shared bowls of cocktail peanuts, late-night grilled cheese sandwiches, and fancy desserts. Meals to be avoided are breakfast, brunch, dinner, with a special get-out-of-jail free card for lunch.
• Conversation: Questions any more probing than “what are you wearing?” and “when can we meet?” can get a little sticky. Your FWB doesn’t want to hear about your crazy mom and you really don’t want him to start yapping about his Ayn Rand fixation. Keep it light, keep it moving.
• Socializing: He doesn’t meet your friends, you don’t meet his. That goes double for family members. The best thing about having a FWB is that he’s your dirty little secret.
Make sense to me. The last time I had a FWB, I talked to a BFF about him occasionally, but no one ever got to meet him. It’s the easiest way to avoid the awkward convos, ya know?
Ecataromance reviews gave Lady Sings the Blues 4.5 stars! Rocio Rosado says:
Lady Sings The Blues by Mallery Malone is a book you not only want to read but also re-read.
I just saw that Lady Sings the Blues got 4.5 nymphs from Literary Nymphs Reviews! And hot damn, they got it exactly the way I meant it!
Lady Sings the Blues is what happens when a man’s love makes a woman see her internal beauty. Alina used her physical beauty to put herself through school and get her club, so she never expected people to see her as Alina, but only Miss Scarlet. Joshua not only accepts her, he wants her in his life. I cringed when I thought Alina might mess things up with such a genuinely good guy. Even worse, Joshua thought his blindness was the cause. They were the perfect match, in and out of bed, with their passions for life. Reading about their whirlwind love story is a must.
What an awesome way to start the weekend!