JAXON- Gentlemen of War- Chapter 2!
Amelia
My toes were nearly frozen within my slippers and goose flesh tingled down my spine as I pressed further against the inner branches of a fir tree. The sheer sleeves of my angelic disguise were unmerciful for such an outing, but I had not anticipated being outdoors for so long.
With my customary places of escape taken for one reason or another, I sought the quietness of the gardens if only to keep myself out of sight from the handsome though inept Sir Howard. Though he was pleasing to peer upon, the dull conversation over the dinner dance brought me to yawn three times into my linen napkin. Thank goodness the temperature outside was chilled enough for no one in their right mind to be out in… that is, except me… and well, the two gentlemen on the veranda keeping me trapped from coming indoors. Unbeknownst to them of course.
“You were dreadfully convincing, mate.” One man chuckled. “I’m certain the whole of London will be discussing your churlish manners and banishment by sunrise.”
His comment piqued my interest. I was not naïve enough to believe an element of theatrical pretend did not occur at society events, especially in the delicate frolic of the marriage mart but, when the second man responded, it was the pain in his tone that caught my attention.
“Apparently, I am remarkably gifted in duplicity,” he said.
I groaned inwardly. A suitor bemoaning his task to partner a woman not of his choice for a dance. Woe is me. I placed my gloved hand on my forehead as a dull megrim formed. Will I truly have to be stuck here in the freezing cold listening to how difficult it is to be a gentleman of the peer in these times.
“Presumably one of the reasons I was chosen for the arduous task in the first place.” I peered around the branch again. The few lanterns on the balustrade emitted just enough firelight to expose portions of the man’s silhouette. The tormented stranger with dark hair crumpled his undone cravat in his fists. I narrowed my eyes on his face. The shadows made seeing him clearly arduous outside of his strong-angled jaw and…” I squinted my eyes. A very distinct jagged scar from the upper most part of his neck down to the exposed V of his chest where his cravat should be. A wound from battle, perhaps? The thought tugged the breath from my chest.
The image of a soldier transpired—young and hopeful—with a smile that lit up a room. I chastised myself severely for allowing his appearance after forcing it away for so long. Warm tears disobediently formed and slid down my cold cheeks. I angrily brushed them aside with my gloved fingers and muttered, “Why can they not take their conversation indoors like proper gentlemen of the ton… at least before I became a perpetual icicle on the pine.
“I wasn’t sure how much longer you were going to have to carry on with such foolishness,” The first said with a chuckle.
“Fortunately, Father had finally reached his threshold.” The second sighed. “I do not relish in such deception on intimate levels, however, my family’s safety is paramount.”
Safety? What risks could this man possibly face on the ballroom floor? A woman’s heel to his boot? I scoffed but quickly clamped my hand over my mouth for fear of being heard.
Each voice distinct in their own way, the first man continued, “Will you write to Zachary?”
“Yes, tomorrow.”
“You are certain he will come?”
I was certain I could no longer feel my toes.
“Undoubtedly.”
“Make sure to include a reference to St. Pancras Old Church, April 7th and a clue that hints at 3 o’clock in the afternoon, and I will be there as planned to meet him.”
I arched a brow. Subterfuge? St Pancreas Old Church in Somers Town, Camden.
“We will thwart this threat, Jaxon. You did the right thing, mate. You must disappear.”
Disappear? Now, this conversation actually became interesting.
“Let’s just hope our efforts are enough and I particularly hope that my absence will free my family from the ill effects of my ignorance and plight.”
“One day they will thank you for your sacrifice.”
“I only hope I live to see that day.”
The first patted the shoulder of the second. “Your mates will make certain you do.”
I took a deep breath, and a chilling mouthful of cold air practically choked me. Cupping my gloved hands over my mouth, I attempted to bring warmth back, then growled.
I had had enough.
Stepping out from behind the tree with a devil-may-care attitude, I stomped through the fine layer of snow on the ground and up the steps only to find the veranda now empty. Though the safety of a masquerade ball was that they might not recognize me from behind my glittering white mask, I felt partially relieved that I would not face any sort of humiliation from my appearance and the certain fact that they would know I overheard their private conversation. But a small part of me was disappointed that I could not see more clearly the face of that man who so drew my curiosity.
Walking straight to the ladies’ retiring room, I perused cautiously about, searching for hints to the identity of either man, though I was certain the tormented man’s cravat was back properly in place. I would not be able to pick him out from any other gentleman tonight… well aside from Mr. Hemsath’s towering stature and Lord Simmons's portly belly, but it was a masquerade and the mysterious haunted one would likely be donning a mask himself by now.
Reaching the ladies’ room relatively quickly, I sighed my relief that no one else was currently present. It would take some time to induce feeling back into my limbs and I did not need some gossipmonger inventing lies about why I was chilled to the bone.
A quarter of an hour later, I emerged just as refreshed as the moment I stepped down from my carriage, but upon entering the ballroom, I should have prepared myself for the pairs of eyes dispensing daggers in my direction—the right honorable Viscount Newell, my father, and his unpleasant wife of eighteen months, Katrina.
“Amelia!” He snapped with as much of a whisper as he could manage without drawing attention. “We have been looking for you everywhere for near on one hour.”
Katarina narrowed her eyes up and down my attire as if trying to discover a reason to scrutinize me further. “One could only wish she was with a gentleman,” she jeered.
I glared in her direction. I had the only two guardians at the ball who would delight in the notion that their daughter might be compromised. Well, I truly hoped my father did not. “I was in the ladies’ retiring room,” I replied coolly.
Katrina smirked. “You most certainly were not. I checked there first.”
“I would not like to presume, dear stepmother…” a name she detested. “that you are saying I am being untruthful. I first was outside getting some fresh air before I went to the retiring room. We could have simply missed one other.”
“Outside?” She nearly shrieked. “In this weather?”
“Some of us do not blossom in the sweltering heat,” I spoke through gritted teeth.
Her mouth tightened and just before she was going to respond with a quip of her own. Father reached under my elbow and guided me off to the side. “Amelia Rose.” I braced for a lecture—the only time he used my first and middle names together. “It is high time you acknowledged your future. Stop hiding from your suitors and accept a proposal.”
My face blanched. I had no inclination to accept any of the three proposals I had received in the previous fortnight. They were all ridiculous men. Well, not all. Lord Weathersby had potential if he could just look me in the eyes.
“Father, must we speak of this here, now?”
“Yes, since you quite cleverly find ways to not speak with me at home.” He referred to our Tudor in Mayfair.
I pursed my lips long enough to find composure in my features before I spoke. “Because every conversation you and I have, Father, your prying wife must interfere.”
“She is your mother now.”
His words caught me by surprise. “She will never be my mother!” I unhinged his grasp.
“Miss Amelia!” Elizabeth called and waved me over. Perfect timing. I offered a stiff curtsy to my father and departed, joining my dear friend Elizabeth and never looked back.
When I arrived at my friend’s side, another woman tarried beside her—a beautiful, striking lady dressed as a fairy princess in a shimmering silver gown with fragile wings. I knew of Lady Helena Walsh but had never been formally introduced.
“Oh, Amelia!” Elizabeth reached for my hands and brought me to her. “I would like you to meet Lady Helena Walsh. We only recently became acquainted at the Drake Soiree.”
I smiled and curtsied and was instantly put at ease with her calm demeanor and kind eyes. “I am so pleased to meet you, Miss Amelia.” She said, “Miss Elizabeth has told me all about you.”
I arched a brow in my friend’s direction but before she could respond, a handsome man appeared at her side, asking Lady Helena for the next dance.
“This is my husband, Lord Lucas Walsh.”
“Luke, this is Miss Elizabeth Christian and Miss Amelia Newell.”
“Newell?” He rubbed his jaw. “Peter Newell?”
“Yes,” I braced for the prickling assault within my chest. It often rose at the most inopportune times. “My brother.”
His eyes softened. “I’m sorry.”
I nodded. “Thank you.”
The silence between us grew until he cleared his voice, “Pardon me while I whisk this lovely lady away before another claims the waltz.”
We smiled and said our goodbyes as they departed. Lady Helena even moved with the grace of a fairy princess. A sting of envy arose over the way Lord Lucas gazed upon his wife. The love he had for her was more than I could bear. A love that I had witnessed with my own parents years ago.
“Can you imagine she gave birth to a daughter a mere three months ago?” Elizabeth’s eyes were fastened to the woman’s slim figure. “Theirs is a story of romantic intrigue, much like your gothic novels, my friend.” She sighed. “Her prince gallantly rescued her from the clutches of a wicked tyrant and they live peacefully in married bliss.”
I groaned.
“Such a daring life is not intended for you and me, Lizzy.”
“Speak for yourself, you petulant crank.”
I chuckled. Elizabeth wished for a life on the stage and often sensationalized her rather boring existence. As the daughter of a baron, who spent more time on the continent than at home, her only supervision came in the form of a former actress from the Globe Theater turned companion.
Though my own father was a viscount and held considerable power, I felt oddly misplaced in the beau monde. While I had attended Miss Mabey’s women of distinction school, was fluent in French, Latin, and conversational Italian, and passable on the pianoforte, none of these skills brought forth the happiness I sought.
“I wonder how Lord Lucas knew Peter?” Elizabeth said, still gazing longingly in their direction.
Peter.
He, Elizabeth, and my lady’s maid, Daisy, were the only ones who knew my true desires… my love for the mysteries of the ancient world. An interest I acquired quite by accident when I stumbled upon the Vestusta Monumenta and the volume that featured Thomas Amyot’s work. Subsequently, I could not get my hands upon enough of his work or the additional volumes. The Hatchards bookshop had come to know me by name, the museums were my second home, and when I could manage it without speculation, I wandered through the old Roman fort ruins off Noble Street. I spent hours with Daisy in tow, studying the stones—from the crumbling portions of the ancient wall, the architecture of the one remaining turret, and arched gate, I wistfully imagined what life must have been like centuries ago.
I loved the unknown, and unexplained history of ancient civilizations—a desire most discouraged for a woman in polite society, so my secret was kept deep within the chambers of my heart.
“What precisely did you disclose to Lady Walsh when she said she heard all about me?” I pursed my lips, bringing Elizabeth’s attention back to me.
She laughed diabolically, which matched her devilish costume substantially well. “Oh please, it’s no secret your father and stepmother are trying to sell you off as quickly as they can.”
I groaned. “But why was this a conversation meant for Lady Helena?” I loved my friend but her loose lips might be the death of me one day.
“I told her of your sudden change in circumstances and she mentioned that she has some experience with unwanted suitors. She kindly offered to give you some advice.”
“I don’t need advice…” I mumbled. “I need an escape.”
Elizabeth shook her head as if she tired of our same old argument. “Where were you earlier? Katrina was in a tirade and your father tried very hard to calm the Tigress.” A nickname we had bestowed the preposterous woman from her resemblances to a tiger in the menagerie with her bright orange hair and sharpened claws.
“I was outside,” I whispered.
She gasped and covered her mouth with her red satin glove, though I could see her eyes shining with mirth. “Only you.” She chuckled. “Only you would seek refuge in the death-defying cold to keep far from the men of London.”
“Not every man.” My eyes disobediently strayed from Elizabeth’s face and peered around once more looking for the mysterious stranger from the veranda. I had my suspicions based on height, shoulder width, and the curl of his dark hair, but other than that, I had nothing. His scar would surely be covered up by a perfectly knotted cravat by now.
“What… or who are you looking for?” Elizabeth arched a brow. “Could it be possible that a gentleman has actually captured the eye of the elusive Amelia Newell?”
My face shot back to hers. I had been too obvious, and Elizabeth knew me too well. “Never!” I smiled deviously. “There is not a man in London I could dream of tolerating longer than a turn about the room.”
“Aren’t we high in the instep,” she smirked. “There are plenty of men here I wouldn’t mind gazing across the table at or better yet, waking up next to.”
I coughed, drawing several looks our way. That is precisely why Elizabeth and I became fast friends. She did not curb her tongue like all the other women in our society circle and I loved her for it.
“Very well,” she peered around the room. “Let’s play our game.” The slight squeal of delight that followed was only hidden by the loud music introducing the quadrille. “That man over there.” She pointed to a man dressed like a musketeer with his white ruffled shirt, purple cape, and feathered cap slanted on his rather full black wig.
“Do you recognize him?”
“No.”
“Good. Is he Nobility, gentry or usurper?”
I watched carefully the way he interacted with the woman by his side. “Nobility,” I said. “From the slight lift of his chin and the position of his shoulders, he believes he is superior, even more so than the woman he is speaking to.”
“His wife?”
I narrowed my eyes. “um, no, his mannerisms reveal attraction, but its careful coquetry. See how he touches her on the elbow and leans forward just enough to tease when he speaks. His wife must be…” I glanced around and smiled the moment I saw her. “There.” I gestured to a woman across the room dressed as Queen Anne, arms crossed and glaring.
Elizabeth laughed out loud. “Brilliant. Your attention to detail astounds me. The insufferable man is Lord Fenton, the strumpet, his mistress Lady Brookstone.” She pointed in the opposite direction. “Lady Fenton, of course, and if her husband is not prudent, the queen might bring back the guillotine.” She clapped her hands. “Another one.”
I chuckled and peered around, catching my father’s frustrated expression a few paces away. My earlier discourteousness to him and his wife would not be ignored. He waved me over. This was his customary manner of saying our merriment had concluded for the night. However, it was surprisingly early for Katrina who liked to dine and dance until the cock crowed but there was no mistaking my father’s intent.
“I must go, dear Lizzy.” I kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you for saving me.”
“You know, Amelia love, you are going to meet your match one day and I hope I am present to see you thoroughly smitten.”
“Hardly.” I laughed as I walked away. That, merely was only a dream.
I joined Father and Katrina at the base of the grand staircase and retrieved my silver pelisse from one of the Byrne’s footmen. However, when I circled around toward the door, it slipped clumsily from my hands onto the floor.
A man appeared and retrieved it. “Please allow me, miss,” he said in a warm, casual tone.
He wore a black fitted suit and simple black mask but there was no dismissing the deep blue eyes that peered through. They held my attention more than propriety allowed.
“Thank you,” I replied, still flummoxed over the astounding color of his eyes as he handed my cover to me, hesitating only a heartbeat before he whispered,
“Guarded by an Angel mild, witless woe, was ne'er beguil'd!” The words flowed seamlessly as the gentleman dipped into a bow and then quickly disappeared.
I recognized the words from William Blake’s poem, The Angel. I stood mesmerized as a trace of familiarity in his voice thrummed through me. Could that have been him? Due to the darkness shrouding the upper portion of the mystery man’s face, I could not see the color of his eyes, but his voice sounded faintly familiar. I watched him until he disappeared back into the ballroom, then sighed dramatically. I suppose I will never know.
“Amelia?” Father called from the entryway.
“Yes, I’m coming.” Once I placed the coat over my shoulders, I relished the feel of the soft fur. This would have been nice to have outside when I was forced to hide in a tree. I stole one more peek toward the ballroom and the notion that the enigmatic man still remained inside, nevertheless, I wasn’t quite sure what captivated me so. Was it the clandestine lure of danger and my inclination to know what forced him to flee? Or the torment in his voice? Perhaps it was the possibility he was a soldier haunted by war. I shook my head. I had no business trying to insert myself into something that had absolutely nothing of consequence to do with me. But I could not deny that the draw was certainly there.
Jaxon-Chapter One
Jaxon-13 March 1816
The flickering flames of the Byrne’s majestic ballroom chandelier burned into my skin while the heat became stifling. I glanced over at my dance partner, a lovely brunette in a peach-colored gown wearing an elaborate feathered mask, appropriate for the single most sought-after masquerade of the season. If I peered closely, I could see two emerald eyes peeking out. What was her name again?
I tugged at my cravat, Elliot must have tied it particularly tight tonight, for it was cutting off my airway with effortless precision. Just then, I stumbled in the step and heard the sweet young miss squeak out a cry as I stepped hard on her toes.
“P—pardon me, Miss—”
“Lord Jaxon?” I turned to see Lord Byrne standing beside us wearing a long black domino cape and red mask. A row of dancers now stilled behind him. Wiping the perspiration from my forehead, I blinked. Why was he interrupting the dance?
“Pardon us, Miss Groves, but there is a gentleman who needs to speak with Lord Jaxon urgently.” He waved another gentleman over to us. “Lord Tremaine will finish the set with you. My sincerest apologies.”
I shook my head but knew better than to make a scene… well, any more of a scene than was already playing out. Many eyes had already fallen upon us, and I was certain the tongue wag had effectively begun. In the last two months, I had already caused the rumor mill to spin with more than enough fodder to last several seasons, landing myself in the society pages on the regular.
What in heaven’s name was Lord J.G. thinking last night at the musicale in the home of Lord and Lady N.?
Why did the D. of C. suffer his battle-worn son to such rigorous constraints of the season?
Despite Lord J.G.’s impeccable dress and handsome face, it is more than apparent he cannot endure the minimal obligations required of him in polite society. A shame, to be sure.
Even now at the peak of the season, it is most doubtful that Lord J.G. will secure a beneficial match. Despite the name and the well-oiled coffers, what young lady of sense would attach herself to such a marred simpleton?
Lord Byrne gestured for me to step off the dance floor and, once we reached just beyond a row of lovely young ladies fanning their fair complexions, he turned to face me. “I think you might benefit from a slight respite, Lord Jaxon.” He and my father were the best of friends, and I was certain that he feared the harm I could do to the reputation of my father, the Duke of Camberley, the longer I stayed in the public eye. With a kind look, he added, “Perhaps you have returned to society too soon, Son.”
I lifted the black mask that covered my eyes and wiped the moisture that had built there. I returned it to its proper place, but not before revealing my true identity to anyone within a stone’s throw. It didn’t matter. Because of my lack of creativity, the black mask hardly offered proper camouflage. I still wore a fitted black tailcoat, silver waistcoat, and snow-white cravat… nothing dynamic or daring. Anyone might know my distinctiveness simply by my dark waves, slight build, and, of course, if they stood close enough, my blue eyes.
Hunter, on the other hand, wore a full-fledged archer costume similar to Robin of Loxley and appeared at my side at that very moment. Touching my elbow with the barest amount of pressure, he led me to an alcove out of the sight of the prying eyes of the ton.
Running a hand down my face, I groaned. “What did I do this time, Hunter?”
“It wasn’t overly dreadful, Jaxon.” Hunter sighed. “You simply missed several steps, appeared confused, and tugged on your cravat incessantly.” He chuckled darkly, but we both knew it was nothing to joke about. “Well, that and most certainly caused injury to poor Miss Groves's small toes.”
I rubbed the back of my neck, frustrated.
“Maybe it is too soon, my friend,” Hunter’s tone softened. “Maybe you need to wait to rejoin society next year. Don’t be so hard on yourself, you were gone a significant amount of time.”
My mind disobediently went back to France and unleashed a flurry of images I had fought so hard to repress. Especially the recent recollections in which gentlemen’s names and faces transpired unintentionally. Untying the knot in my cravat, then ripping it off entirely, I clenched it between my fists. “What am I doing here?” I snapped. Despite my wishes, I adhered to the requests of my parents who believed all I needed to do to function as before was to spend more time in polite society.
I was wrong and they were wrong and neither one of us wanted to admit it.
“You should return to your wife, Hunter.” I scanned the elaborately decorated ballroom with its mystical and fantastical aura. “Maid Marion will be wondering where you’ve vanished to.”
“Gwendolyn is perfectly fine without me. Her dance card was full within moments of our arrival, I had to fight Lord Stewart to claim the waltz.” Hunter winked. He was jesting, of course, but his lovely wife of little over a year was most certainly an incomparable and was always in demand. But, in true Hunter fashion, he attempted to lift my spirits with a tease when so much seemed to be weighing me down. Yet, his attempts proved far more difficult since my return from France a year ago where our mutual mate, Zachary Collins, found me in a French infantry uniform fighting against the very men of my home country… and without a memory of my past. It was then that bits and pieces of my hollow memory began returning—specifically my final mission before Napoleon’s defeat—a dangerous pursuit, capture, torture, escape, head injury, and ending up near death. And only recently, certain detailed aspects of that missing time materialized… and terrified me.
Lord Byrne approached us with my father directly behind him.
“Your Grace,” both Hunter and I said simultaneously as we bowed stiffly in Lord Camberley’s direction.
My father scrutinized me with narrow eyes. He was a just and fair man but could not comprehend how my experience in France could alter my mind so greatly. And from his current expression, it seemed that he had finally relented. “Thank you, Byrne.” He excused his friend.
Hunter then bowed his departure as well, but Father gestured for him to remain. “I believe it is time for us to speak plainly on a subject we have circumvented far too long. You are not doing your mother and sisters any benefit with the attention that has unwittingly befallen us.” He folded his arms over his chest. “I naively believed that your societal cues and comportment would be restored in due time, but I fear I have overvalued that hope.” His voice rose with each syllable. Father did not know how to whisper.
In a sidelong glance, I noticed several shadows from behind columns and corners, though I did not see who they belonged to or how long they had been lurking. I shifted my weight to my other boot, uncomfortable with the many sets of eyes focused in our direction.
Meeting his grim expression, I pleaded, “Please, do not in any way believe that any humiliation caused on my account is willful, Father. I cannot force my mind to remember the steps of a dance or the perfect order of propriety.”
He rubbed his chin as Hunter and I shared glances.
“I fear I have been left with no other choice.” Father stood at near attention. “I believe it is time you take your leave from London, Son.” My mind spun and I closed my eyes to the whispered gasps around us. “You may return to Hartley House if you must, even to Gottling Hall with Hunter.” He shot a glance at Hunter who nodded. “Or any other location that is not in proximity to us at the moment. The further away the better.”
The truth of that statement did not hurt any less. With a recent break-in at our home in Mayfair and letters received from both France and Hartley House, our country estate, it had become clear that someone was watching, studying, possibly stalking me, and putting my family and friends at risk. With this latest rash of recollections, I had a fair idea who might be behind the threat and the danger that accompanied that knowledge.
“How long do you wish me to remain away from the family?” I questioned.
“As long as it takes, Jaxon.” And before he nodded his head to leave, I saw a brief flicker of concern in his eyes. This was his way of showing how much he cared. It had always been his way, as he was not a demonstrative man, but even that minute measure brought me comfort.
Once he vanished and left me and Hunter in a stupor with a handful of heads leaning in our direction to get the best angle for gossip’s sake, my fisted hand pounded softly against my dratted head. “If only I could remember,” I mumbled.
“Do not do this, Jaxon” Hunter consoled. “To be certain, remembering such horror from the war is not pleasant.”
I peered back over to the previously shadowed spaces to see the tiled floor now illuminated with light. Those who occupied those hiding places were now gone. It certainly could have been any elderly bitty in attendance, they all swooped down like a hawk chasing a field mouse when tidbits of interesting chin wag surfaced.
“Come, let us get some fresh air,” Hunter suggested.
The two of us stepped outside to the balcony. The moment we passed the beveled doors and the chilled air reached my lungs, I felt an instant reprieve. Stepping across the empty veranda to the edge, I leaned over the balustrade and looked out across the lowly lit gardens which, if I wasn’t so consumed with my thoughts, I would find appreciation in the dreamlike ambiance with its frosty leaves and finely layered dusting of snow.
Hunter stood beside me, resting his back against the stone wall and crossed his arms over his chest in the most relaxed position I had seen since we arrived at the ball two hours ago. He sighed. “You were dreadfully convincing, mate.” Then he chuckled. “I’m certain the whole of London will be discussing your churlish manners and banishment by sunrise.”
I took a deep inhale, allowing the crisp air to infiltrate my lungs and dry the perspiration across my forehead and now exposed neck. “Apparently, I am remarkably gifted in duplicity,” I said with little pride. “Presumably one of the reasons I was chosen for the arduous task in the first place.”
“I wasn’t sure how much longer you were going to have to carry on with such foolishness,” Hunter said.
“Fortunately, Father had finally reached his threshold.” I sighed. “I do not relish in such deception on intimate levels, however, my family’s safety is paramount.”
“Will you write to Zachary?”
“Yes, tomorrow,” I confirmed.
“You are certain he will come?”
“Without a doubt.”
“Make sure to include a reference to St. Pancras Old Church, April 7th and a clue that hints at 3 o’clock in the afternoon, and I will be there as planned to meet him. We will thwart this threat, Jaxon.” He turned around and leaned over the balustrade beside me. “You did the right thing, mate. You must disappear.”
I shook my head. “Let’s just hope our efforts are enough.” I stood up straight with a new resolve. “And I particularly hope that my absence will free my family from the ill effects of my ignorance and plight.”
“One day they will thank you for your sacrifice.”
“I only hope I live to see that day.”
Hunter patted my shoulder. “Your mates will make certain you do.”
Release date of “The Berlin Girl-Resistance” is Today!
If you are looking to complete the series, read the two supplemental books from the men’s point of view… Anton—The Berlin Girl Book 4 and Stefan—The Berlin Girl Book 5.
With only Ella’s perspective shared in The Berlin Girl Trilogy, we needed to see what occurred in the men’s lives while they were separated from her. Anton living in West Berlin and Stefan sentenced to military service for killing the man who tried to hurt her.
ANTON
BOOK 4 in The Berlin Girl Trilogy
Stefan
BOOK 5 in The Berlin Girl Trilogy
“Lucas” eBook is free 11/30-12/4!
The ebook is free for a limited time, 11/30/24-12/4/24. The paperback has been reduced from $14.99 to $12.99 for the month of December!
Just a reminder…
The Berlin Butterfly Series (Ensnare, Deception, Release) are transitioning into The Berlin Girl Series (The Berlin Girl’s Choice, The Berlin Girl’s Promise, The Berlin Girl’s Resistance). I apologize for the inconvenience this has caused for those in the middle of the series. The publisher has assured me that all will be rectified soon and you will have full access to the same story only with new names and covers.
“Zachary” paperback is live!
The ebook comes out on Saturday 11/9, but you can order the paperback now and receive it before everyone else!
I think you will love the story of Zach and Evie!
To my valued readers…
I have good news to share, though it might not be welcomed timing for some. My Berlin Butterfly Series about a young girl caught on the wrong side of the Berlin Wall in 1961 has been acquired by a publisher and will be rebranded and retitled. The content of the three books is exactly the same, the only changes are the titles and the covers. However, because of this change, they will be unavailable for purchase from September 23, 2024, until the launch in October of this year. I have seen the new covers, they are beautiful and convey Ella’s heart and determination. I only felt the need to share this since leading up to this date there have been a significant number of purchases of Ensnare and Deception and I know it will be at least a month before you will have access to the next book. Please understand this was out of my control and hope that you will join me with the launch in October celebrating Readmore Presses’ intent to share the Berlin Butterfly Series with the world!
Gentlemen of War- Zachary
Zachary is the latest Gentlemen of War and makes his debut on November 9, 2024. I think you will love Zachary and Eveline’s story, it has spanned a couple of decades and now will face the truth of their attraction. Preorder Info below!
“Had I kissed her, I would have enjoyed every second of it until we parted, then I would have been plagued with regret for encouraging her to be unfaithful to her fool of a husband.”
-Lord Zachary
“Soul Thief” Excerpt
Retrieving two small hearth sticks from my bag, I rubbed them together, allowing the friction to light my torch as I waited for Moises and Eshaq, the newest member, to join us. Memet and Husani remained above ground with the assignment to remain cautiously alert.
I ducked my head to proceed through the men’s handiwork. The tunnel led directly to the antechamber. Lifting my flame, I studied the writings on the wall. The engraved images of life and death exploded in vibrant colors and because the artisans finished the tomb hastily, the paint still appeared wet. Upon entering the burial chamber, three sarcophagi lay side by side—two, the length of adults and one, a child.
The others entered, and with one look from me, Moises turned to Eshaq. “Do not disturb the child,” he commanded forcefully.
“But it could yield additional treasure,” Eshaq argued.
Unknown breezes made our flames dance, and the Nubian appeared terrifying in the shadows. Images of Moises, the warrior, transpired as his deep voice rumbled with caution, “Not the child.”
Eshaq, being new to our company, had not yet seen Moises provoked to anger. The young objector didn’t say another word, but I saw him trembling as he moved toward me and the largest limestone coffin.
I set the torch beneath the corners and waited until the clastic rock caught fire. Moises doused the flame with a small jar of river water. With the hilt of a dagger, he smashed the now weakened limestone to pieces, exposing the intricately wrapped feet of the father.
I repeated the process on the next mummy, assumed to be the mother. Eshaq pulled the man from his coffin and Moises began cutting the well-wrapped linens in very specific places. We had done these enough times to know precisely where the priests hid the amulets.We worked quickly to minimize the foul smell that emerged upon exposure of the tissues. That, and the rapid descent of insects scurrying from the cracks in the tomb, wanting to feed upon the now unprotected dead.
Glancing over to Moises, I watched his large hands work with the exactness of a craftsman, reverent and precise, while Eshaq bent over beside him, studying his every move.
As I turned my attentions to the woman, I studied the smooth linens that shrouded her face. I never exposed the mummies’ eyes, imagining the curses the corpse would bring if they could see me. Regardless of my singular caution, the piercing eyes of the deceased somehow navigated the depths of the underworld and still found me in my dreams.
I laid my gloved hand over her head and prayed to the God Anubis that he may forgive my trespasses and that the family might not seek their revenge upon me in the afterlife. Regardless of my plea, if my heart weighed more than the feather of the Goddess Maat, Osiris would not even find me worthy of eternal life.
Cutting the fabric at her throat, I exposed an expertly crafted necklace. An extremely fine chain linking gold ball-beads together. But the veritable fortune centered the necklet—a gold scarab inlaid with green feldspar and lapis lazuli. Unique pieces like this were harder to move in the underground market, but when they did, their yield was unparalleled. I unclasped the stunning jewels and placed them in the side bag slung across my chest. Repeating the process at both wrists, I discovered two faience beaded bracelets and a silver ring on her finger.
Slicing through the textiles at the woman’s chest, I retrieved the meket—her protectors—from her cavities. The items represented a typical noble burial. Compiled treasures included a turquoise ankh, an obsidian figurine of taweret—the goddess of childbirth, and a glass djed pillar—the symbolic backbone of Osiris. Following their removal, I retrieved fabric strips from my bag and laid them across the body to conceal the openings. It would not protect her in the afterlife now that I had stripped her of her safeguards, but it brought a slight ease to my soul.
Moving past the hand-painted travertine canopic jars that contained the liver, lungs, stomach, and intestines, I reached for the alabaster jars that stored additional offerings. Items such as gold and silver coins, a human-headed scarab, and an ivory-handled flint knife. A ritual vase painted with the image of a drunken Sekhmet, the lion goddess, revealed honey cakes and sweet wine. And near the proper entrance of the chamber, miniature golden statues of Serket and Isis rested below the jackal carved image of Anubis guarding the chamber from evildoers.
We had only been in the tomb a short time when the signal came from above to depart. The low-key whistle pierced the cavern with intensity. We swiftly gathered what we could carry and left the rest of the treasure untouched. Torn between reasoning and respect, I could only hope that the remaining trove was enough to please the gods in protecting the deceased.
One by one, we came up the chute the same way we went down. Flattening the wooden pieces of the winch, we heard voices emerge through the darkness as if they approached and rolled flush to the ground.
In the valley next to the Nile River where kings, pharaohs, and their court are laid to rest, lamenting sounds of grief bounced off the peaks and amplified. This was the precise reason one must raid a tomb on the night of a burial. The sounds that transpired effectively masked our scheme.
Release Date TBD
The HOT topic of AI in Books
This has been quite the debate as of late and I felt as an author with a decent following this should be addressed at least from my perspective.
As a writer who has spent hundreds, upwards of thousands, of dollars attending conferences, classes, and taking courses on how to better improve my craft, it is difficult for me to swallow the idea of someone being able to enter key aspects of a story into a chat engine and a story is returned, then subsequently published and marketed. I have been told by these “writers” that AI is here to stay and I should embrace it. As anything else, I have a choice and my choice is to not embrace it. I truly enjoy doing the research myself. I relish in the discovery of little-known histories and subjects and LOVE the process of flushing out the plot and characters on my own. Does this take time? Of course, it does, but I can truly say the work is my own. These AI writers also have a choice and while I don’t agree with the method of anyone just taking a pre-written story and publishing it, I can’t stop them. What I feel is offensive, is when chat companies such as Chatgpt take the hard-earned work of thousands of authors and scan their words and pages into their system so that someone else can use their style. This is stealing. I unquestionably stand behind these authors and their fight to retain their privately copyrighted works that are being stolen to train Chatgpt to be a better resource for people who want to write books the fastest way. Unfortunately, without starting a legal fight, I have no way to verify if my own work has been stolen.
However, I am here to assure you that I do not use AI for my work and do not plan to use AI-generated voices for my audiobooks either. This is taking away from the incredibly talented voice actors who have developed their craft and have earned a living from this.
I have not written this message to influence you one way or the other, I only wanted to present my stand on the subject. Thanks for reading!
Arminius!
4/9/2024 The release date of “Prince of Death- An Arminius Novel”. This was one of the most difficult books for me to write solely because it was from the perspective of a real person. I had to put myself in Arminus’ shoes when he was taken from his homeland at ten years of age and raised as a Roman. His ability to fight and lead a cavalry caught the attention of men like General Varus and it was due to his allegiance to Rome that prevented the plans of the Germanic ambush to be revealed.
I loved every minute of standing on the presumed battlefields in Germany, and imagining what the battle between the Romans and the Germanic tribes was like. I hope I have conveyed those feelings in my work and appreciate the insight and guidance of my German guides (Jan Mengeling and Maria Carrasco).
“Is there anything left for us but to retain our freedom or die before we are enslaved?”
–Arminius (Tacitus, Annals, II. 15)
Lucas is on sale!
.99 eBook deal for Lucas on Amazon from March 1- March 7! Get your hands on this clean, regency romance and fall in love with a handsome Gentleman of War!
Gentlemen of War- Lucas
Lucas Walsh thought he had left the horrors of war behind when he returned home to London after Napoleon's exile to Elba, but little did he know that his promised peace would be shattered by his noble father’s mysterious death.
While his elder brother, the Marquess' heir, sees to affairs in the country, Lucas takes on the responsibility of his three younger sisters’ welfare and, truthfully, he would have it no other way. But when he stumbles upon a perplexing secret, one that involves him more than he cares to admit, the weight upon his shoulders is tested.
Lady Helena Webster has always lived a free-spirited life of luxury as the daughter of a powerful Earl, but when her father’s failed investments are discovered and his debts are called in, her once good and kind father is replaced by a man to fear. In his desperation, Lord Webster arranges a marriage between Helena and the loathsome Lord Foxton, a man known for his deep pockets as well as his widespread cruelty.
When Helena’s safety is put at risk, she seeks refuge in the townhouse of her dear friend Genevieve Walsh where fate takes an unexpected turn…
Lucas’ wit, intelligence, and fierce protectiveness embody everything Helena desires in a gentleman, but as their paths intertwine, will Helena’s presence threaten more than the undeniable attraction that ignites between them?
Lucas is a clean, stand-alone Regency Romance. #1 in the Gentlemen of War Series featuring honorable military men who, after fighting for King and Country, return home to unexpected and unfamiliar lives.
Four second sons,
Four brothers-in-arms,
Four gentlemen willing to do whatever it takes to protect the women they love.
-Gentlemen of War Series
Author’s Note about the Polish Nurse
Good morning readers and friends, I felt it was necessary to address some thoughts surrounding the ending of my #1 Best-Selling novel, “The Polish Nurse”. In my Indie publishing format, my author notes at the end of the book, explain that the story is a prequel to the award-winning series, The Berlin Butterfly Series. When I signed the contract with ReadMore Press, I gave them the rights to publish the book in their format and because they attached it to a series called World War II Brave Women of Fiction, they opted to take out my notes which they had every right to. Though the notes are not critical to the story, they did explain how I had first written the Berlin Butterfly Series (A 3-book series surrounding the Berlin Wall published 2017-2019) and then decided to tell the story of Ella’s mom during World War II. “The Polish Nurse”, formally known as “Before Berlin” was created in 2022. I wrote it specifically to introduce Aleksandra and explain how Ella came to be in a Berlin orphanage. In light of this, There was only one way I could end “The Polish Nurse” to be able to lead into Ella’s story which had already been written. Without sharing the specifics, I hope this will help to understand why it ended the way it did but keep in mind for those of you who might not be familiar with my writing… I always provide a sense of hope if not a happy ending.
The previous blog shares some of the historical notes previously found at the end of “The Polish Nurse.” Enjoy!
The Polish Nurse
Previously known as “Before Berlin”, The Polish Nurse officially releases this week! This is the stand-alone prequel to the Berlin Butterfly Series and tells the story of Ella’s mom, Aleksandra and how Ella ends up in a Berlin orphanage.
Author’s Notes-
This story has given me an even greater appreciation for the people of Germany who did not blindly follow Adolf Hitler’s beliefs… the ones who stood up to the atrocities in both quiet and bold actions, and my heart goes out to those who were caught in the crosshairs, despite their valiant efforts.
It was important in this novel to represent both the good and the bad people of Germany and though it is easy for us to look back and make judgments as to why people did what they did, we don’t always know the whole story. For example…why would a Polish, non-Jewish woman remain in Germany after what they had done to her people? Surprisingly, many did and for many personal and unexplained reasons.
When Germany invaded Poland in September 1939, the underequipped Polish army could not withstand the forces of the Third Reich. The Blitzkrieg, itself, was designed to obliterate anyone in their path and within a month of fighting (mere days and weeks in some areas), the Germans took occupation of the eastern parts of Poland annexing them into Nazi Germany.
Much of what Aleksandra described in the first few months of occupation is true with the closing of many of the schools (with the exception of a few that had German ties, such as her private school), execution of government leaders, teachers, and priests, searches and seizures in private homes, creation of the Łódź ghetto and its forced Jewish and Romani inhabitants, and banishment of anything Polish such as the language, arts, and culture.
The Lebensborn (Fount of Life) Program was founded on the 12th of December 1935 by Heinrich Himmler after discussing his concerns over racial purity with Adolf Hitler. Initially, the different facets of the program were designed to encourage women to voluntarily breed with racially pure German men to create the perfect type of child. The girls who were involved with Hitler Youth were taught that their greatest role should be that of a mother and bring German children into the world. In fact, it is documented that when these girls would attend nationalistic conferences, many would return home pregnant.
Lebensborn homes were designed to be a comfortable place for a German woman to give birth, and if she could not raise the child with the country’s ideals, adoptive parents would be provided. The women who voluntarily entered the program were examined much like it was described in the story; they also had to prove their German heritage went back to their grandparents. They were then given the opportunity to live in a place where recreation and leisure activities were provided, as well as carefully selected officers who would impregnate them. They never exchanged personal information about one another and once the woman was confirmed to be with child, the man would stop coming to her bedroom. The pregnant mother was well taken care of and when the child was a couple of months old, he/she was placed with an ideal German adoptive couple.
However, as German losses mounted, leadership worried that the pure race would also vanish and moved to more drastic means to promote their beliefs. The program then evolved into the abduction of blond, blue-eyed children between the ages of 2-12, many times seized right in front of their parents, categorized, and placed in homes known to follow the Third Reich ideals. It is believed over ten thousand children were kidnapped and only 15 percent were returned to their birth parents after the war.
When the Germans began their occupation of other countries, they recognized a new pool of candidates with the fair, blond, and blue-eyed women—women from Norway, Denmark, Austria, Yugoslavia, France, Netherlands, and Poland. At this point it did not matter that they were not considered pure Germans, they had the correct Aryan features, therefore with the right German man, they would produce exemplar children.
We have since learned that this process, at times, required abduction and rape. There are estimates of over twenty thousand children born into the Lebensborn program, but no specific numbers associated with the enforced part are verified—only the word of the women who were subjected to such heinous acts. The identity of the German fathers was kept secret and many of the documents were destroyed at the end of the war.
Author J. Elke Ertle goes into great detail about the Lebensborn program in her book titled, Walled In—A West Berlin Girl’s Journey to Freedom. https://walled-in-berlin.com/j-elke-ertle/lebensborn-nazi-baby-farms-during-hitlers-reign/
Also, a firsthand account is given by participant Hildegard Koch https://spartacus-educational.com/Hildegard_Koch.htm
New Friends
I love meeting new people and a few days ago I met a man in the grocery store who was lost looking for a specific cleaner. I don’t work at the store or ever have but tried to help him and we started talking. His name is Bennie and he had this infectious outlook on life. At 93 years of age he smiled, laughed, and told me jokes. I asked him what age he missed the most… I was completely surprised when he told me 88! I would have said 21 or 30, but he said 88 was such a good year, he would love to go back to that year. He danced the Charleston in the grocery aisle and talked about the fact that sometimes he has to fake a limp so his family members will come over and clean his house. Haha. He had me laughing out loud on more than on occasion. I feel so blessed to have met Bennie that day because occasionally we all need reminders that life is meant to be lived to the fullest! Thanks, Bennie!
CHARLOCK SERIES SALE
Charlock’s Secret, Return to Charlock, and Charlock’s Curse are all on sale for $.99 until August 25, 2023! A savings of $3 per eBook.
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$.99 Summer Reading Deal
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