Showing posts with label History Related. Show all posts
Showing posts with label History Related. Show all posts

8 September 2021

[Blog Tour] 'At Her Fingertips' (The Chronicles of Alice and Ivy, Book 3) By Kellyn Roth #HistoricalFiction

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[Blog Tour] 'At Her Fingertips' (The Chronicles of Alice and Ivy, Book 3) By Kellyn Roth #HistoricalFiction
 'At Her Fingertips' - Tour Banner

The Book: 

At Her Fingertips
(The Chronicles of Alice and Ivy, Book 3)
By Kellyn Roth

  • Publication Date: 17th July 2021
  • Publisher: Wild Blue Wonder Press
  • Genre: Christian Historical Romance

The Blurb:

She’s willing to do anything to follow her plan.

Debutante Alice Knight is ready for her first social season in London. She’s determined to impress society and her mother with an affluent match, at last escaping her past and embracing a future of her own making.

Peter Strauss, an American reporter visiting England, isn’t exactly what Alice had in mind. However, his friendship proves invaluable as Alice faces the challenges of her debut. Almost immediately, she attracts the attention of a well-born gentleman—perfect save for the simple fact that he’s not a Christian.

The life she longs for is finally at her fingertips, but between her own heart and the convictions of her faith, she isn’t sure she ought to grasp it.

At Her Fingertips, a romantic women's fiction novel, is the third novel in Kellyn Roth's Christian family saga, The Chronicles of Alice and Ivy.
[Blog Tour] 'At Her Fingertips' (The Chronicles of Alice and Ivy, Book 3) By Kellyn Roth #HistoricalFiction
'At Her Fingertips' - Book Cover

'At Her Fingertips' - Excerpt:

Miss Knight was sitting by herself after dinner, staring into the fire with her eyes absent. Normally, Peter left people who seemed consumed by their own thoughts alone—that was what he preferred. But something told him she wasn’t the type to enjoy her own ponderings.

She continued to puzzle him. Strong and weak. Over and over again, those words echoed in his head. Miss Ivy was a delicate flower that would continue to bloom if crushed; he didn’t sense that in Miss Knight. She was more like a mighty pine that, once felled, would lie there until it crumbled into splinters. He didn’t know how she would handle collapse, or if she would at all.

Was it his business? No. Normally he would’ve made his observations within his own mind and kept silent. However, something about her compelled him to take a seat near her and make the necessary pleasantries.

After conversation faded again, he asked her if they could visit the library with Miss Ivy. “I haven’t had a chance, and Miss Ivy has told me about it often. Of course I wouldn’t go with her alone.”

“Of course.” There was grudging respect in her eyes. Did she think it was so different in America that he wouldn’t take care of Miss Ivy’s reputation? He honestly wasn’t sure why Miss Knight was so suspicious of him.

Had America stolen her father? Was that her reasoning? Or was she just too traditional to conceive of a friendship with him? He supposed it wasn’t exactly normal, but he made friends with anyone he could, and that usually included women. Not in an improper way—most women just seemed to, for no discernable reason, confide in him.

It was simultaneously frustrating and touching.

The three of them went to the library together, and Miss Ivy rambled on about their collection, who had added books over the years, and so on. Peter found it interesting but couldn’t help but be concerned about Miss Knight, and he began searching for a conversation topic that would suit all three of them.

It was when he gave up, however, that he succeeded. “Do either of your parents read?” he asked, deciding to focus his efforts on Miss Ivy, who actually wanted to talk to him. Reading, he felt, they could talk about.

Miss Ivy answered that her mother would read occasionally, and Miss Knight’s eyes focused on them both, interested for the first time.

Thank God, he thought.

“Mother reads what Nettie does,” Miss Knight said. “But then she’s not had time until lately to read.”

“Oh?” Peter supposed the lady had had a child almost every year, but she only had somewhere in the range of three to five children—he’d gotten confused at this point as to which were hers by birth and which by marriage. Ned certainly was the child of the late Mrs. Hazel Bailey Knight, but otherwise he didn’t know.

“Yes, because—” Then Miss Ivy stopped and looked to Miss Knight.

There was a moment in which the sisters stared each other down, clearly unsure who was going to communicate what. Then Miss Knight cleared her throat.

“Mr. Strauss, I know you asked one of our footmen for details about our family, and he declined to give you the full story.” Her dark eyes focused on him, intense to the point of anger. “If I were to tell you my family history, I don’t know what your reaction would be. Ivy promises me you are a fair, compassionate man, but I don’t know you, and you are a reporter.”

Peter winced. “I am at that. But I’m not the type of reporter who would ever discuss private details publicly, either in writing or with my mouth.” He struggled for the correct words. “I always take my cues from Proverbs. ‘Whoso keepeth his mouth and his tongue keepeth his soul from troubles.’”

“I see.” Miss Knight glanced at Miss Ivy.

She nodded.

“I’ll tell you a bit of what’s happened, so that there need be no awkwardness to us.” She gestured to a few chairs across the library. “It’s a simple story, really.”

Miss Ivy raised her eyebrows. “It is not.”

“Nevertheless, let’s sit down and go over it. Quickly.”

Curiosity spiked, but determined to remain compassionate, Peter took a seat and fixed his eyes on Miss Knight’s face.


[Blog Tour] 'At Her Fingertips' (The Chronicles of Alice and Ivy, Book 3) By Kellyn Roth #HistoricalFiction
Kellyn Roth

Author Bio:

Kellyn Roth is a Christian historical women’s fiction & romance author from North-Eastern Oregon who has independently published multiple novels, the most notable being The Chronicles of Alice and Ivy series. You should definitely call her Kell.

Kell lives on family-owned property outside an unmemorable but historical town with her parents, two little brothers, precious border collies, a dozen cows, and lots of chickens. She also possesses a classic, vintage aesthetic which does not at all speak to her country girl side, but such is life.

When not writing, Kell likes to blog, work as a virtual assistant for authors and other small business owners, and spend lavish amounts of money on Dairy Queen french fries. She also likes to talk about her books (and occasionally Keira Knightley) way too much. You’ve been warned.

Connect with Kellyn Roth:

[Blog Tour] 'At Her Fingertips' (The Chronicles of Alice and Ivy, Book 3) By Kellyn Roth #HistoricalFiction
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30 August 2021

[Blog Tour] 'The Queen of the Citadels' (The King’s Germans, Book 3) By Dominic Fielder #HistoricalFiction

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[Blog Tour] 'The Queen of the Citadels' (The King’s Germans, Book 3) By Dominic Fielder #HistoricalFiction
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The Book:

The Queen of the Citadels
(The King’s Germans, Book 3)
By Dominic Fielder
  • Publication Date: 26th August 2021
  • Publisher: Independently Published
  • Page Length: 550 Pages
  • Genre: Historical Military Fiction

The Blurb:

October 1793: The French border.

Dunkirk was a disaster for the Duke of York’s army. The French, sensing victory before the winter, launch attacks along the length of the border. Menen is captured and the French now hold the whip hand. Nieuport and Ostend are threatened, and Sebastian Krombach finds himself involved in a desperate plan to stop the Black Lions as they spearhead the French advance. Werner Brandt and the men of 2nd Battalion race to Menen to counterattack and rescue Erich von Bomm and the Grenadiers, whilst von Bomm struggles to save himself from his infatuation with a mysterious French vivandière.

Meanwhile, dark and brooding, the citadel of Lille dominates the border. The Queen of the Citadels has never been captured by force. The allies must now keep Menen, which guards Flanders, and seize Lille to open the road to Paris. All of this must be done under the watchful eyes of a spy in the Austrian camp. Juliette of Marboré is fighting her own secret war to free Julian Beauvais, languishing in the Conciergerie prison, and waiting for his appointment with the guillotine, as the Terror rages in Paris.
[Blog Tour] 'The Queen of the Citadels' (The King’s Germans, Book 3) By Dominic Fielder #HistoricalFiction
The Queen of the Citadels - Book Cover

 'The Queen of the Citadels' - Excerpt:

Paris: 20th December 1793

“I once said that what matters most is ‘Liberté, égalité, fraternité’. That is what should be written on our flags, into the very fabric of our uniforms. Well, I was wrong. Do you know what matter most at this very moment? What the people truly need?” Maximillian Robespierre turned around to face his audience. A dozen men focused on the pointed finger of Robespierre as he moved from face to face. The question was rhetorical. Carnot was amongst those who listened. Genet sat at the back of the room and watched the most powerful Jacobin ministers spellbound by his master’s voice.

Robespierre held the room at the point of his finger, and then whispered a solitary word,” Fear!”

His audience nodded understandingly, to Robespierre and then to one another as though the pronouncement had been handed down from on high.

“The past few months have been called ‘the Terror’, by some in this room and by our enemies. That’s true enough but until the revolution is secured so that we may hand back to the people what we have won on their behalf, there must be ‘Terror’. It must continue! It is the language that the people understand, and it is the most effective way of preventing failure!”

Robespierre was working the room; Genet had felt the electricity of his master’s words before but never like this. Maximillian Robespierre was a force of nature.

“The Bourbons had four hundred years to stake their claim to the throne. They did not rule by kindness, and they never once ruled for the good of the people. We rule in the name of the people but like any good father we must show discipline now….” The voice once raised to a crescendo had died away to a whisper again…”so that when France grows from the child like state in which the Bourbons kept it, into a strong and noble prince amongst nations, the people will know truly know the price of ‘Liberté, égalité, fraternité’ and will never again question the price of defending such a privilege!”

The room stood as one and applauded, a dozen pairs of hands reached out to shake his. Genet noticed the signal, no more than a nod in his direction. Robespierre waved the men down and motioned for quiet.

“To that end, we must continue to make examples of those who fail to protect the republic. These papers call for the arrest of the commanders of the armies of the North and the Rhine. We have reports from trusted officers as to the ineffective methods and lack of conviction in Generals Jourdan and Hoche. The people shall decide their fate. Any general now condemned to death will be executed in front of his own men. The army must understand Terror too and know that the punishment of a loving father is worse than the fiercest cannonade of the enemy! Who will countersign these orders?”

There it was: the lie hidden in the barrage of hyperbole. France had failed to secure victories on her borders. The generals would not turn on themselves, Genet knew that, but they had to fear that such an outcome might arise. It had been Genet’s brainchild and Robespierre had clapped his hands with glee the moment that the scheme was laid before him.

It was the soldiers who were always the problem. Come the spring, the army would do the bidding of Maximillian Robespierre. And Serge Genet would make such a wish a reality.


Wissembourg: 31st December 1793

“You came from Paris to deliver this and arrest the General?”

Pale grey eyes surveyed Maurice Caillat, not out of fear, reproach, or pity. Perhaps instead they searched for understanding. After all, it cannot have been a usual occurrence to receive notification of a fellow general’s arrest; orders to provide evidence against that same officer; and a promotion to command the Army of the North as a most obvious bribe.

But that was what Jean-Charles Pichegru was being asked to contemplate. His hand ruffled shoulder length hair where steel grey was beginning to outstrip black, despite the general only being two years past his thirtieth birthday.

“Somebody has sent you on a fool’s errand, Monsieur. I will accept the promotion, but I will not indict General Hoche.

“But I have been told to…”

Pichegru held up a hand, “Monsieur?”

“Caillat, Maurice Caillat, Representat…”

“Yes, yes, I know your rank. Monsieur Caillat, Maurice, remove that raincoat, pour yourself a glass of wine and take a seat by the fire. Words seem so less intimidating when there is at least a degree of civility.”

However, Maurice Caillat had imagined this interview to progress, drinks with his quarry had not been a possible scenario. And the more questionable the purpose, the more Caillat doubted in his own ability to resolve matters to Genet’s satisfaction. This trip was only serving to underline that point.

Caillat took his seat as ordered, and the two men faced one another, fierce yellows of the fire casting long shadows across the peasant cottage that Pichegru had taken for his quarters.

“Pray, continue…you were saying that you had been told to?”

“Err, yes, General, I have been instructed to tell…”

“Not General… too formal… I am Jean, and you will be Maurice, is that agreeable? Good…this wine is rather agreeable too, isn’t it?”

Maurice Caillat was at a loss as to what to say. The fire was warm; the chair comfortable, far better than the carriage that he had spent ten days travelling in; and the wine was rather good. Threatening a man who had shown such hospitality to a stranger seemed, frankly, to be both absurd and ungrateful. Caillat’s mouth open and closed; thoughts formed but no words came out.

“Maurice, I shall save you the trouble. I have been rather rude. I am, as you may well be aware, the president of one of the most powerful Jacobin clubs in Paris. I knew of your orders and the arrest of Lazare Hoche, three days before your arrival. Oh, they will make a fuss over Hoche, of course. But he is a capable soldier. I haven’t always agreed with his methods, but nothing would compel me to sign that death warrant that you were sent with. And make no mistake, that is the purpose of the message that you were delivering from your friends in Paris.”

“I have no friends in Paris, General.”

Caillat had not meant the words to come out, but they had escaped and there was no taking them back.

Pichegru tutted heavily.

“Now Maurice, you are not playing the game. Around my fireside, I am Jean and nothing more formal than that.”

Caillat gazed into his dark silhouette dancing on the red surface of the glass.

“I am supposed to be representing the authority of Paris: the might and the Terror.”

“Paris should not be about might and terror. We are Frenchmen, born of the same soil. We should be able to resolve our disagreements more cordially, do you not think?” For a moment there had been iron and anger in the words but in an instant, they were gone and the warm, near mesmeric voice of Pichegru had returned. “Now tell me of yourself and of Paris.”

Caillat told the General of his life before the revolution and after, in part because he wanted to, and because he felt that Pichegru already knew the answers. Maurice Caillat had been an investigator for the Marquis de Beurnonville, once Minister of War, now a captive of the Austrians, following the treachery of Dumouriez. He even recounted the events in Dunkirk and the matters involving Julian Beauvais, whose release had lifted a very real threat to his life.

Pichegru had listened, nodded but asked for no additional detail, save one.

“Wattignies, are you certain about Wattignies, Maurice?”

“Yes, Gener…err… Yes, Jean I am, why?”

“Let me tell you one or two things, Maurice. Firstly, no man can hope to live in Paris, as things stand, without friends. You will leave here tomorrow at first light, with an introduction to my club. They are expecting you. Secondly, you do not question why I should want to accept the death sentence that has become command of the Army of the North.”

Caillat mouthed to ask but Pichegru held up his hand.

“What Hoche and I accomplished here, beating the Austrians, Prussians, Brunswickers was done with a third of the resources that are in the north. Jourdan is a good man, as far as I can tell. He does not deserve this spectacle of a trial. You want to know what I’m going to do with the Army of the North? I’m going to liberate Flanders and throw the Austrians back over the Rhine and chase the British into the North Sea. Now go and find one of my orderlies, they will find a bed for you. I have reports to prepare which you will take to Paris. And consider my advice. A man needs friends. If the people who sent you on this fool’s errand do not change then…”

Pichegru drained his glass, eased his tired body from the chair, and motioned towards the door. “Goodnight, Monsieur Caillat, it has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

[Blog Tour] 'The Queen of the Citadels' (The King’s Germans, Book 3) By Dominic Fielder #HistoricalFiction
Dominic Fielder

Author Bio:

Dominic Fielder has had careers in retail and the private education sector and is currently working as a secondary school Maths teacher. He has a First-class honours degree in history and a lifetime’s interest in the hobby of wargaming. The King's Germans series is a project that grew out of this passion He currently juggles writing and research around a crowded work and family life.

Whilst self-published he is very grateful for an excellent support team. The Black Lions of Flanders (set in 1793) is the first in the King's Germans' series, which will follow an array of characters through to the final book in Waterloo. He lives just outside of Tavistock on the edge of Dartmoor. where he enjoys walking on the moors and the occasional horse-riding excursion as both writing inspiration and relaxation.

Connect with Dominic Fielder:

[Blog Tour] 'The Queen of the Citadels' (The King’s Germans, Book 3) By Dominic Fielder #HistoricalFiction
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23 August 2021

[Blog Tour] 'In a Grove of Maples' (Sheltering Trees: Book 1) By Jenny Knipfer #ChristianHistoricalFiction

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[Blog Tour] 'In a Grove of Maples' (Sheltering Trees: Book 1) By Jenny Knipfer #ChristianHistoricalFiction
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The Book:

In a Grove of Maples
(Sheltering Trees: Book 1)
By Jenny Knipfer

  • Publication Date: 1st July 2021
  • Publisher: Jenny Knipfer--Author
  • Page Length: 264 Pages
  • Genre: Historical Fiction, Christian Historical Fiction
  • Audio Narrated By Jenn Lee

The Blurb:

"... a heartfelt tale of the struggles of married life on a nineteenth-century farm. Edward and Beryl are both relatable and sympathetic. Knipfer expertly captures the emotion and stress of their lives and relationship. It’s a touching and realistic portrayal of love, loss, and friendship." Heather Stockard for Readers’ Favorite five-star review

A HISTORICAL NOVEL OF THE PERILS OF NEWLYWED LIFE AND OF ALL THAT COMES TO DIVIDE LOVERS

In 1897 newly married Beryl and Edward Massart travel more than one thousand miles from Quebec to farm a plot of land in Wisconsin that they bought sight-unseen. An almost magical grove of maples on their property inspires them to dream of a real home built within the grove, not the tiny log cabin they’ve come to live in.

Misunderstandings and tempers get the better of them when difficulties and troubles arise. Just months after they wed, Edward leaves pregnant Beryl in the midst of the coming winter to tend the farm and animals while he goes to be a teamster at a northern Wisconsin logging camp.

Will Beryl and Edward walk into the future together to build their house of dreams in the grove of maples, or will their plans topple like a house of sticks when the winds of misunderstanding and disaster strike?

Readers of Christian historical fiction, Historical fiction, Women’s fiction, and Christian historical romance will be endeared to this slice of late 19th century farm life.
[Blog Tour] 'In a Grove of Maples' (Sheltering Trees: Book 1) By Jenny Knipfer #ChristianHistoricalFiction
'In a Grove of Maples' - Book Cover

'In a Grove of Maples' - Excerpt:

“Done for the day?”

Edward hadn’t seen his wife approach. Must have been picking flowers again.

Despite the fact that they didn’t have a table yet to put them on, Beryl liked to pick a fresh jar of wildflowers every couple of days. She placed them on the crate where they ate their meals.

She smiled her sunny smile, which transformed her whole face; her thin but well-defined lips stretched back into a grin, which arched high on her cheeks.

“Yep. Paul invited us for supper. He didn’t give me the option of declining.”

“Oh, well, I suppose the beans and bacon I had planned can wait.”

She winked at him. He moved forward to touch her face and wrap her in his arms, but thought better of it, being so sweaty and dirty.

“Come here and give your wife a kiss. The result of your hard work matters not.”

Beryl motioned with her free hand. The other held stems of grasses and flowers. What kinds they were he didn’t know. He obeyed her command and stepped forward to lightly encircle her waist with his arms and kiss her on the lips. She tasted of summer berries ripening in the sun.

“Mmm, me thinks the lady has partaken of some fruit.”

Beryl tilted her head up and gave him a sneaky flash of eyes. “What? How can you tell?”

He backed up a little and unwrapped her arms from around his neck. Grabbing her right hand, he held up her red-stained fingers.

“You bear the evidence of your crime,” he said in mock judgement.

“Darn. It was supposed to be a surprise.” She pointed to the east. “I found a bunch of raspberries back there. I filled a small basket full.”

“Well, I’ll wash up before we head to Paul and Nola’s. Let’s bring the berries as a thankyou gift.”

“Fine idea. It’s one of the things I love about you—your generosity.”

Beryl clasped her hand in his as they ambled back to their cabin. Edward felt heat rising in his cheeks. Whenever a compliment came his way, they tended to flush pink. He didn’t need his wife seeing him blushing like a girl, so he turned his face away and changed the subject.

“While I wash, you fetch your berries and take care of your bouquet. Then we’ll hitch up the team and be off.”

“Why don’t we just take Benny? We can both ride on him, and it’s not far. It’ll be cozy.”

She winked again. The thought of being cozy sent a tingle through his muscles. It might be a precursor to another sort of intimacy. But maybe not. I’m dog-tired.

“Sure, whatever you’d like,” he offered.

She smiled and walked toward their little abode. Edward realized as he watched her sashay off through the tall grass that he’d say yes to almost anything his wife asked for. She captivated him, and he was thoroughly entrenched in love.
[Blog Tour] 'In a Grove of Maples' (Sheltering Trees: Book 1) By Jenny Knipfer #ChristianHistoricalFiction
Jenny Knipfer

Author Bio:

Jenny Knipfer lives in Wisconsin with her husband, Ken, and their pet Yorkie, Ruby. She is also a mom and loves being a grandma. She enjoys many creative pursuits but finds writing the most fulfilling.

Spending many years as a librarian in a local public library, Jenny recently switched to using her skills as a floral designer in a retail flower shop. She is now retired from work due to disability. Her education background stems from psychology, music, and cultural missions.

She holds membership in the: Midwest Independent Booksellers Association, Wisconsin Writers Association, Christian Indie Publishing Association, and Independent Book Publishers Association.

Jenny’s favorite place to relax is by the western shore of Lake Superior, where her novel series, By The Light of the Moon, is set. A new historical fiction, four-part series entitled, Sheltering Trees, will be released in 2021 and 2022. Jenny is currently writing a novella series entitled, Botanical Seasons.

Connect with Jenny Knipfer:

[Blog Tour] 'In a Grove of Maples' (Sheltering Trees: Book 1) By Jenny Knipfer #ChristianHistoricalFiction
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16 August 2021

[Blog Tour] 'The Whirlpools of Time' By Anna Belfrage #HistoricalFiction #TimeTravel

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[Blog Tour] 'The Whirlpools of Time' By Anna Belfrage #HistoricalFiction #TimeTravel
'The Whirlpools of Time' - Tour Banner

The Book:

The Whirlpools of Time
By Anna Belfrage
  • Publication Date: 11th June 2021
  • Publisher: Timelight Press
  • Page Length: 388 Pages
  • Genre: Time travel romance, Scottish Historical Romance

The Blurb:

He hoped for a wife. He found a companion through time and beyond.

It is 1715 and for Duncan Melville something fundamental is missing from his life. Despite a flourishing legal practice and several close friends, he is lonely, even more so after the recent death of his father. He needs a wife—a companion through life, someone to hold and be held by. What he wasn’t expecting was to be torn away from everything he knew and find said woman in 2016…

Erin Barnes has a lot of stuff going on in her life. She doesn’t need the additional twist of a stranger in weird outdated clothes, but when he risks his life to save hers, she feels obligated to return the favour. Besides, whoever Duncan may be, she can’t exactly deny the immediate attraction.

The complications in Erin’s life explode. Events are set in motion and to Erin’s horror she and Duncan are thrown back to 1715. Not only does Erin have to cope with a different and intimidating world, soon enough she and Duncan are embroiled in a dangerous quest for Duncan’s uncle, a quest that may very well cost them their lives as they travel through a Scotland poised on the brink of rebellion.

Will they find Duncan’s uncle in time? And is the door to the future permanently closed, or will Erin find a way back?

  • Trigger Warnings: Sexual Content. Violence.
[Blog Tour] 'The Whirlpools of Time' By Anna Belfrage #HistoricalFiction #TimeTravel
'The Whirlpools of Time' - Book Cover

'The Whirlpools of Time' - Excerpt:

Duncan has just taken his first ever ride in a car…

Once the contraption had come to a halt, Duncan carefully released his hold on his seat. His head throbbed but most of all his brain ached, trying to make some sense of all these new impressions. Erin opened her door and got out. He studied the door on his side, not knowing just where the locking mechanism was. She made no move to help him. Mayhap she intended to keep him here, confined in this box of metal on wheels.

He groaned and hid his face in his hands. What had happened to him?

The door opened.

“Need help?” she asked.

“Aye.” With everything, really, starting with an explanation of where he was and how he came to be here. But he didn’t say that. He just took her offered hand and gingerly dragged himself out of the vehicle. Part of him—the rational part—was intrigued by it, wanting nothing more but to understand how this piece of advanced engineering worked. The other part quivered with fear. This was some sort of magic and he’d ended up in a time of powerful sorcerers. Except that Erin did not look like a witch should look. That curly hair of hers framed a face in which the most distinctive feature were her eyes, at present studying him with concern.

“Are you alright? That gash on your forehead is bleeding.”

“It is?” He lifted his hand to his head, surprised at discovering she was right. Blood coated his fingers. “No great matter,” he said. But the world was spinning and he gritted his teeth, willing the dizziness to abate.

She slipped an arm round his waist, holding him steady. “It’s the concussion,” she said. “The nurse said you might feel the effects for some more days.”

“Likely.” He’d had one several years ago when he’d stolen a ride on one of Michael Connor’s precious brood mares and been thrown for his efforts. That time, it had been Grandma Alex looking after him.

She helped him to the door, had him steady himself against the wall as she unlocked, fiddled with something that emitted several strange high-pitched sounds, and then invited him inside. He drew in a surprised breath when she set her finger on a little protuberance and flooded the interior with light.

The room was huge. On the opposite side, large windows replaced what should have been walls and even on a day as overcast as this, Duncan could not tear his gaze away from the large expanse of water that lapped at the shoreline a stone’s throw from the windows.

“Stunning, isn’t it?” she said, and he could hear the pride in her voice.

“It is.” Truth be told, everything about the space they were standing in was stunning. White walls were hung with paintings that were mostly a collection of colours, there was a thick Turkish rug on the floor that would have had Kate Jones turning green with envy. The thought brought him up short. Was she dead yet? And then he shivered: everyone he knew was dead—since centuries back. He shook himself free of these thoughts and concentrated instead on the huge hearth with wood neatly stacked to the side and a pelt spread out before it, the wide-open mouth of the cat who’d once owned the hide frozen in a permanent snarl. Beside him, she shifted on her feet.

“I inherited it,” she said, sounding apologetic. “I’d never have bought a tiger skin.”

“Ah.”

“I guess my great-grandfather shot it before tigers became an endangered species,” she added and he didn’t understand one word of that but nodded all the same, kept on nodding as she chattered on about how few tigers there were left and how much she despised trophy hunters. He found her voice soothing even if he had never heard of trophy hunters and as to the poor tigers, how could one possibly know how many such ferocious beasts roamed the jungles?

Other than the fireplace, the room contained a large table to one side, something resembling an overgrown settle on the other. Bright red cushions and matching throws added gaiety to a room otherwise dominated by wood and black leather. An opulent space, along the lines of the Jones’ residence in Annapolis, and Duncan threw Erin a look. In her revealing breeches—very revealing—a pink shirt that barely covered her midriff and shoes in brightly coloured fabric that covered her ankles, she did not quite match the furnishings. She reminded him of a butterfly, all bright colour and flitting movements as she darted from one side of the room to the other, plumping up a cushion here, tweaking at a coverlet there.

[Blog Tour] 'The Whirlpools of Time' By Anna Belfrage #HistoricalFiction #TimeTravel
Anna Belfrage

Author Bio:

Had Anna been allowed to choose, she’d have become a time-traveller. As this was impossible, she became a financial professional with two absorbing interests: history and writing. Anna has authored the acclaimed time travelling series The Graham Saga, set in 17th century Scotland and Maryland, as well as the equally acclaimed medieval series The King’s Greatest Enemy which is set in 14th century England.

Anna has also published The Wanderer, a fast-paced contemporary romantic suspense trilogy with paranormal and time-slip ingredients. Her September 2020 release, His Castilian Hawk, has her returning to medieval times. Set against the complications of Edward I’s invasion of Wales, His Castilian Hawk is a story of loyalty, integrity—and love. Her most recent release, The Whirlpools of Time, is a time travel romance set against the backdrop of brewing rebellion in the Scottish highlands.

All of Anna’s books have been awarded the IndieBRAG Medallion, she has several Historical Novel Society Editor’s Choices, and one of her books won the HNS Indie Award in 2015. She is also the proud recipient of various Reader’s Favorite medals as well as having won various Gold, Silver and Bronze Coffee Pot Book Club awards.

  • Find out more about Anna, her books and her eclectic historical blog on her website, www.annabelfrage.com .

Connect with Anna Belfrage:

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11 August 2021

[Blog Tour] 'Down Salem Way' (The Loving Husband Series) By Meredith Allard #HistoricalFiction

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[Blog Tour] 'Down Salem Way' (The Loving Husband Series) By Meredith Allard #HistoricalFiction
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The Book:

Down Salem Way
(The Loving Husband Series)
By Meredith Allard
  • Publication Date: June 2019
  • Publisher: Copperfield Press
  • Page Length: 352 Pages
  • Genre: Historical Fiction

The Blurb:

How would you deal with the madness of the Salem witch hunts?

In 1690, James Wentworth arrives in Salem in the Massachusetts Bay Colony with his father, John, hoping to continue the success of John’s mercantile business. While in Salem, James falls in love with Elizabeth Jones, a farmer’s daughter. Though they are virtually strangers when they marry, the love between James and Elizabeth grows quickly into a passion that will transcend time.

But something evil lurks down Salem way. Soon many in Salem, town and village, are accused of practicing witchcraft and sending their shapes to harm others. Despite the madness surrounding them, James and Elizabeth are determined to continue the peaceful, loving life they have created together. Will their love for one another carry them through the most difficult challenge of all?
[Blog Tour] 'Down Salem Way' (The Loving Husband Series) By Meredith Allard #HistoricalFiction
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[Blog Tour] 'Down Salem Way' (The Loving Husband Series) By Meredith Allard #HistoricalFiction
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'Down Salem Way' - Excerpt:

“Are you a Witch?” he asked.

I laughed. I was ready for the joke. Dear God, please, I begged in the silence of my mind, this has to be a joke. But I knew. No matter no matter. This was no joke. The man had come to take Lizzie away.

“Did you sign a pact with the Devil in your own blood? How long have you been a Witch?” The constable’s eyes blazed with haughty fire.

“I am no Witch, sir,” Lizzie said. I was proud of her. Her voice was strong, her back was straight, and she held the man’s eyes.

“I can assure you,” I said, “my wife is no Witch. What proof have you for such groundless accusations against my wife?”

“We know she’s a Witch because witnesses have spoken against her.” He turned to Lizzie. “Why don’t you confess?”

“I am no Witch, sir,” Lizzie said again. She backed into me, hoping, I’m certain, that I could protect her. Dear God, why could I not get her away sooner? Just one day sooner? I have been wanting to take Lizzie to England for as long as we have been married, but we are here and not there and now my wife is in Hell. I am in a different kind of Hell but tis Hell all the same.

Whatever turmoil I felt, as though my innards quivered and I would heave everything I had ever eaten, I had to hold myself together. When the pock-faced man showed us the arrest warrant where Lizzie was named, she sobbed. I put my arm round her waist. I would be her rock. I would keep her strong.

“I have a warrant for your arrest, Goody Wentworth, and you must come with me.”

“Mistress Wentworth,” I said in my most haughty tone, but what did such distinctions matter then? I tried to stop him from taking Lizzie but the man knew what he was about. He had done this many times before. When Father arrived I ran to him, shaking him, needing his help as I hadn’t since I was a boy. And then I remembered. Father is an affluent member of Society, a Selectman of the Church. Surely, he could do something.

“Father, please,” I begged, “we have to help Lizzie.”

Father watched the constable bind Lizzie in chains. Lizzie looked fluid, as though she melted away. She tried to pat the bump where our babe waits, but the irons were too heavy. I ran to her, and as she reached for me she tripped and I caught her in my arms. The constable jerked her away. My life, he took her away.

Father did what he could. “What business have you with Mistress Wentworth?” he yelled.

“I have a warrant for her,” the pock-faced man said.

Father grabbed the paper and read it. He shook his head. There was nothing he could do. I raged at the pock-faced man. I promised Lizzie I would never leave her ever and twas up to me to put an end to this.

“You dare take an innocent woman away on false charges?” I yelled. “Ask her to recite the Lord’s Prayer! Ask her to recite the Ten Commandments! You think Witches cannot speak them because the Devil won’t allow it. Test her! If you knew the Commandments yourself you would know the ninth—thou shalt not bear false witness!”

The constable grinned. “If you know the Bible so well then you also know 1 Peter 5:8.” He waited for my response, but my mind was blank. Father knew.

“Be sober, be vigilant, because your adversary the Devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.”

“And from Exodus?” asked the constable.
Father slumped forward. “Thou shalt not suffer a Witch to live.” “My wife is no Witch,” I said. “She is an innocent woman. Please. Let her go and we shall leave here and never return.”

[Blog Tour] 'Down Salem Way' (The Loving Husband Series) By Meredith Allard #HistoricalFiction
Meredith Allard

Author Bio:

Meredith Allard is the author of the bestselling paranormal historical Loving Husband Trilogy. Her sweet Victorian romance, When It Rained at Hembry Castle, was named a best historical novel by IndieReader. Her nonfiction book, Painting the Past: A Guide for Writing Historical Fiction, was named a #1 New Release in Authorship and Creativity Self-Help by Amazon. When she isn’t writing she’s teaching writing, and she has taught writing to students ages five to 75. She loves books, cats, and coffee, though not always in that order. She lives in Las Vegas, Nevada. 

Visit Meredith online at www.meredithallard.com.

Connect with Meredith Allard:

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6 August 2021

[Blog Tour] 'Kingfisher' (The Kingfisher Series, Book One) By D. K. Marley #HistoricalFiction #TimeTravel

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]Blog Tour] 'Kingfisher' (The Kingfisher Series, Book One) By D. K. Marley #HistoricalFiction #TimeTravel
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The Book:

Kingfisher
(The Kingfisher Series, Book One)
By D. K. Marley

  • Publication Date: June 28, 2021
  • Publisher: The White Rabbit Publishing (HFC Press)
  • Page Length: 530 Pages
  • Genre: Historical Time Travel

The Blurb:

The past, future, and Excalibur lie in her hands.

Wales, 1914. Vala Penrys and her four sisters find solace in their spinster life by story-telling, escaping the chaos of war by dreaming of the romantic days of Camelot. When the war hits close to home, Vala finds love with Taliesin Wren, a mysterious young Welsh Lieutenant, who shows her another world within the tangled roots of a Rowan tree, known to the Druids as ‘the portal’.

One night she falls through, and suddenly she is Vivyane, Lady of the Lake – the Kingfisher – in a divided Britain clamoring for a High King. What begins as an innocent pastime becomes the ultimate quest for peace in two worlds full of secrets, and Vala finds herself torn between the love of her life and the salvation of not only her family but of Britain, itself.

"It is, at the heart of it, a love story – the love between a man and a woman, between a woman and her country, and between the characters and their fates – but its appeal goes far beyond romance. It is a tale of fate, of power, and, ultimately, of sacrifice for a greater good." - Riana Everly, author of Teaching Eliza and Death of a Clergyman

Buy Links:

]Blog Tour] 'Kingfisher' (The Kingfisher Series, Book One) By D. K. Marley #HistoricalFiction #TimeTravel
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'Kingfisher' - Excerpt:

Excerpt from Chapter 2 “The Rowan Tree”

Five pairs of eyes gazed up at my face when I approached, all in various states of inebriation—glazed, half-closed, wide-eyed, curious, and another with a look I dared not label from the leer on his lips. I raised my chin and steeled my courage, holding out the two pennies.

“Is there a fortune-teller here?” They looked askance at one another, murmuring and gesturing. One of them, a thin wiry man with a snaggled grin, slurred out an answer.

“Dw I dymm yn dallt.”

He did not understand. I smiled, my mind searching the Welsh tongue still tucked beneath my English facade. Father insisted on his girls speaking English on an everyday basis, especially when visiting London or attending the Season in search of husbands, as he concluded the high-born aristocrats of London society never stooped to learn the language of the least populated section of Great Britain. He was right, for even Edward, the Prince of Wales, knew only a smattering of the tongue. Even our house staff he hired from Dorset and Warwick instead of any locals to ensure we maintained the speech. In truth, his insistence on all things English piqued my curiosity on more than one occasion. I dared never ask, though.

“Dach chi’n siarad Saesnag?” I answered back, hoping at least one of them spoke English.

Each of them, in turn, shook their head. I held up the coins again, this time asking for the fortune-teller in their language.

“Ble mae’r rhifwr ffortiwn?”

The same wiry man stood up, brushed the dust from his trousers, and motioned for me to follow him. He approached one of the wagons and tapped his swarthy knuckles against the frame.

“Kezia,” he belted out. “Mae gennych fusnes ac arian.”

The woman, upon hearing that she had business and money, peeked out through the small square side window. She looked as ancient as the Black Mountains, grey hair, furrowed brow, and eyes full of fog.

She opened the door, her twig-like fingers beckoning for the coins and curling over them once obtained.

“Come in,” she said, her voice unmatching her appearance—wispy and soothing, yet rich like fine boxed Belgian chocolate.

I glanced back to the carriage and waved to Isla who stared out the window, biting her fingernails, while Harri stood near the campfire with the other men, accepting an offer of a cup of something to warm his gut. Blowing Isla a kiss, I mounted the steps and entered the cramped quarters.

The woman cackled softly and pointed towards a chair across from a round table in the centre of the room. I sat, taking in the surroundings. A fire burned in a iron-belly stove at one end of the room, the scented heat inundating the ambience with oakwood and anise. Snatches of herbs dangled from a hemp rope along the ceiling and rich burgundy scarves embroidered with botanical scenes lined the walls, as well as decorating my chair and the cushions behind my back. The air exuded mystery.

The woman, Kezia, blended into the atmosphere as naturally as a butterfly on a flower, even in her worn, aged state. She poured out two cups of tea and sat across from me, smiling a quite uncomfortable yet knowing grin.

“Ye sister not want to come?” Her question billowed out and her dark midnight eyes narrowed.

“My sister? No, she did not . . . how did you know?”

She chuckled and took a sip of her tea, tapping one finger to the side of her head. “I am knowing many things.” Leaning forwards, she stared deep into my face. “Like this . . . I know who ye are, my lady of waters.”

A sudden flush of nausea flooded my stomach and I touched my hand to my neck, my pulse racing beneath my fingertips.

“Lady of waters, what do you mean?”

She leaned back, draping her arms over the thick brocade upholstered arm chair she sat on. “Is this not why ye came . . . to hear ye ffortiwn?”

The nausea morphed into fear and I made a move to stand, but she stilled me with her words.

“I remember ye mam-gu, ye nain,” she said. “Illya was her name, was it not?”

“Wha . . . what?” I sputtered, easing back down. “How?”

“Ooh, ‘tis fifty years now, I think, when she died. I knew her before the Major, before India . . . that journey kill’d her, ye know.”

I huffed through my nose, an sardonic sneer as I pushed my teacup away and crossed my arms. “No, I wouldn’t know.”

She replied with a wink and a chuckle. “No, I suspect ye wouldn’t living with secrets now, would ye?”

“Secrets?”

She snickered and struck a white-tipped matchstick, lighting a thick beeswax candle in the centre of the table. The flickering flame danced in her pupils and she held the smouldering stick in between her thumb and forefinger; the smoke wafting in two slender entangling streams.

“White phosphorous . . .” she said, “very deadly, if eaten. One pack of matchsticks can kill a person.”

I arched my eyebrow, uncertain if I ought to sip any more of the tea. She blew away the smoke with a blast of breath, finishing off with a wave of her hand and crooked a smile.

“Useful information, is it not?” She added.

“I suppose, if you need to know such a thing.”

She nodded in agreement and pointed to my teacup. “Go on, finish the tea and with the last few drops, swirl the leaves and hand me the cup.”

With much trepidation, I finished the strong brew, deciding if she indeed poisoned me, at least Harri and Isla were close enough to ensure a rescue.

Handing her the cup, I waited for a moment as she turned the cup clockwise from the handle, her slight hum pausing once, twice, and a third time, with a ‘hmm’ or ‘ahh’.

She set the cup down and pointed to a long line close to the rim, formed by the residue of the leaves.

“Ye will take a long journey . . . far away from here. And here . . . near the bottom . . . the ‘T’. Do ye see it?”

I squinted and tilted my head, unsure, but agreed any ways. “Yes . . . I think.”

“This is for love . . . ye will look for this letter in your search for love. And the last, ye are a traveller as ye grandmother before ye.”

My heart leapt in my chest. “And where does it show that?”

She smiled and pushed the cup away, wrapping her warm hands over mine. “I need not the cup to see that.” Raising her hand, she pointed her forefinger and jabbed her rounded fingernail into my chest, right above my pounding heart. “Here . . . in ye soul and in ye eyes.”

The words lured me in with a strong pulling sensation, creeping into my core. “You said you remember her,” I said, hoping to draw more information from her about my past.

“Yes, she was like me.”

“A gipsy traveller, you mean . . . a Kale . . . from Caernarfon.”

She snickered. “Ooh, much more than just a Kale . . . for she knew the ways of travellers from long ago. She was a woman Bard with a voice like a nightingale—her favourite was Keats . . . do ye have a favourite?”

“Yes . . . I do. I adore Tennyson.”

“Ah,” she acknowledged, her eyes alighting with a long ago remembrance. “Of course, ye love Tennyson . . . the days of King Arthur. Romantics, both poets in search of escape, and dreamers of days long gone.” She narrowed her eyes. “Ah, I am seeing doubt in ye eyes. You have listened to rumours that we gipsy folk are ignorant . . . illiterate, even. Some are, no doubt, but ye nain was special, like a muse of fire to poets. She used to read poetry to me late into the night. One of her favourite lines was from Keats—‘O, for a life of sensations rather than of thoughts!’”

I grinned at the quote. “I know that line . . . my mother recites that quite often. But, what do you mean ‘of course, I love Tennyson’?”

She chuckled and lifted the teacup, tilting the rim for me to see inside. “What do ye see when ye look inside?”

I thought, for a moment, that her question answering my question was her attempt to evade, but as I stared into the cup, a clear picture formed in my thoughts. I shook my head and touched my fingers to my temple, just above my right eyebrow.

“The roots of a tree . . . like my ancestry reaching deep into the soul . . . searching for water . . .”
She cackled, reached across and touched my arm. From her fingertips, the goose flesh sped across my skin, all the way to the crown of my head. She narrowed her eyes and quoted another line. “Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry, for large white plumes are dancing in mine eyes.”

Keat’s poetic words compulsed from my heart and throat. “Last night I lay in bed, there came before my eyes that wonted thread of shapes, and shadows, and remembrances . . .”

She continued. “You know the Enchanted Castle—it doth stand upon the rock on the border of a lake . . . ye know it well enough, where it doth seem a mossy place, a Merlin’s hall, a dream . . .”

And I added, without volition. “Here do they look alive to love and hate, to smiles and frowns; they seem a lifted mound above some giant, pulsing underground.”

She leaned towards me, her eyes narrowing. “And from them comes a silver flash of light, as from the westward of a summer’s night; or like a beauteous woman’s large blue eyes gone mad through olden songs and poesies . . . it is a flaw in happiness to see beyond our bourn—it forces us in summer skies to mourn, it spoils the singing of the nightingale . . .”

“I have a tale to tell,” I rhymed. “And yet, I cannot speak it.”

“And yet, your dreams speak the tale, do they not?”

I shook my head, scattering her question tingling the hairs on my arm, and rubbed my brow again.

“What . . . what just happened?” I asked.

She answered only with another low chuckle.

Even with much eye-lash blinking and lip-biting, confusion bubbled inside me, fearing what just passed between me and the gipsy. Looking over to the empty tea cup, I felt a sudden fear that more than tea, indeed, poured from her kettle and down my throat.

]Blog Tour] 'Kingfisher' (The Kingfisher Series, Book One) By D. K. Marley #HistoricalFiction #TimeTravel
D. K. Marley

Author Bio:

D. K. Marley is a Historical Fiction author specializing in Shakespearean adaptations, Tudor era historicals, Colonial American historicals, alternate historicals, and historical time-travel. At a very early age she knew she wanted to be a writer. Inspired by her grandmother, an English Literature teacher, she dove into writing during her teenage years, winning short story awards for two years in local competitions. After setting aside her writing to raise a family and run her graphic design business, White Rabbit Arts, returning to writing became therapy to her after suffering immense tragedy, and she published her first novel “Blood and Ink” in 2018, which went on to win the Bronze Medal for Best Historical Fiction from The Coffee Pot Book Club, and the Silver Medal from the Golden Squirrel Book Awards. Within three years, she has published four more novels (two Shakespearean adaptations, one Colonial American historical, and a historical time travel).

When she is not writing, she is the founder and administrator of The Historical Fiction Club on Facebook, and the CEO of The Historical Fiction Company, a website dedicated to supporting the best in historical fiction for authors and readers. And for fun, she is an avid reader of the genre, loves to draw, is a conceptual photography hobbyist, and is passionate about spending time with her granddaughter. She lives in Middle Georgia U.S.A. with her husband of 35 years, an English Lab named Max, and an adorable Westie named Daisy.

Connect with D. K. Marley:

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