The Mythology Files: Eris

I am Eris.

The Spirit of Strife.

Not a goddess, as some of you may have thought. Just a spirit. And as the title implies, my whole goal in life — my entire reason for existing — is to stir up dissension. I would say it makes me happy — a room full of fussing people — but that would be a lie. After all, I am the Spirit of Strife. By definition, I don’t cause happiness for anyone. Including myself.

My main companions are Pain and Panic, also spirits in their own right. You can probably tell just by hearing the names that they aren’t the best company. You would think that our commonalities would make us like peas and carrots. But how can it? I am strife.

The gods and goddesses can’t stand to have my trio around most of the time, though on occasion they’ll tolerate us if it suits their purposes. Except for Ares. He has a soft spot for all three of us. Mostly because his purposes involve starting war where there used to be peace.

Funny how you never hear about the Spirit of Peace. I know I’ve never met her. Whoever she is. I think she likes to keep to herself. I know I would, if I were her.

Regardless if she actually exists, you know she ain’t gonna be beating down the door to meet me. We’d be arch-rivals. And Peace doesn’t want any part of this, let me tell you.

I would win. Plain and simple.

I fight dirty.

And let’s face it. The irony here is if Peace fights with me, I’ve already won.

I know I sound bitter. And probably irritable. You may as well know now, it’s like perma-PMS up in here. A real joy to be me.

You gotta understand how it is.

It’s a nasty job. But somebody has to do it.

But sometimes?

Sometimes…

I wish it could just be somebody else.

~from DISCORD, the Mythology Files (in progress)~

Sweet Saturday: Red Dust

Dust storm approaching Stratford, Texas. (Photo in public domain
http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Dust-storm-Texas-1935.png#file)

“What is it, Pa?” Naomi caught the panic in Lem’s demeanor the second he set foot in the front yard at a dead run. Her heart leaped to her throat and her gaze drew to the horizon behind him — a dark red swirling cloud darkening the sky in the middle of the day.

“Dust storm!” His boots clattered across the porch. “You get the boys, I’ll get the windows! We’re gonna need wet rags. That’s Red Dust comin’!”

Naomi didn’t wait to be told twice. She dropped the laundry into the basket, gathered her skirts and ran around the house hollering at the top of her lungs, “Mel! Kilion! House!”

Her two boys looked up from where they were fixing the back fence. Seeing her frantic movements, they glanced at the sky and understood immediately. Mel ran for the barn to bar the door, while the younger of the two sprinted toward the pump behind the house.

“Where are the rags, Ma?” he called.

“In the barrel!” she yelled back. The wind was picking up now, and the howling filled her ears. They had only moments before the dust would be upon them. The third time this month.

Back inside the house, Kilion distributed the wet rags, and they huddled together around the kitchen table listening to the wind whip around the house. Lem had gathered the lanterns and lit them, but the dust outside covered the sun, leaving no light but what they could get from the oil lamps.

“They’re getting worse,” Kilion muttered through the wet rag over his mouth and nose.

Lem leaned forward on his elbows with his hands folded in front of him. He had secured a wet bandana over his face, and Naomi could see his knuckles grow white with tension. From her place beside him, she reached for his hands, covering them with her own gently.

When his gaze finally met hers, she could see the raw emotion he was desperately trying to conceal. Lem was a man of few words, but when he did speak, it was for a purpose. Naomi waited as the flying dust whistled outside the thin walls.

Lem swallowed hard. “The top soil’s gone. Won’t get no crops this year.” His eyes searched hers for understanding.

Naomi nodded. Her stomach seemed to twist in empathy for her husband’s grief. She knew he felt it was a failure on his part, and her heart went out to him. There wasn’t anything he could do about the dust storms, but there was no telling him that. He was a proud man and saw it as his most important responsibility to provide for his family.

“This here’s a famine, Ma. And we don’t stand no chance, lessen’ we pack up and move.”

Mel and Kilion stared at their father, their bright blue eyes reflecting the flickering lantern light. Naomi knew he had been considering it, but he rarely thought out loud. Lem was a figuring man. And there was no chance he had made the decision lightly.

“Where d’you figger on goin’, Pa?” she asked. Naomi knew her husband would have his plan all worked out before he ever announced his intentions to the family.

“What about the farm, Pa?” Mel asked. Kilion’s eyes seemed to echo his concern. They had worked their whole lives on this piece of land — scratched out a meager existence through rain and drought, harsh winter cold and brutal summer heat. They were inextricably bound to the land. It was part of them. It was part of all of them.

Inevitable loss took root in Naomi’s heart then, slowly encompassing her until she couldn’t contain the sorrow any more, and it began to spill over through her tears.

“Heared tell thar’s work out west. California, maybe. We’ll head that way, see what we can find.” Lem turned to his sons. “Done talked to yer Uncle Jude. He’ll keep an eye on the place fer a bit ‘ til this drought passes. Then we’ll be back.”

He squeezed his wife’s hand, no doubt an effort to infuse reassurance. She smiled back at him, taking his cues to comfort their sons. “Yes, a’course we’ll be back. This drought’ll be over ‘fore ya know it, and we’ll come right back.” Some hope. Naomi would cling to that.

~ Following Naomi (in progress)

Meet & Greet: Garrett Kelly

Garrett Kelly

All business and music, Garrett Kelly runs a successful Miami night club for his uncle who lives in Chicago. He's quiet and serious with little patience for the college boy antics that is the standard for Jack and the other guys who play his club.

But it's Marley Ryan's carefree and sweet personality that intrigues him. How can she be so happy and trusting? Perhaps it is because she hasn't seen the dark side of the world he has lived in his entire life. And now the most important thing to him is protecting her from that world and preserving her wide-eyed innocence... no matter the cost to him.

Sweet Saturday: No Matter What it Takes

“Do you see the sail?” the Dutchman yelled down from his place clinging to the mast. His arm was outstretched in the direction of the ship he saw.

“Aye!” Elias shouted back. It was a French ship. And a worthier vessel than what they had.

He turned to András. “What do you think?”

“We have only one gun, and that a mite rusty and low on shot. We could never take her with that.”

Elias considered the words. He was right. They could never take the French ship that way. But there were other methods.

“We do have a French flag aboard.” The Hungarian seemed to have read his mind.

A glance into the man’s face told Elias they were thinking the same thing. They could trick the other vessel into taking them aboard — with their boat resting so low in the water, it would not be difficult to convince her they were in distress. Once on board it would be only a matter of a well carried-out plan to take over the ship.

But becoming pirates?

Elias wasn’t certain if he could convince himself that step was necessary.

“I know,” András said, lowering his voice so only Elias could hear. “But are we not already men without a country? And France, Barát… I think you will find your men willing.”

Elias shook his head and ran his hand over his scraggly beard. His thoughts drifted to Jaime for a moment. Would she see his decision as an acceptable means to keep his promise to her?

For her.

No matter what it takes.

Finally, he nodded resolutely and cleared his throat.

“She is French,” he announced to his unlikely crew. “And from the looks of her, running prisoners to the islands. We’re taking water, as you know. We need a worthier vessel. However, an action against her would make us pirates—”

He meant to explain what their options were, to put it to a vote amongst them, but he was cut off by the sudden cry as every last man, in unison, called out, “Take her! Death to France!” Every last man, save one, who stood at the helm, his face completely drained of color — the French sailor. He trembled where he stood, and Elias knew where his loyalty lay. He was French. For him it was not just abandoning one ship for one that wasn’t sinking. It was treason.

~ Pirate's Ransom (in progress)

Meet & Greet: Marley Ryan

Marley Ryan

As the daughter of a high-profile Boston businessman, she has lived a charmed life. A charmed life provided for by an over-protective father. In fact, once when she stubbed her toe on a living room coffee table, her father took the offending piece of furniture out in the back yard and chopped it into splinters.

Understandably, Marley is more than a little anxious to get out of the house and live life on her own. She chooses Miami for college... the farthest away on the eastern seaboard she can possibly travel and still be in the country.

Of course, a young woman on her own for the first time is bound to fall into some trouble, whether of her own making or the kind that just happens to find her.

~No Backing Out (in progress)

Meet and Greet: Jack Donnelly

Jack Donnelly

If you're riding the shuttle from the airport to the school campus, Jack is the first person you're going to meet. He might seem distracted at first, but once you get his attention you'll experience the smooth-talking, easy-going nature of this guy firsthand.

He rocks the surfer look. And his favorite subjects for a first conversation include Viking raids and tours of the city. Just beware that if you turn down his first attempt to ask you out, he won't give up... even if he has to follow you to your dorm room and give you the puppy dog look.

Other interests include electric guitar, surfing, working for the bad guys, and Marley Ryan.

~ No Backing Out (in progress)

Sweet Saturday: Wanna Get Away?

The trip to the airport was nerve-racking.

Marley kept glancing over her shoulder out the back window, half-expecting to see her father’s car in pursuit. She must have looked a few too many times, because Oscar cleared his throat, startling her.

“Just relax, Miss Ryan. He’s not following us. We’ll get you on that plane in record time. And the next time you’ll see the old man will be at Thanksgiving dinner.”

She wished she could be certain.

Laughing nervously, she shook her head.

“I love him, Oscar, but…”

“No need to explain. I’ve known you your whole life. I know exactly why you chose Miami.”

“You think he’ll be able to stay away?”

“I think he’ll make do.”

It was a cryptic answer. Marley wasn’t so sure she liked the sound of it. Her father wasn’t known for his ability to let things go easily. That was exactly why his decision to allow her to enroll at Miami had been a surprise — though she had fought tooth and nail for it, definitely shedding more than a few manipulative tears. She wasn’t ashamed to admit it. When it came to Peter Ryan, a person had to be willing to stoop to those levels to get what they wanted from him. Lucky for Marley, he had a soft spot for her. Anyone else’s tears would have fallen on deaf ears.

“Is there something you’re not telling me, Oscar?”

The driver laughed and shook his head. “And you’ve known me long enough to know that whatever I know stays with me.”

“Yes, I suppose so. What is it you’re always saying? ‘I just do the driving.’ Probably smart.” Marley glanced out her window and watched the brownstones whiz by.

The rest of the trip to the airport was spent in silence. It was silent, but Marley was hardly relaxed. She wouldn’t relax until her plane was in the air heading for Florida.

Oscar pulled up beside the curb and jumped out of the car to run around and open Marley’s door. She took his hand and stepped out onto the sidewalk, glancing around her. She hadn’t been to Logan International in ages. For any trip they took, they almost always used her father’s private jet, and it took off from a much smaller airstrip just outside of the city.

“I still don’t understand why you don’t just take your father’s plane,” Oscar said as he unloaded her bags from the trunk.

“I don’t trust the pilot,” she said with a wink.

Oscar smirked. “Very funny. I’ve never done anything to deserve that.”

“For all I know, you’d fly me around just long enough to lull me into a false sense of security, and then land me right in my father’s backyard. I know where your loyalty lies, old man.”

“There’s no fooling you, is there.” He gestured toward the skycap station with her suitcase. “After you.”

She stepped up to the counter and handed the attendant her itinerary. Oscar set her baggage on the cart and turned to her.

“Good luck,” he said, offering his hand.

“Thanks, Oscar. See you in November.” She took his hand and smiled.

He kissed her on the cheek and went back to the car, leaving her to find her way to the gate on her own.

Marley shouldered her carry-on bag and stepped through the sliding doors.

Ah, freedom.

~No Backing Out (in progress)

Sweet Saturday: Confession

When Jaime woke to Elias kissing her she was certain she was dreaming still. After the long months of searching she finally found him.

But what kind of man had he become? A pirate, who only hours ago, she had despised — who only a week ago had murdered every man aboard her vessel and had sunk the ship to the bottom of the ocean.

Yet he held her like Elias. He kissed her like her husband — perhaps more desperately, as the long absence would have dictated. Was he still the gentle peace-loving man she had married?

She gingerly brushed a black curl behind his ear. His eyes opened groggily, not from sleep, which she suspected he hadn't done in a week, but from the lack of it. He smiled and propped himself up on an elbow.

“What troubles you mi amor?” he asked, lacing his fingers with hers.

“You are alive and in my arms. What could trouble me?”

“Yet your brow is knit in worry.” He smoothed her forehead with his thumb. “Tell me, love, what causes you so much concern?”

Jaime allowed her gaze to wander to her hand, interwoven with his. After all this time he could still read her like a book. But he had changed. She wanted to know how much but couldn't bring herself to voice the question.

“May I venture a guess?”

Jaime nodded.

“It is my beard.” A teasing glint lit his dark eyes. “I will cut it off immediately.” He rose as if to leave their bed.

“It is your beard,” Jaime replied. “And all you have become. You killed Amin. How many others?”

Elias froze and stared at his hands, as though he could see the blood dripping from them in that moment.

“Amin,” he repeated and returned his gaze to hers. “I am sorry for him.”

“You offer no explanation? No reason for such a life?”

“It is not the life I would have chosen. But here I am. And I am responsible for these men and our actions. No explanation will relieve me of the guilt.”

“Perhaps a confession then,” she said. “To ease your conscience.” She lifted her hand to caress his rough face. He was still the man she had married. A man not willing to make excuses. A man who stood for truth, even if truth condemned him.

“Yes. Most certainly I will confess to you. I would tell you first, however, now that I have found you, we will leave this life behind. Return to our daughter and live out the lives we intended for ourselves.”

Emotion choked her. That was all she ever wanted. Life with Elias and Elisabeth, in peace, safe from her father's interference.

~Pirate's Ransom (in progress)

Sweet Saturday: A Challenge

"Get up. Get up, you wretched cur!" Van Burge's eyes were alive with fury. He threaded his fingers into Colin's cravat and tugged him roughly up from the floor. "You and I will settle this. Today! Else I shall have you descried a coward! In one hour, Jackson's. Do not fail." He spat every word into Colin's face, as he gripped him by the throat.

Van Burge released Colin with an emphatic shove, then he spun on his heel and stormed out, spewing threats and curses all the way.

"Lovely," Colin moaned and swiped at the blood dripping from his lip with the back of his hand.

Two hands appeared before him, no doubt a belated offer of futile help from the traitors he once called friends.

Colin lifted his eyes to the double image of Hawthorne and Maddox, the treacherous twin spawn of Satan. He shook his head and took one of the offered hands.

"Van Burge seems in earnest," Maddox said. An irritating mocking smile lifted the corners of his mouth.

"In earnest, Anthony? Truly? Whatever gave you that idea?" Hawthorne snorted with disdain.

"What will you do?" Maddox ignored his brother and bit straight into the heart of the matter.

"Do? Why, I shall go home, set my affairs in order, and make my way to Jackson's for the bloodbath."

"You mean to go through with it then?" Hawthorne asked. Concern was etched in his expression.

"Of course. What alternative do I have?"

~Taming Wilde (Waltzing with the Wallflower #3)

Sweet Saturday: Shipwreck

Elias lay in his bunk, crammed between two other prisoners. The rhythmic sway of the ship and the foul stench of the hold had long since lost their sickening effect. They had been at sea for two weeks. The sea sickness had passed after only a few days. Now the soft pitch of the ship was a comforting constant — something to depend on even when the rest of his life was spiraling desperately out of his control. Uncertainty was the only thing left to nauseate him.

It was adequate to the task.

His trial had been a miscarriage of justice. But what did the French know of justice? They could hardly keep their own people fed and content. Their monarchs and nobility with their gluttony and excesses balked in the face of the poor and starving of France. Revolution was inevitable.

But what did that matter to Elias? He was bound for the French-held islands of the Caribbean to be sold into slavery and worked to death in the sugar cane fields. And he would never see his beloved Jaime again.

He allowed his eyes to close in a fitful sleep. Dreams of his new wife calling his name, begging him to return to her, besieged his mind. But iron bonds tightened around his wrists, and he couldn’t reach her.

Elias awoke to the rocking of the ship seeming to move with a wider pitch, though it was difficult to tell from his place in the hold with the other prisoners. When the sea water began spilling in torrents down through the hatch and filling the prisoner’s quarters, Elias grew concerned.

Movement on the bunk below him accompanied by frightened murmuring, brought him to the edge of the berth. Other prisoners were leaving their places on the wooden planks and dropping the short distance to the floor. He was forced to follow those next to him, since they were chained together. In a short time he was ankle deep in the cold salty brine.

Panicked shouts from the crew reached his ears. But he could only understand a word here and there. The roar of the sea outside seemed to drown out all other noises, except the wind as it screamed through the cracks of the deck above them.

Fear seemed to leap like wildfire from face to face in the hold, spreading from one trembling prisoner to the next. If the ship went down, they would all die down there, bound together and shackled to the hull. The walls of the ship creaked and shook as it rolled from side to side, moaning out the funeral dirge that sang of Elias’s death. His chest constricted and he closed his eyes, conjuring the image of his beloved Jaime one last time. If he was going to die, he wanted to do so thinking of her.

Somehow she would know he had loved her with his last breath.

Wedding Jitters

It was late when Elias and Jaime found their way back to the room they had already rented for the night. It wasn’t overly spacious or elaborate in décor. There was a table with two wooden chairs and a double bed with a straw tick mattress. A single candle flickered on the table, casting a soft glow on the rustic furniture.

Elias closed the door behind him and slid the bolt into the latch. The solid thunk of the wooden bar rang through the silence physically jolting Jaime who stood only a few steps past him. She seemed to tense in the ensuing quiet, and her eyes were wide and frantic as her gaze darted all about the room, looking at everything but him.

Perhaps it was a mistake to ask her to refuse the gypsies’ offer of wine.

His palms were clammy, so he tugged off his gloves and tossed them on the table, trying to seem nonchalant. A losing battle. His heart felt as though it would burst out of his chest at any moment. He swallowed hard and realized how dry his throat was.

A pitcher of water sat in the middle of the table for washing. How long had it been sitting there? At this point, he didn’t care. Even if there were things visibly growing in it, Elias would drink some.

He stepped to the table and lifted the pitcher and a nearby wooden cup. Tipping the pitcher, he poured a small amount into the cup and lifted it to his lips. The cup was a bit stale smelling, but the water was fresh and clean. He swished the mouthful over his tongue and swallowed then turned to Jaime.

“The water is good.” His ears burned. Had he just said that? He cleared his throat, perhaps he could make it better. “Would you like some?” He lifted the cup toward his bride and immediately cringed at his own ineptness. Why was this so difficult?

“Oui.”

Elias refilled the cup and extended it once more. Jaime took it from him and sipped it. Her gaze remained on Elias’s face as she drank. She took another draught from the cup and returned it to him. A single clear droplet remained on her lower lip for only a moment before her tongue slipped between her lips and swept it away in what seemed an agonizingly slow movement.

He was transfixed and painfully aware of the tension between them. Glancing at the cup in his hands, Elias realized his mouth again felt like an Arabian desert. He drained the cup of the remaining contents and set it on the table with a heavy clunk. Much louder than he had intended.

“So…” Jaime seemed to scan the room as she turned away from him and began to loosen her own gloves one finger at a time, finally slipping them off in a slow deliberate motion.

Tracing her movements with his eyes would certainly send Elias over the edge of control, but he could hardly help himself. However, it wasn’t until she laid her gloves on the bed and faced him again with those wide, imploring golden brown eyes and asked him to help her with her boots that he realized his long habit of practiced control was no longer necessary. They were married.

~Pirate's Ransom (work in progress)

Sweet Saturday: Return to Me

Christopher Brandon stood in the stern of the clipper and stared at the empty horizon left in its wake. The past few weeks had taken his life by storm, and he was still spinning in the aftermath… and still further to go… away from the only life he had known and toward a world he knew nothing of, a foreign grandfather he had never met.

The fabric tied at his neck strangled him, and he tugged at it with a sun-bronzed finger. He had long since tossed the confining gloves into the churning sea below, and the cravat was next. How a man could reconcile himself to wearing such things was beyond his understanding. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t feel, and worst of all, he felt all semblance of his control slipping away from his grasp as rapidly as the declining sight of land behind them.

His heart yearned to go home.

Back to the place where he was simply Grinning Badger.

But he had seen the destruction with his own eyes. The entire village slaughtered, and he was helpless to stop it. The image of White Bird lying face down in front of her lodge—unarmed, unprotected—seared his brain. The soldiers cut her down on the way out to cook the morning meal. The only mother he had known for fifteen years.

He was spared. His pale skin marked him, and he was captured, tethered, and dragged back to the soldiers’ fortress, while the screams of the women, children and young braves echoed in his ears.

And he had fought—anyone who came near him tasted his wrath—until they had beaten him unconscious and deposited him in a stone cell with an armed guard.

They left him there for three days with no food or water. Their efforts to break his spirit, force him into submission. But he had no intention of breaking. Somehow he would escape, find the remnants of his clan, gather reinforcements, and attack the soldiers with a force they had never before seen.

After three days, however, his tongue had swollen in his mouth, he was seeing spirits wander in and out through the walls of the cell, and he had a vision of his mother, calling him in for dinner when he was only a boy.

It wasn’t White Bird.

It was another woman. One he had long forgotten. The white woman who had given birth to him, who had sung to him as she tucked him into bed at night, read to him by the lantern light, and held him when he woke up crying in the night.

“Mama,” he had whispered through his parched lips. The first English word he had heard or spoken in fifteen years. The apparition turned to him and smiled, opening her arms wide to beckon him to her.

As he reached out for her, darkness closed around him, claiming him completely.

When he regained consciousness, he was in a soft bed. Someone held up his head and ladled cool water down his dry throat. It stung all the way down, but never had anything felt better to him.

The fog gradually lifted from his eyes, and a man dressed in the red coat of a British uniform hovered over him.

“Are you Christopher Brandon? The son of Major Marcus Brandon?” The words fell on his ears like a tomahawk splitting into the trunk of a tree. The faint wisp of memory sent tendrils of understanding. The names were familiar, striking a chord deeply buried in his mind.

But Grinning Badger didn’t want to understand.

So he just stared at the pale ghost-like face and waited in silence.

The man’s frown creased his pasty white face, and he turned angrily on the people around him, yelling unintelligible gibberish, then he disappeared.

Sweet darkness found him again, and he slept.

When the light began to filter through again, another ladle of water was poured down his throat, which he gulped greedily. Beside the bed stood a man he recognized as a Cheyenne scout. The soldiers had often used him as a translator in their interactions with the Creek.

The British officer stood next to him speaking louder than necessary. As if the problem was that his captive was deaf rather than simply not understanding the harsh sounds exploding from his tongue.

The Cheyenne gazed at Grinning Badger with indifference and translated into the soothing, sweet words his ears longed for.

“The soldier thinks you are the son of a white chief from across the sea.”

Grinning Badger stared at him a long moment, trying to recover the fleeting memory that eluded him.

“I am the son of Leaping Elk and White Bird. My family was slaughtered and my village burned by these soldiers.”

“You are a white man.”

“I am Creek.”

“The Creek are no more.”

Grinning Badger tensed and allowed his gaze to fall on the British officer who was staring at him intently as though he was growing impatient for the answers he wanted. His fists were clenched at his sides.

“The Creek will rise again.” He spat out the words, glaring into the soldier’s dull green eyes—shallow, murky pools of deceit and murder. Nothing like the depth of pride and nobility in Leaping Elk’s dark eyes.

The soldier was pink and fleshy. His nose was red and round, and his cheeks jiggled when he spoke, like ripples from dropping a stone in a pool of thick mud.

“What did he say? Is he the duke’s grandson?”

“Yes,” the Cheyenne scout answered.

Meet & Greet: Teo

Teo

Stem 7217A

Teo spends a lot of time with Aria, the EROMI plant assigned to his social group. When Aria leaves to fulfill Dr. Admatha's mission, Teo has a difficult time understanding the difference between her mission and the orders stems usually receive, which mean they won't be coming back.

He doesn't have long to fret over her absence though. When his human counterpart is convicted of a capital crime, Teo's purpose is questioned by EROMI's powers that be. Who will Aria find in Teo's place when she returns to Endfield?

Meet & Greet: Aria

Aria Markus

#8936

Aria has lived and worked at the Endfield compound for the past several years. She lives among the stems and interacts with them on a daily basis. As far as they are concerned, she is one of them. She's been there long enough, she is starting to think she is too.

The powers that be never let her forget who she really is -- what her role at Endfield is.

But no one knows the real reason Aria came to Endfield in the first place. The one memory that haunts her and makes it impossible to trust another human being.

~ All We See or Seem (available now) and One Lonely Rose (work in progress)~

Meet & Greet: Gemini

Gemini

Stem 6418C

Gemini has lived in Endfield ever since she can remember. It is the only place she has ever been. Her entire life consists of exercise regimens, dietary regimens, community assignments, regular clinic visits, medical tests, and carefully supervised social interactions. But this strictly regulated life is all she has ever known -- her normal -- and she is perfectly content to maintain this existence and meet the expectations...

Until her closest friend gets his orders. When Gryff leaves, Gem's whole world seems to fall apart.

And that is when Gem discovers that not everything she has known her entire life is as it seems.

Sweet Saturday: A Knight's Errand

Sir Tristan Talbot was an arrogant fool, but I would never say that to his face. My position was precarious enough without causing turbulence. His former squire had met an untimely end, and the circumstances surrounding it were still rather mysterious.

I suppose the knight had honest cause for his arrogance. He was the most trusted warrior of King Willard and had single-handedly saved the king’s life on more than one occasion.

I knew well that being chosen as his squire was a great honor. Especially given my family ties, which were questionable in their loyalties to the king. So I made up my mind to keep my mouth shut and do what I was bidden. My disregard for Sir Tristan would stay between me and the willow tree.

When the royal messenger arrived to deliver the king’s request, I was overseeing the exercise regimen of Validus, Sir Tristan’s war horse. The sound of approaching hoofbeats tramping a rapid rhythm to the stables caught my immediate attention. Any horse arriving in such a hurry could not mean anything but bad news. War perhaps.

The messenger swung himself down from the horse before she had slowed sufficiently for such a dismount, sending him rolling several feet over the rocky terrain. No doubt there would be scars after such a fall, but the boy leaped to his feet and ran to where I stood in the stableyard.

He bowed briefly as he struggled to catch his breath.

“You bring news for Sir Tristan?” It was a stupid question. Who else would the news be for?

“Yes. Urgent news. The king requests an immediate audience,” he choked out, still gasping from his harried ride. He thrust a sealed scroll into my hands. Ordinarily, the king’s messengers would insist on giving the sealed orders directly to the knight in question, but Sir Tristan refused to interact with anyone lower than his own station. His squire was the only exception to his self-imposed social policy. It was for this reason I always wore the blue tunic embroidered with Sir Tristan’s coat of arms which identified me as his squire.

I took the parchment and nodded. “See the cook. Have some mead and something to eat,” I suggested somewhat absently. It was a perfunctory duty to offer hospitality to one in service of the king. My mind, however, was already sending me with speed to Sir Tristan with the king’s missive. He would not like to be kept waiting, even if he wasn’t expecting the correspondence.

The messenger shook his head. “I wait for Sir Tristan’s reply.”

“Follow me,” I said. We set off at a sprint towards the manor house.

When we reached the entrance, I instructed the messenger to wait while I located Sir Tristan, whom I knew would be lounging in his study after a long night of carousing with some peasant girl he had no doubt rescued from a renegade sheep the afternoon before. Naturally, by nightfall that story would evolve into a rescue worthy of King Arthur’s knights, involving a dragon threatening the maiden’s virtue and that of her whole village.

The man knew how to spin a yarn to make his exploits seem legendary.

Actually, truth be told, he knew how to employ a worthy bard who, in turn, knew how to spin a yarn to make his exploits seem legendary.

But I digress.

Sir Tristan lay drinking wine on a blue velvet pillow near the enormous stone fireplace and roaring fire. Beside him as predicted, sleeping contentedly, was one of the village girls. Her long brown tresses splayed across the pillow. She was not exceptionally attractive as village girls go, but Sir Tristan had never been accused of bias when it came to his evening conquests.

His creed, he has told me many times, when it comes to women, is they are all equal in the dark. His words. Not mine.

As I said before. Sir Tristan was an arrogant fool.

He regarded me with his usual silent disdain as I entered the room.

I stopped several feet from him and waited for him to address me. He liked to play this waiting game. I think he thought he was testing my obedience. I saw it as more of a challenge. Who could stare at the other the longest without breaking the silence.

I always won.

“I presume you have a matter of great importance which requires my immediate attention, squire.” I stood at attention, staring him straight in the eyes. He hated that. It grated on his sense of dominance. Which is exactly why I did it.

Without speaking, I stepped forward, offering the scroll with the king’s gold seal. Sir Tristan reached for it from his place on the floor, broke the seal, and read it. His eyes traced the words scrawled there, but his expression revealed nothing of its contents.

I waited.

He was a slow reader.

In his defense, I’m certain the words were long and difficult to pronounce. The king’s scribes were known for their extensive vocabulary. Sir Tristan was not.

Finally, he thrust the parchment back towards me, which I accepted.

“Read it,” he ordered as he rose from the floor and stripped the blanket from his companion in order to wrap it around his waist. She shuddered but did not wake.

I straightened the scroll and tilted it towards the light of the fire to make out the message.

                Sir Tristan,

                The princess has been abducted. Make haste to the castle.

                In the king’s name.

                Long live the king.

I glanced at him. He stood staring into the crackling flames, clutching the blanket about him with his fist.

“So, what do you think, squire?” he asked, deep in thought.

“The princess has been kidnapped. The king will need you right away.”

“Kidnapped.” He snorted as he adjusted the blanket at his waist. “Right.”

I struggled not to roll my eyes. He didn’t know what abducted meant.

“Call my valet. Ready the horses. We’ll leave for the castle immediately.”

“Excellent, sir,” I answered, turning on my heel to leave. Behind me I could hear Sir Tristan pouring himself another glass of wine. The village girl lay shivering on the floor. It was a shame, so I grabbed a fur hanging over a nearby chair and slipped it over her sleeping form. There was no reason the poor thing should catch her death of cold on the stone floor—velvet pillow or not.

Sweet Saturday: Walls

She had taken them by choice—the drugs to suppress her hormones. So the connection she shared with Teo was purely emotional. A deep-seated connection between them that transcended physical interest. And she knew, with Teo, that it was the same for him. All stems were treated with the same hormone suppressing chemicals.

Teo had never needed to touch her. Never wanted to kiss her. Those thoughts were so far from his mind, she knew she was safe with him.

Completely safe.

Completely.

The way Wash was looking at her now frightened her. He was real. Real and fully aware of her effect on him.

Aria tried to speak, but her voice caught in her throat, choking her.

"You seem upset," he whispered and took a step closer.

She shook her head adamantly, still unable to speak. Upset? No. Scared to death— that would be more accurate.

No one had touched her in years. Not since... No. She refused to think about it and pushed the dark memory from her mind. It was different now. This was different.

"Then what is it? You're shaking." Wash took another step, coming within reach of her. He lifted his hands and gently rested them on her shoulders, tipping his head to see into her downcast eyes.

She was trembling. She could feel it all through her and the sensation of his hands on her arms doubled the response. The pulse in her neck throbbed so loudly she swore he would hear it.

"Aria?" His deep voice swept over her, drowning her senses.

She was losing herself. Losing sight of who she was—what her life was.

"I—I can't... You can't," Aria stammered, fighting the urge to fall into his embrace. It was only Wash. She had known him for just a few days. He was nothing to her.

But no matter how she chanted that mantra, she knew —it wasn't true.

"It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you."

"Yes! Yes, you will!" She stepped backward out of his reach. "Don't touch me—" Emotion stung her eyes now, and she knew she wouldn't be able to hold back the tears much longer.

She had to get away from him. Had to escape his view. No one must see her cry, know that she was vulnerable. And definitely not Wash. That would be more that Aria could bear, and she was already dangerously close to letting him beyond her carefully constructed walls.

~One Lonely Rose (work in progress, Endfield #2)

Meet & Greet: Katherine Bourne

Lady Katherine Bourne

Daughter of the Earl and Countess of Banbury

Lady Katherine, the beautiful but rather accident-prone daughter of the Earl of Banbury, has been infatuated with the Duke of Paisley ever since their first meeting, when she was nothing more than a child. His noble and chivalrous nature has always captured her girlish fantasies.

On the other hand, she has always had a strong aversion to the incorrigible and rakish tendencies of Benedict Devlyn, the Devil Duke. No matter how sinfully handsome he is.

When she hears the news that the Duke of Paisley will be returning from Scotland for a short time to choose a wife, she plans to make certain she is in the forefront of that race. Even better, his grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Durbin, seems to be on her side in the matter.

Imagine her disappointment when she arrives at the Montmouth Winter Ball to discover her one-time ally has already finagled a betrothal between Paisley and some other girl, and had in mind instead that Lady Katherine be a match for none other than the Devil Duke... the last man on Earth she would ever choose.

Sweet Saturday: Deal or No Deal?

“In that case, Anastasia Trent, if you wish to travel in my carriage, you shall have to buy a seat.”

“Is that so? And what is the going rate for passage in such a broken down third-rate conveyance?”

“It is quite expensive, my dear. I fear you cannot afford it.”

“Then you have grossly misjudged me, Your Grace, for I am a lady of some means.” The sparkle in her eyes spelled mischief and mirth. How he loved her. What had taken him so long to realize it? “Name your price, good man. For I am in desperate need to arrive in London today.”

“Desperate need?” Baldwyn put his arms around her waist and pulled her close. “Very well. The cost for passage to London this day is one kiss… Payable in advance.” He lowered his head to hers, but she slipped one finger in front of his lips, stopping his forward motion inches from her mouth.

“I have not yet consented to your terms, sir.” A wry smile played on her lips. “I wish to offer a counter.”

“Anastasia,” Baldwyn whispered against her finger. “One does not say she is desperate and then expect to have bargaining power.”

She giggled. “No. No, I suppose not. But will you not hear me out?”

“What is your offer, Princess?” He placed a lingering kiss on the finger that blocked his path to her lips.

She brought her hand down to rest on his chest. “Two. One now…” she rose onto her tiptoes, meeting his lips with her own in a slow, warm caress that he could feel all the way through him. Baldwyn was breathless when she pulled away. “…And the second payable on safe delivery.”

He rested his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. “Sweet Anastasia,” he whispered hoarsely. “You have much to learn about bargaining.”

~Two Turtledoves (work in progress)

Meet & Greet: Benedict Devlyn, the Duke of Creighton

Benedict Devlyn

Duke of Creighton

"The Devil Duke"

After the death of his parents, Benedict Devlyn was taken in and raised by his Aunt Agatha, the Dowager Duchess of Durbin. She was strict and insisted on things being done her way. Benedict, however, was a strong-willed child who never liked to do things by the book. And so he came by his nickname, "the Devil Duke" quite honestly by doing exactly whatever pleased him.

A man of rapidly changing tastes, he has had eight different mistresses in the last year, whom he hires as his housekeeper for as long as they can hold his interest.

It should come as no surprise, that he has no intention to marry any time soon. No woman can capture his heart. But his aunt is growing impatient. She will see him married before her time comes, no matter what methods she must employ to see it done. Poor fellow, he won't even know what hit him!