On tour with The Coffee Pot Book Club - The Steel Rose (The Boar King’s Honor Trilogy, Book 2) by Nancy Northcott #HistoricalFantasy #BlogTour @NancyNorthcott @maryanneyarde

 Please join me in welcoming historical fantasy author, Nancy Northcott  onto Oh look, another book. Nancy is sharing an excerpt from her new book, so make sure you scroll down! 

The Steel Rose 

(The Boar King’s Honor Trilogy, Book 2)

by Nancy Northcott

THE BOAR KING’S HONOR TRILOGY

A wizard’s misplaced trust

A king wrongly blamed for murder

A bloodline cursed until they clear the king’s name

BOOK 2: THE STEEL ROSE

Amelia Mainwaring, a magically Gifted seer, is desperate to rescue the souls of her dead father and brother, who are trapped in a shadowy, wraith-filled land between life and death as the latest victims of their family curse. Lifting the curse requires clearing the name of King Richard III, who was wrongly accused of his nephews’ murder because of a mistake made by Amelia’s ancestor.

In London to seek help from a wizard scholar, Julian Winfield, Amelia has disturbing visions that warn of Napoleon Bonaparte’s escape from Elba and renewed war in Europe. A magical artifact fuels growing French support for Bonaparte. Can Amelia and Julian recover the artifact and deprive him of its power in time to avert the coming battles?

Their quest takes them from the crowded ballrooms of the London Season to the bloody field of Waterloo, demanding all of their courage, guile, and magical skill.  Can they recover the artifact and stop Bonaparte? Or will all their hopes, along with Amanda’s father and brother, be doomed as a battle-weary Europe is once again engulfed in the flames of war?

The Steel Rose is the second book in the time-traveling, history-spanning fantasy series The Boar King’s Honor, from Nancy Northcott (Outcast Station, The Herald of Day).

In this excerpt, Julian responds to a request for a conversation from Alasdair “Dare” MacGregor, a son of Scotland’s ancient royal line. Dare is also member of the Merlin Club, which Julian heads. They’re a group of Gifted who work covertly in defense of Britain.

***

The two men eyed each other as the silence stretched. Finally, Julian said, “If this is urgent, Dare, let’s have it.”

“Again, my apologies. This is…difficult.”

“In what way?”

The other man grimaced. “I’m weighin’ my oath to the Merlin Club with another, searchin’ for a path between.”

Someone knocked on the door. Dare opened it, admitting one of the kitchen lads with a tray. The delicious aromas of mutton stew, fresh bread, and honeyed parsnips filled the air. Setting up the writing table for the meal and unloading the food occupied the next few minutes.

When the lad had departed, the two men took their seats at the table. Julian didn’t wait to start eating. The day had been excruciatingly long, and if Dare needed a few minutes to collect himself—though why he hadn’t already done so was puzzling—there was no sense allowing the food to cool.

Dare stared down at his plate. Finally, he looked back at Julian. “The Romans slaughtered the Druids,” he said. “Some survived. Enough survived, and they went into hiding.”

“I know.” Julian’s godfather, his late father’s best friend, had been a Druid. “But what do they have to do with the current problem?”

The other man opened his mouth, closed it, and took a long swallow of claret. “I’m sure ye know what happened after the ’45. The Sassenachs destroyed the clans. Cleared the Highlands of those whose blood had lived there since before there was a Scotland.”

“Yes. It was brutal.” Unnecessary as well. The Jacobite rebellion, while a factor, wasn’t nearly as important in the long term as the greed of absentee landlords who wanted to use the land for other, more profitable purposes than farming or raising cattle.

“It was…” Dare shook his head. “Again, enough escaped, evaded the redcoats, to mean something. I’m—some of my family were among them.”

“Which makes you part of whatever bond they formed.” Though Julian kept his tone bland, possibilities spun through his mind. Was there a cabal of Scottish Gifted in the Highlands? If so, were they dealing themselves into this current crisis? If they were, did they intend to help or…

“What our grandparents had is gone,” Dare said. “The clans who built it are destroyed or scattered to the winds. To America. Or Australia. We’ll never have enough of them back to regain what was.” He took another drink of claret. “Oh, aye, we can wear our plaids now, and some of us clung to the Gaelic even when it was outlawed. It’s not enough. Without the land, it never will be.”

He stabbed his fork into his stew, took a bite, and ripped a chunk from the loaf of bread on the table. “Bloody Sassenachs,” he muttered.

Julian understood that pain, but he couldn’t let sympathy cloud his judgment. If Dare was bringing up these old grudges now, with Bonaparte running loose…

“Dare, are you telling me there are Scots Gifted who would aid Napoleon?”

The other man’s shoulders stiffened. He laid down his fork and swallowed. “Not precisely.”

“Then what, precisely? I’ve had a deuced long day, and I’ve no patience for games.”

“It’s no’ a game,” the Scotsman snapped. “It’s bloody damned serious.”

“Then open the budget, and let’s deal with it.”

Dare sighed and slumped in his chair. “The clans at Culloden lined up wi’ their swords and dirks, facin’ redcoats armed with muskets, and recited their lineage in a great, long roar. They didna know that was the obituary for the life they loved. Then they charged into a fusillade of musket balls.”

“Blast it, Dare—”

“They’re m’blood, and they’ve a right to their anger.”

Julian studied the other man’s stiff shoulders and defiant expression. Softly, he asked, “As you’ve a right to yours?”

“Aye.”

Their gazes locked, Dare’s blue eyes hard.

“Then why are we here?” Julian demanded.

“Because I took an oath. Because I think they’re again chargin’ to disaster. Because…it doesna matter what I think of Mad George and his fool of an heir. We canna reclaim the past and ’tis folly to try.”

“Who’s trying?” Julian clung to the shreds of his temper. Dare was a good man, obviously struggling, and alienating him would be a mistake. But if he didn’t get the bloody hell on with it—

“I dinna ken. I mean, I don’t know for certain. But I hear rumors. Of aiding Bonaparte’s cause in exchange for French support to take back the Highlands.”

“And do what there? As you said, those who left have built lives elsewhere. There aren’t enough people to hold the area even if they win it. This sounds like a French scheme to occupy part of this island.”

“Aye, it does.” Grim-faced, the Scotsman added, “I willna stand by while my kinsmen shed more blood on a folly. Charles Edward Stuart wasna worth the muck his horse shat, and many of them still canna see it.” He hesitated. “There’s more, perhaps worse, though it may not be true. There are rumors—plans to eliminate the Royal Navy and open the way to Scotland, and they…well, as I said, it sounds like a fairy tale, but with magic, who can know?”

“Indeed. What are the rumors?”

“They’ve an ancient tome, one that tells of a way to travel from one place to another undetected. By going through the lands of the dead.”

A chill rippled down Julian’s back. “This is how they plan to eliminate the fleet?”

“Aye. Four men will board each vessel via this dead realm, kill the captain, and set the wood alight with witchfire.”

Only magic could quench witchfire. The ships would burn to cinders, destroying the Royal Navy’s defensive line along the Scottish coast and opening the way for invasion.

Bastards.

Dare continued, “Then they’ll escape the way they came, moving from the dead realm onto another ship. If the French Navy can land Scottish and French troops and escape, they’ll count that a successful diversion. That’s how they plan to take King George and Prinny hostage as well. They’ll smuggle them away through this dead realm and keep them until Parliament grants the Highlands separate and equal status.”

“It could work,” Julian said slowly. “But if you can do that, why do you need the French Navy? Why not simply move your troops through there?”

“I gather the place is infested with wraiths and perhaps other fell creatures, so moving through there requires inner steel. Most men don’t have that when facing a supernatural foe. As for whether that plan can succeed, aye, it can for a while. England is distracted, her army is drawn away from the Continent, and Napoleon has a clearer road. But then what?”

The Scotsman glared at his plate. “What happens when the world’s best navy and one of its strongest armies attack—again?” Bitterness laced the words. Dare took another swallow of claret. “My kinsmen die, that’s what, and the plaid and our Gaelic again go under a ban. No. I won’t have it.”

“There’s something else odd about this. If Bonapartists are supporting the Scots in this, why are they? This seems like a risky venture with an uncertain result. How can Napoleon support that when it’ll cost him hundreds of thousands of francs to rebuild the army?”

“I don’t know that he is supporting it, or even knows of it.” Dare sighed. “I don’t know where they get their money, only that I hear they don’t lack for it. As for why anyone would underwrite this, think what an army could do with assassins or spies able to move from one place to another undetected and escape without fear of pursuit.”

“Even if this venture fails,” Julian said slowly, “if those behind it gain the ability to move with such stealth, they might count the money well spent.”

“I would. Especially if I thought the great powers of Europe were about to descend on me.”

“This book is the key, then?” There’d been something about a book in old letters between Jeremy and Cabot Winfield. Was this book connected? Or merely a coincidence? “Without the lore it holds, the plan falls apart?”

When MacGregor nodded, Julian asked, “Do you know where the book is?”

Alasdair shook his head. “I’m tryin’ tae find out. That’s why I’ve no’ been here to talk to ye. There’re rumors that book came from in or near London, but I’ve no’ enough information to scry it. I canna hope to see one book out of many when I dinna ken its looks or title or origins.”

You can grab your copy at your favourite online bookshop by clicking this LINK!

Nancy Northcott

Nancy Northcott’s childhood ambition was to grow up and become Wonder Woman. Around fourth grade, she realized it was too late to acquire Amazon genes, but she still loved comic books, science fiction, fantasy, history, and romance. She combines the emotion and high stakes, and sometimes the magic, she loves in the books she writes.

She has written freelance articles and taught at the college level.  Her most popular course was on science fiction, fantasy, and society.  She has also given presentations on the Wars of the Roses and Richard III to university classes studying Shakespeare’s play about Richard III. Reviewers have described her books as melding fantasy, romance, and suspense. Library Journal gave her debut novel, Renegade, a starred review, calling it “genre fiction at its best.”

In addition to the historical fantasy Boar King’s Honor trilogy, Nancy writes the Light Mage Wars paranormal romances, the Arachnid Files romantic suspense novellas, and the Lethal Webs romantic spy adventures. With Jeanne Adams, she cowrites the Outcast Station science fiction mysteries.

Married since 1987, Nancy and her husband have one son, a bossy dog, and a house full of books.

Social Media Links:

Website • Facebook • Twitter • BookBub • Amazon Author Page • Goodreads.

Tour Schedule

If you would like to follow the tour and check out all the other fabulous blogs taking part then click HERE!

On tour with The Coffee Pot Book Club - Read an excerpt from M. C. Bunn's #HistoricalRomance, Where Your Treasure Is @MCBunn3 @maryanneyarde

We are heading back to the Victorian world today! It is with the greatest of pleasure that I introduce you to M. C. Bunn.

 

Where Your Treasure Is

By M. C. Bunn

Feisty, independent heiress Winifred de la Coeur has never wanted to live according to someone else’s rules—but even she didn’t plan on falling in love with a bank robber.

 

Winifred is a wealthy, nontraditional beauty who bridles against the strict rules and conventions of Victorian London society. When she gets caught up in the chaos of a bungled bank robbery, she is thrust unwillingly into an encounter with Court Furor, a reluctant getaway driver and prizefighter.  In the bitter cold of a bleak London winter, sparks fly.

 

Winifred and Court are two misfits in their own circumscribed worlds—the fashionable beau monde with its rigorously upheld rules, and the gritty demimonde, where survival often means life-or-death choices.

Despite their conflicting backgrounds, they fall desperately in love while acknowledging the impossibility of remaining together. Returning to their own worlds, they try to make peace with their lives until a moment of unrestrained honesty and defiance threatens to topple the deceptions that they have carefully constructed to protect each other.

A story of the overlapping entanglements of Victorian London’s social classes, the strength of family bonds and true friendship, and the power of love to heal a broken spirit.

Winifred de la Coeur was not a traditional beauty, but she was one of a kind. Or so George had whispered while they played cards. He had won the hand and taken hers in his. After all these years, she ought to know better than to trust him. 

She stood with her maid in the hall before the pier glass and examined the result of their morning’s work. They had begun earlier than usual. Bathed, combed, powdered, and perfumed, Winifred wore underlinens trimmed in lace a duchess would envy. Her dress was the latest fashion. The crowning achievement was the hat, an enormous concoction of absinthe silk covered in black tulle and ostrich plumes. 

“Morrant is right. I do look frightful!” Her hands flew to her head. 

“Pooh! What does he know?” Bettina scoffed, none too quietly. She adjusted the veil and shot a sour glance at the butler, who strode past them into the breakfast room. 

“Dr. Frost arrives at ten o’clock,” Morrant announced. He scooped the brandy bottle from where it rested by Percival’s feet then read aloud from the daybook in which the older man penned his thoughts. “‘CAN A MAN ALTER HIS CHARACTER?’ Not before breakfast, sir.” 

“I’m not hungry,” Percival grumbled. 

“Up late? ‘The unexamined life is not worth living,’ and so forth?” 

“More like ‘Lions prowling about the door’!” He pushed away the coffee and toast Morrant set by him. “Tea with Tasha and Delilah yesterday nearly finished me. Like battling hydras!” He peered into the hall and spoke to Winifred. “Plans today?” 

“The bank and luncheon with George at Simpson’s.”

******

In the breakfast room, her uncle tried to deflect his manservant’s attempt to get him to eat. She watched with affection. Two bachelors, just as she and Bettina were two old maids. While her uncle’s bad lungs had aged him prematurely, Morrant’s physique was still trim, his black hair touched with grey along the temples. She frowned at her reflection, tugged the tight bodice, and wished she was going riding on the Heath with her cousins Amelie and Bert. 

Neither man had hidden his astonishment as she twirled into the breakfast room in her parrot green ensemble. Her uncle shaded his eyes. “Good lord, you’re bright as a Christmas cracker! Are we to have the Highland Fling?” He squinted at the skirt’s purple tartan trim while she kissed his cheek. “My dear, you look ready to pop!” 

“It’s not Guy Fawkes ’til tomorrow, sir,” Morrant said. 

“It’s so tight, I might explode!” She had inhaled against her stays. “It is vulgar. I feel like Gloriana gone wild. Add seven ropes of pearls, and call me the Virgin Queen.” 

Morrant coughed. 

It was impossible to tell whether his eyes expressed disapproval or suppressed amusement. About his opinion of the idiotic tea gown she had worn while she and George played cards the prior evening, there could be no mistake. Morrant and Bettina had had words over it. In spite of the man’s usual equanimity, the recent changes to her toilette had put him in a permanent state of alarm. His opinion of George had already involved the use of horsewhips. Though Bettina asserted that a woman dressed for herself, and Winifred inwardly argued that a servant’s thoughts about her wardrobe or the way she lived should not matter, Morrant’s opinion did. 

She grimaced at her hat and reached for it. “Ce chapeau, est-ce que les femmes françaises appellent la Catherinette?” 

Bettina caught her hands. “Poof! Do not tease about old maids. I work hard to dress you beautifully! The hat is très chic et vous êtes une femme de la mode, a fashionable lady. We want people to notice!” She adjusted Winifred’s jabot. “The cut of the jacket is so modest, so cunning!” 

“I suppose it makes me look less fat.” In the long mirror, she critically regarded her hips. 

“Madame Gretchen is all skin and bones, so our cousin can get away with no corset.” She pushed in Winifred’s waist. “We are not so!” 

******

Richards sat on the brougham’s high box, bundled against the cold. Leaves danced along the street in a gust of wind. Morrant walked down the steps, a blanket draped over his arm. Winifred quickly followed, glad of Bettina’s insistence she wear the warm cashmere. 

Morrant handed her up, checked the foot-warmer, then decorously spread the blanket over her knees. She watched his hands smooth the material. Their faces were very close. 

“Morrant!” 

“No, Miss, let me—if I may, speak first.” 

His tone was so serious; she prepared herself. 

“Though you’re not in the best spirits this morning and worried about your uncle, you appear fit to face any challenge, even in that dress and—,” he hesitated. “If one might hazard a guess at the identity of that object upon your head—that hat!” 

The hint of his smile and the kind expression in his dark eyes were a relief. He returned her hand’s pressure, then closed the carriage door. 

Richards cracked the reins. 

Winifred twisted about to catch a last glimpse of Morrant, who stood on the steps and watched after her. The carriage turned the corner. 

Hampstead’s quiet streets gave way to those of Regent’s Park. As traffic increased, Winifred’s spirits rallied. Never fond of London, this morning she welcomed its energy and activity, an astringent if not a completely palatable medicine for her nerves. Richards’ whip handle tapped her window. 

“Still going to the City, Miss?” 

“Yes, straight to the Royal Empire Bank!” 

George’s letter with its bold cursive had arrived in the morning’s post. Morrant laid it between her and Percival. She had torn open the envelope and felt her cheeks flush. “It’s only about that piece of land he wants to sell me.” She threw the letter on the table, pushed away the nearly finished plate of kedgeree that she already regretted, and pretended to read the newspaper’s financial section. 

“That detestable piece land,” Percival had snapped. “I wish the earth would swallow it!” And their owner George, she had thought. Her uncle added that he was sorry if she was disappointed. She knew he was relieved. 

During a shooting party that September, George had proposed the sale of a twenty-acre wood that separated the de la Coeur and Broughton-Caruthers estates and where the game warden encouraged the foxes. Winifred said that she was not interested. George replied that she made an art of playing hard to get. 

How it must gall him, she had gibed. The first son in five generations obliged to sell off parcels of land rather than buy them! His brother Charles lived in Scotland in an enormous castle with his wife and two little girls. He had a steady character and was happily matched. They had acres of hunting grounds and no mortgages in sight. Charles had little money of his own but did not owe any either. Nor did he share George’s lavish habits or the propensity for ennui that drove Hereford Hall’s heir into low company and reckless deeds. 

George smirked. “But he’s boring, and neither as good looking nor as popular as I am.” 

On the day before she came up to London, she rode her horse Tulip across the fields to inspect the wood. Beyond it lay Hereford Hall’s brick towers, graceful lawns, and chestnut-lined drive. She had given Tulip a smart kick and galloped down the sandy lane that led to the sea. In spite of her elder cousins’ warnings, she and George had raced one another on it many times. She bent over her mare’s neck, urged her to go faster, and pretended to outdistance her neighbor. She was Queen Bess, who ruled a kingdom of her own. No need of any man! 

Her pride could not bear that George, or even her family, might suspect that while she had won the battle against her suitors, she had lost the war. At summer’s end, once the field cleared and the dust settled, she discovered she was tired of holding up the increasingly heavy standard of her virginity. The other debutantes of her year had long retired from the lists on their fiancés’ arms or were preoccupied by their confinements. She had attended so many weddings she lost track of the sprays of orange blossom Bettina cleared from her dressing table or the number of silver rattles that she and Amelie had wrapped. Her freedom was not the triumph she had imagined it would be.

If this book sounds like your cup of tea then head over to your favourite online BOOKSTORE!

M. C. Bunn

M. C. Bunn grew up in a house full of books, history, and music. “Daddy was a master storyteller. The past was another world, but one that seemed familiar because of him. He read aloud at the table, classics or whatever historical subject interested him. His idea of bedtime stories were passages from Dickens, Twain, and Stevenson. Mama told me I could write whatever I wanted. She put a dictionary in my hands and let me use her typewriter, or watch I, Claudius and Shoulder to Shoulder when they first aired on Masterpiece Theatre. She was the realist. He was the romantic. They were a great team.”

Where Your Treasure Is, a novel set in late-Victorian London and Norfolk, came together after the sudden death of the author’s father. “I’d been teaching high school English for over a decade and had spent the summer cleaning my parents’ house and their offices. It was August, time for classes to begin. The characters emerged out of nowhere, sort of like they knew I needed them. They took over.” 

She had worked on a novella as part of her master’s degree in English years before but set it aside, along with many other stories. “I was also writing songs for the band I’m in and had done a libretto for a sacred piece. All of that was completely different from Where Your Treasure Is. Before her health declined, my mother heard Treasure’s first draft and encouraged me to return to prose. The novel is a nod to all the wonderful books my father read to us, the old movies we stayed up to watch, a thank you to my parents, especially Mama for reminding me that nothing is wasted. Dreams don’t have to die. Neither does love.”  

 

When M. C. Bunn is not writing, she’s researching or reading. Her idea of a well-appointed room includes multiple bookshelves, a full pot of coffee, and a place to lie down with a big, old book. To further feed her soul, she and her husband take long walks with their dog, Emeril in North Carolina’s woods, or she makes music with friends. 

“I try to remember to look up at the sky and take some time each day to be thankful.” 

Social Media Links: Website, Twitter, Facebook,  Instagram, Pinterest, BookBub, Amazon Author Page, Goodreads

Tour Schedule

On tour with The Coffee Pot Book Club - 'Tho I Be Mute by Heather Miller #BookReview #HistoricalFiction #BlogTour @HMHFR @maryanneyarde

 Please join me in welcoming historical fiction author, Heather Miller onto Oh look, another book. Heather Miller is taking her book, 'Tho I Be Mute, on tour with The Coffee Pot Book Club and I am so excited to be taking part in the tour because her book is fabulous!!

'Tho I Be Mute

By Heather Miller

Home. Heritage. Legacy. Legend.

In 1818, Cherokee John Ridge seeks a young man’s education at the Foreign Mission School in Cornwall, Connecticut. While there, he is overcome with sickness yet finds solace and love with Sarah, the steward’s quiet daughter. Despite a two-year separation, family disapproval, defamatory editorials, and angry mobs, the couple marries in 1824.

Sarah reconciles her new family’s spirituality and her foundational Christianity. Although, Sarah’s nature defies her new family’s indifference to slavery. She befriends Honey, half-Cherokee and half-African, who becomes Sarah’s voice during John’s extended absences.

Once arriving on Cherokee land, John argues to hold the land of the Cherokees and that of his Creek neighbors from encroaching Georgian settlers. His success hinges upon his ability to temper his Cherokee pride with his knowledge of American law. Justice is not guaranteed.

Rich with allusions to Cherokee legends, ‘Tho I Be Mute speaks aloud; some voices are heard, some are ignored, some do not speak at all, compelling readers to listen to the story of a couple who heard the pleas of the Cherokee.

Have you ever read a book and thought that it was so incredibly perfect? If not, go and grab a copy of this one and take a couple of days to sit down, read it, and then process it.

John Ridge just wants to be able to keep his people safe and look after the land, but with Georgia trying to get their hands on both Cherokee and Creek land, John’s natural affinity towards diplomacy and the ability to change people’s minds is an important feature. Before all of that, though, he must first finish his education and travels to Cornwall (no, not in England, but Connecticut!) to do so. While there, he gets sick, and his already bad hip gets worse. He is taken to live, and hopefully recover, in the home of Sarah Bird Northrup and her parents. Sarah is not supposed to spend so much time with John, but she finds a close friendship in him, and her attention and care keeps John’s spirits up while he gets better.

John and Sarah are such a lovely couple. They provide each other with what they cannot provide themselves – Sarah can put up with, and ease, John’s moods, and John can show and teach Sarah things that she has never had the opportunity to learn or see before. Why sit and read Psalms over and over again, when instead you could hear your first snippet of Shakespeare from John’s mouth? I loved both of them, and I was rooting for them both from the very start of this book.

The first chapter is dedicated to the character Clarinda. After reading it, the book moves onto John and Sarah, although every so often, Clarinda returns to give some insight. Upon closer inspection, Clarinda lives years after John and Sarah meet, and her story tells of their demise, although it also explains how certain events unfolded and gives explanations for some of the things that happen in John and Sarah’s chapters.

This book begins with a poem and, I will admit, I read the first few lines of it and then skipped the rest to get to the story. I was never the biggest fan of poetry in school. I like listening to poetry being read, but reading it? I always find myself slipping back into the old school habits of finding the rhyming pattern and searching for metaphors. However, do not judge me too harshly. At the end of this book, I was so desperate for more that I returned to the beginning and read through the poem. If I had read it at the beginning, I may have viewed the story slightly differently, as it is written by one of the characters mentioned. This, of course, led to some Googling to find out that this book was based on real people. I probably should have known that!

With the knowledge that this book begins with a poem in my mind, I couldn’t help but feel like much of this book is written with the lyrical prose of a poet. The events are written with poise and care, but the details give off that same feeling you get when you hear poetry. There is beauty and almost a musical sense to it, and I think that altogether heightens the entire novel. There was a small time, at the start, where I wasn’t quite sure what was happening, as I wasn’t yet used to the story or the poem sense that I got from the book. Have you ever watched a movie in a language you don’t know with subtitles on, and by the end, you don’t realise you’re still reading the subtitles? You get the feeling that you understand the language, you understand what is happening, and yet, it is what your brain has forgotten you are doing that is allowing you to understand. This book is much like that – you have to forget you are reading, and just live the story, and everything falls into place and becomes as clear as a freshly washed window is before a child places their sticky hands on it.

I loved reading this book so much and if you are on the search for a book that will not only pull you in but stay with you for a very very (very!) long time, then look no further.

I received my copy from The Coffee Pot Book Club, but you can grab yours over on Amazon.

Heather Miller

As an English educator, Heather Miller has spent twenty-three years teaching her students the author’s craft. Now, she is writing it herself, hearing voices from the past. 

Miller’s foundation began in the theatre, through performance storytelling. She can tap dance, stage-slap someone, and sing every note from Les Misérables. Her favorite role is that of a fireman’s wife and mom to three: a trumpet player, a future civil engineer, and a future RN. There is only one English major in her house. 

While researching, writing, and teaching, she is also working towards her M FA in Creative Writing. Heather’s corndog-shaped dachshund, Sadie, deserves an honorary degree.

Social Media Links:

Website • Twitter • Facebook • LinkedIn • Instagram • Pinterest • BookBub

If you would like to follow the tour (and I recommend that you do as some of my favourite book bloggers are taking part, then head over to The Coffee Pot Book Club tour page - Tour Page - and while you are at it, go treat yourself to a copy of this book, you won't be disappointed.

On tour with The Coffee Pot Book Club – Down Salem Way (The Loving Husband Series) by Meredith Allard #HistoricalFiction #BlogTour #CoffeePotBookClub @maryanneyarde

 I have an excerpt for you today, from Meredith Allard's book, Down Salem Way!

Down Salem Way

The Loving Husband Series

By Meredith Allard

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?

Suddenly, heavy irons scraped the floor, the crunching rever‐ berating round the room, and everyone turned. Rebecca Nurse, elderly, sickly, frail, was bound like a common criminal, chained and dragged forward by the pock-faced Constable like a murderer bound for Newgate. Everyone silenced as Rebecca stopped near the magistrates to hear the charges against her. Her illness showed in the deepened creases in her face and neck, and she tilted her head since her hearing still fails her and she could not understand what was said. 

The afflicted poked each other when Rebecca appeared. In the blink of an eye, Hell unleashed its fury. Such shrieks, such howls, such wails I have never heard before. Twas as if the Devil himself held the afflicted in his hands, slapped them, scratched them, and dragged them away. The afflicted grimaced at Rebecca and screamed. The spectators leaned forward as though waiting on every sound or movement and expectation sparked the air. Twas as though a lightning bolt struck the place. Even Father held his breath as he waited to see what would happen. Hathorne glared across the room, a King scanning his loyal subjects. 

“Just this morning she accosted me,” Abigail said. “She’s tormenting me.” 

“Who is tormenting you, Abigail?” Hathorne asked. 

Abigail pointed at Rebecca. Observers turned disgusted looks in the old woman’s direction. Hathorne called the room to order, and then several men from the Village came forward as witnesses. Each claimed to have seen Rebecca engaged in some form of Witchery. 

“I saw her Specter try to strangle someone,” said one farmer. Onlookers nodded in agreement. 

Another man said, “I know her Specter bedded several men from the Village.” Father laughed aloud at the thought of elderly, sickly Goody Nurse giving herself to men. Father received some disgruntled looks from those nearest us. 

Next, an old farmer said, “I saw her turn into a bird the color of the sky during a storm.” 

When Hathorne asked the next man what he had witnessed concerning Rebecca, the man said, “What is that you say? Her Specter is putting her fingers into my ears and I cannot hear you.” 

I wished some Specter would put fingers into my ears. I could not stand hearing how Hathorne pummeled Rebecca with his words, browbeating her into a confession that she had been consorting with the Devil. And poor Rebecca, ailing and unable to hear hardly a word of anything said to her, did her best to defend herself. But Hathorne would not let her. Rebecca is an easy victim, after all. 

Others called as witnesses claimed that Rebecca had accosted them too. Spectral evidence was all they had against her. The Chief Justice, William Stoughton, found ways to justify Spectral evidence. If you look for something hard enough, you shall find it. 

Here are the links to buy all the books in the series!

Down Salem Way

Her Dear and Loving Husband

Her Loving Husband’s Curse

Her Loving Husband’s Return

Meredith Allard

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.

Social Media Links:

Website • Facebook • LinkedIn • Pinterest • BookBub • Amazon Author Page

The Curse of Conchobar―A Prequel to the Adirondack Spirit Series by David Fitz-Gerald #BookReview #HistoricalFiction #BlogTour @AuthorDAVIDFG @maryanneyarde

  I am so excited to share my review of The Curse of Conchobar―A Prequel to the Adirondack Spirit Series by David Fitz-Gerald.  Thank you to The Coffee Pot Book Club for your invite to take part in the tour. 

The Curse of Conchobar―A Prequel to the Adirondack Spirit Series

By David Fitz-Gerald

Banished by one tribe. Condemned by another. Will an outcast's supernatural strengths be enough to keep him alive?

 

549 AD. Raised by monks, Conchobar is committed to a life of obedience and peace. But when his fishing vessel is blown off-course, the young man's relief over surviving the sea's storms is swamped by the terrors of harsh new shores. And after capture by violent natives puts him at death's door, he's stunned when he develops strange telepathic abilities.

 

Learning his new family's language through the mind of his mentor, Conchobar soon falls for the war chief's ferocious daughter. But when she trains him to follow in her path as a fighter, he's horrified when his uncanny misfortune twists reality, causing more disastrous deaths and making him a pariah.

 

Can Conchobar defeat the darkness painting his steps with blood?

 

The Curse of Conchobar is the richly detailed prequel to the mystical Adirondack Spirit Series of historical fiction. If you like inspiring heroes, unsettling powers, and lasting legacies, then you'll love David Fitz-Gerald's captivating tale.

 

Buy The Curse of Conchobar to break free from the fates today!

I have already read one of the books in the Adirondack Spirit Series, She Sees Ghosts, and I decided to read that book because of the trailer. Unfortunately, after extensive searching, there is no trailer for this book. Nevertheless, I enjoyed She Sees Ghosts and was excited to jump into reading this one, although I was a little surprised to find that the author had completely changed his style of writing for this book.

Conchobar washes up on a shore after taking out a fishing boat and getting caught in a storm. How he survived so long with no food or fresh water, I do not know, but this is a book about the supernatural, so who knows. Luckily, he is found by a tribe who get him on his feet and give him some much-needed sustenance, but when the group is attacked, Conchobar finds himself in the middle of a war, and is taken in by the other tribe.

I think the thing I loved most about this novel is the names. This book is set before the colonisation of North America, and while Conchobar was given a name at birth, I found it interesting that the tribes were a little different. People’s names were not chosen by their parents, but rather by their lives. In particular, I was rather fond of Struts Like A Goose, because while he was given the kind of name that nowadays might be due to bullying, his name is a part of him and he is respected just the same, despite his tendencies to walk around honking. 

In She Sees Ghosts, I cannot remember much explanation behind Mehitable’s ability to see the dead. As far as I can recall, it was passed down through her family. In this book, I struggled to find justification for Conchobar’s supernatural abilities to send his spirit through the roots of trees to see distant lands and potential threats. While I could get over this, there was one thing that greatly confused me, and that was the small amount of what I can only call time-travel nearer the end of the book. I had no idea what was going on, and neither did Conchobar, so there wasn’t an explanation. 

I will admit, I much preferred She Sees Ghosts to this book, but I do not want to judge this book too harshly, as the week this book reached the next spot on my to-read list, my child caught an awful cold so I was reading little bits in between cleaning up tissues and fetching ice lollies, and my judgement may have been slightly hindered by the stress of a child who suddenly doesn’t want to eat anything but chicken nuggets. I will definitely be reading both books again, but my initial reaction is that this book didn’t quite live up to my expectations after reading She Sees Ghosts.

Despite my criticisms, I did enjoy reading this book, and I would still recommend the series to anyone who would like a big dollop of history with a side of supernatural and a generous helping of love and feuds. I go back and watch the trailer to She Sees Ghosts every now and then, just because I love it so much. 

I received my copy from The Coffee Pot Book Club but you can grab yours from your favourite bookstore, just click here!!

David Fitz-Gerald

David Fitz-Gerald writes fiction that is grounded in history and soars with the spirits. Dave enjoys getting lost in the settings he imagines and spending time with the characters he creates. Writing historical fiction is like making paintings of the past. He loves to weave fact and fiction together, stirring in action, adventure, romance, and a heavy dose of the supernatural with the hope of transporting the reader to another time and place. He is an Adirondack 46-er, which means he has hiked all of the highest peaks in New York State, so it should not be surprising when Dave attempts to glorify hikers as swashbuckling superheroes in his writing.

Social Media Links: Website, Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Pinterest, BookBub • Amazon Author Page, Goodreads

Tour Schedule

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