Received my new cover yesterday, and while it is not representative of the pre-Regency period at all, I think it has a certain charm and I like it. The experts in the e-publishing field tell me to promote the story now, even though it won't be available until April, so here we go:
The story is set in County Durham in 1803. Frances, a rich young widow, is by the river one sunny afternoon when her dog causes a horse to shy and the unknown rider to take a tumble. She must drag him from the river....
Reluctance
Could
he be a vagrant, or a highwayman? Disturbed in the act of robbery and escaping
as fast as he could? He was certainly a strong horseman and the animal had been
expensive. His clothes… She ran her eye over the long length of him, took in
the riding breeches and top-boots, both of a quality far beyond the pocket of a
mean highwayman. Her mouth twisted. What did she know of highwaymen? His left
hand, relaxed and long-fingered against the stony ground, bore a heavy gold
ring on the third finger, and as she watched, the sun raised a scarlet gleam
from the embedded stone. A wedding ring?
Thoughts
tumbled through her mind at amazing speed. She ought to check his head and see
if the wound still bled, but to do that she must touch him. Such a small thing;
yet she hesitated.
Frances!
Touch him, or else call yourself a coward.
Her
hand trembled in the air above him and then closed upon itself and retreated,
curling into a fist against her throat. Even with him unconscious, she did not
like the thought of touching him.
Marriage
to Rathmere had left her with a huge dislike of physical contact. But this man,
she told herself, looking down at him, offered no threat. He needed her help.
Do
it. Do it
now.
Taking
a deep breath, she reached out before her fears caught up with her and touched
his brow. Her fingers sprang back as if she encountered fire. Frances shook her
head at her foolishness.
His
skin was cold beneath her hesitant fingers, but a pulse beat slowly in his
neck. Drat the proprieties. And be damned to her fears. If he died, she
would never forgive herself.
“Wake
up, you silly creature.” Growing bolder, she shook him by the shoulder. “Wake
up. Speak to me. Who are you?”
Perplexed,
she flopped down on the wet mud beside him. He was far too heavy to lift. She
could not drag him up the slope to the meadow, even with Gyp’s assistance.
Hugging
herself, rocking back and forth, she dithered. If she knew what to do, she
would do it, but she had no idea what would be best.
Gyp
whined, shuffled closer, stretched out her neck and licked the man’s neck with
long, curious strokes.
Stimulation.
Frances smiled. Of course.
She
gripped the man’s shoulder. He looked uncomfortable, sprawled on his side, one
cheek flat against the mud. He proved far heavier than she expected, and as
soon as she let go, he flopped back again. Odd sounds and a trickle of water
came from his mouth. Encouraged, she tried once more, and failed again.
“Oh
for pity’s sake!”
Faced
with such rude indifference, the last shreds of calm vanished. Frances got to
her feet, grasped his wrist, stepped over him, and yanked. She would not
give up.
She
strained and heaved, and then yelped with satisfaction when he rolled over and
settled on his back. Triumphant, she bent over him. He must open his eyes and
start living again. He owed her that much, after all her efforts.
“Wake
up, you horrid man,” she snapped, blinking hard. “I do not know why I bother.
Do not lie there like a dead man! Wake up and speak to me.”
He
ignored her, so she slapped him.
His
eyelids fluttered.
Coming in April from
MuseItUp Publishing
