Historical Fiction Feature: Masquerade Marriage by Anne Greene

A SECRET LIST

He was born to a clan of noted warriors and musicians. Yet to protect his loved ones and escape the dark fate of his brothers, he abandons his identity. Hiding from relentless soldiers who want him dead, he vows to protect the woman he loves more than life, more than freedom, more than Scotland. But his presence throws her into danger.

A VOW HONORED

She weds a stranger to save his life. But do vows make a marriage? When does a marriage become a marriage? What if she holds a different love inside her heart?

A SACRIFICE MADE

Steeling himself against the pain, he condemns himself to a life of heartbreak without her. Wanting her desperately, knowing he can’t have her, he surrenders her and heads alone to certain death. Outlawed, with a price on his head, does she love him enough to give up castle, lands, and family, and risk the agony of surrendering her heart a second time?

Read an excerpt!

Like a determined hero, the fugitive warrior strode through the door at the far end of the tiny stone kirk.


Megan’s eyes widened. Her clenched jaw relaxed. Some of her dread dissolved.

“Impressive.” Molly, Megan’s Irish maid, whispered from where they stood together in the vestibule.

He stopped in front of the hand-carved altar and half-turned toward her. Megan pulled in an uneven breath. This Highlander, wearing formal kilts, was no scrawny lad grown older, nor was he a big, hairy Scot with a bushy beard. The tall, strapping soldier stood with legs braced as if about to do battle.

Her heart skipped. Though she’d known Brody when she wore short skirts, this blond warrior was far more than she expected. Her pulse throbbed in her temples. Doubt niggled her brain. Brody was too tall, too obviously a Highlander. How could she hope to pass him off as a Lowland Laird? He appeared to have too big a chip on his shoulder to let her command him.

Brody’s thick sandy hair swept the collar of his linen shirt. Lace-trimmed cuffs matched the white jabot at his muscular throat. A silver broach clapsed his crimson and black tartan to his wide right shoulder. His Claymore, dirk, and thick sword belt startled her.

Megan suppressed a shudder. The English outlawed kilts. With his dress, Brody spat in the face of the English and further imperiled his life. Why?

His intense sapphire stare blazed a trail across the empty wooden pews toward her. His eyes made her feel dizzy as if she just danced a fast reel with a lively partner.


Molly grinned and handed Megan the bridal flowers.
What had she gotten herself into?

Read the reviews!

"This talented author wove not only a beautiful romance, but also showed us a warming faith of both Megan and Brody."

--JoAnn Carter, author of Daniella

"Anne Greene brings a well-written tale of an unexpected love born amidst the chaos of war and political instability. Kudos to the author for a tale well told..."

--Delia Latham, author of Destiny's Dream

PURCHASE A COPY OF MASQUERADE MARRIAGE FROM WHITEROSEPUBLISHING.COM OR A KINDLE VERSION FROM AMAZON! 

ANNE GREENE delights in writing about wounded heroes and gutsy heroines. She writes both historical and suspense novels. After falling in love with several countries and their people, Anne set a number of her books in exotic locations. She and her hero husband, Army Special Forces Colonel Larry Greene, have visited twenty-five countries, including three communist countries. A visit to Scotland resulted in her newest book release, Masquerade Marriage, published by White Rose Publishing. When she’s not deployed with her husband, Anne makes her home in McKinney, Texas. Two of her four children live nearby. Tim LaHaye led her to the Lord when she was twenty-one and Chuck Swindoll is her Pastor. In 1990, Anne graduated summa cum laude with a Bachelor’s degree in Literary Studies from the University of Texas, Dallas. Her highest hope is that her stories transport the reader to an awesome new world and touch hearts to seek a deeper spiritual relationship with the Lord Jesus.

To learn more of Anne and to view pictures from her extensive travel, visit her at AnneGreeneAuthor.com . You'll find her blog on her website. You can also catch up with her on Facebook at  http://www.facebook.com/#!/annewgreene.

April 2011 A to Z Blogging Challenge

What is the A to Z Challenge? It’s blogging a letter of the alphabet every day the month of April (with Sundays off for good behavior.) It began April 1st, with the letter A and ends April 30th, with the letter Z. You can click here to see who else is participating in this challenge.

Today's post is for the letter:

Today we'll talk about family. Families come in all shapes and sizes. When I was born in the 1960's, I was the last of three girls. I spent many years as the baby of the family. After my mother passed away, my father remarried. He and his wife had two boys. After the birth of my brothers, that planted me squarely in the middle; though I've never felt like a middle child. I'm like the stopping point of the old family before the new family begins.

At the ripe old age of 19, I gave birth to my first child. My son's father and I were together until our little one was 18 months old. We split, and I began dating the man who is now my current husband. We dated for many years; so long that several people thought we would never marry. But one day he asked and I said yes. We were married in May 2000 and soon began working on adding to our family.

I spent the first 20 months of our 41 months of marriage pregnant. We welcomed the Lil Diva in 2001 and the Lil Princess in 2003. Life hasn't been quiet or dull since.

Our family grew to include my daughter-in-law. Perhaps one of these days I'll be getting a call that a first grandchild is on the way. We'll see. We never know what God has planned for our growing family.

Family is at the center of everything I do. I left Corporate America in 2004 to raise my children. I am fortunate to work from home, so that every day when the girls step off the bus they find me here to help with homework. My son still calls every once in a while to chat with Mom. Yesterday, we got a chance to catch up on things when we ran into each other unexpectedly at WalMart.

As I mentioned before, I'm not sure what God has planned for our family, but it sure has been one wonderful ride so far.

What is one of your favorite family memories?

Sears BLUE APPLIANCE CREW EcoChat Sweeps

Our friends at Sears have a great giveaway going on right now that goes along with their weekly #Ecochat on Twitter.

One Sears Facebook fan is going to win a refrigerator from Sears next week. One winner will get the Whirlpool Gold Stainless Steel 25.5 cu. ft. French Door Bottom Freezer Refrigerator (Model GI6FARXX) ENERGY STAR®. Approximate Retail Value: $2,000.
This giveaway just started and only lasts a few days.

More details are here: http://on.fb.me/ecochat

Notice of this contest came to me from The Product Review Place.

Historical Fiction Feature: Taconi & Claude -Double Trouble by M.E. Finke

Taconi and Claude - Double Trouble - a mid-grade adventure for boys set in the Aussie outback of the 1950’s. Taconi is an aboriginal boy with big Dad problems, a chatty cockatoo as his only friend, and Dreamtime Spirits planning his future.  The magic feather he desperately needs eludes him, while fierv=ce green ats and Fun, danger, and enough yabbies, snake and witchetty grubs to feed any boy.

Read an excerpt!

CHAPTER ONE

Australia, sometime in the 1950’s


The full moon cast a cold light on Taconi’s naked body as four wizened elders pinned him on the ground close to a blazing fire. Sweat rolled off him, and his heart raced the thump, thump, thump of the feather drums: faster and faster.

The Medicine Man slid out of the shadows, a ceremonial spear in his hand. Firelight flashed across the wrinkles on his painted face. His bony old limbs ducked and bobbed to the ancient rhythm of the drums. Eagle, kingfisher, and cockatoo feathers swayed on his headdress. The Old Man plunged the tip of his spear into the flames, holding it there while he mumbled an age-old mantra.

When the tip of the spear glowed red, Taconi’s arms and legs dissolved into mush. There was no escape. The man ceremony was about to claim him. His insides threatened betrayal. N-o-o-o . . . mustn’t pee, mustn’t pee. . .

The Medicine Man thrust the glowing tip of the spear under his nose. Taconi felt the heat, sniffed its acrid smell. The tip sizzled, hovering over his reluctant flesh, poised, ready to burn him into manhood.

The singsong voice of the Medicine Man grew faint. The Old Man’s eyes stared into his, blazing with the power of timeless ritual. The stars—a billion sparkling eyes—whirled overhead, cold and uncaring. Taconi shut his eyes, waiting for his flesh to sear—waiting for the pain.

CHAPTER TWO (beginning)

Taconi held his breath. He waited . . .

When the pain didn’t come, he risked a quick peek. Smoke from the fire blotted out everything except the eyes of the Medicine Man. His burning stare hung over Taconi for a moment, before the smoke claimed him.


Bathed in sweat, Taconi jolted upright. “By Cripes, what’s happenin’?” Relief flooded through him. He was safe in his bed.

Outside in the cool pre-dawn air, Coorparoo Cattle Station’s feathered alarm clock, a sulfur crested Cockatoo named Claude, rasped, “Wakey, wakey. Rise and shine!”

“Crikey,” he muttered. “That man ceremony dream would scare the hide off a croc!” Ever since he found out about his upcoming man ceremony, the recurring dream had haunted his sleep. He glanced at the other bed and frowned. “Bed’s Empty. Dad musta left early for the homestead kitchen.”

He couldn’t understand what drove his dad to cook white folk’s muck for the Boss and the Missus. This was an outback size worry. If his dad got the cookie job, permanent like, there’d be no time for hunting together or throwing the spear. If he was to become a man of his tribe, Dad must teach him these things. The idea of his dad as cookie sat on Taconi’s shoulders like a giant termite mound.

He stared out the small window of the hut he shared with his dad. The vast expanse of Coorparoo Cattle Station waited for the day’s first sunlight. “Coor-par-oo,” he murmured, liking the feel of the word on his tongue. The soft sounds mimicked the gentle call of doves.

Read the reviews!

"Margot Finke has done it again! Her witty sense of humor, unbridled passion and talent to write stories for children and teens shine through like a beacon in the night...I highly recommend this book for both girls and boys. I believe, students can learn a lot about what it means to be loyal and the benefits one can reap from hard work."

--Nicole Weaver, Reviewed for Blogcritics Magazine

"This story weaves Aussie language and vivid details of the 1950's folk tales of Medicine men and primitive tribal living with an adventure that readers will not be able to put down. This story will interest both boys and girls with it's humor, adventure, and the actions of one awesome bird named Claude.


Ms Finke includes a glossary of Aussie terms adding to the overall feel of an adventure in the Australian outback. Wonderful coming of age story with spirit and adventure that no child should miss. I would definitely recommend this for students, teachers, and librarians as a great book."

--Terri Forehand, Reviewed for Stories for Children Magazing and Blogcritics


PURCHASE TACONI & CLAUDE: DOUBLE TROUBLE AT:

Guardian Angel Publishing - http://www.guardianangelpublishing.com/double-trouble.htm

Barnes and Noble - http://preview.tinyurl.com/4fvxtun

Powell’s Books – http://www.powells.com/biblio?isbn=1616331305

Amazon - http://preview.tinyurl.com/4o2bmyk

+ available as an eBook and soon on Kindle


Autographed copies:

http://mysite.ncnetwork.net/mfinke/Margot%27s%20Books.htm#Taconi

Margot’s Magic Carpet - all her books on one page

http://perfectmagiccarpet.blogspot.com/

Margot Finke is an Aussie transplant who writes midgrade adventure fiction and rhyming picture books. For many years she has lived in Oregon with her husband and family.

Gardening, travel, and reading fill in the cracks between writing. Her husband is very supportive, though not interested in children's books . Their three children are now grown and doing very well.

Margot didn't begin serious writing until the day their youngest left for college. This late start drives her writing, and pushes her to work at it every day. Margot said, "I really envy those who began young, and managed to slip into writing mode between kid fights, diaper changes, household disasters, and outside jobs."

"You are my heroes! "

April 2011 A to Z Blogging Challenge

What is the A to Z Challenge? It’s blogging a letter of the alphabet every day the month of April (with Sundays off for good behavior.) It began April 1st, with the letter A and ends April 30th, with the letter Z. You can click here to see who else is participating in this challenge.

Today's post is for the letter:

Considering my history as a junk food junky, one would think Easter would be my favorite holiday.  I almost find Easter more challenging to cope with than Christmas as a parent, because it's hard to get the Easter Bunny to deliver a desk, new curtains for the bedroom, or clothes in that tiny basket.

In case I've never mentioned it before, we live in a subdivision with 23 other homes. Great when it comes time to making playdates, but horrible around Easter and Halloween because the sheer volume of candy each child receives is so much that they can't possibly consume it all in one year's time. If I wander downstairs into the playroom, there are two baskets--one for the Lil Diva and the other for the Lil Princess--that are filled to the brim with the remainder of last year's Easter candy and a good portion of their Halloween cache. We just don't allow them to ingest that much junk food.

Though, I have to admit to loving Easter and its signs of spring, we can have some crazy weather. In 1982, we had snow on Holy Thursday. In 1996, we had snow three days after Easter. As you can tell from the picture above taken in 2008, it can be cold in New England, especially if Easter comes early; but usually we are wearing our spring coats and enjoying a beautiful day.

When I was a kid, we lived in a house that had lovely front and side gardens. My grandfather, who had built the house, had planted an azalea bush in the front yard. I remember several Easters when the warm weather brought the blooms out early. I also loved watching the tulips come up each year. I've tried to grow tulips here, but the deer always eat them.

What are some of your Easter memories? What is the weather like during that time of year where you are?

April 2011 A to Z Blogging Challenge

What is the A to Z Challenge? It’s blogging a letter of the alphabet every day the month of April (with Sundays off for good behavior.) It began April 1st, with the letter A and ends April 30th, with the letter Z. You can click here to see who else is participating in this challenge.

Today's post is for the letter:

The letter "D" is such a fun letter for spring. You have daffodils that bloom to let you know that it is impossible for winter to last forever; though here in the Northeast, where we're still getting the occasional snowstorm, it seems spring will never fully take over.

Did you know there is an American Daffodil Society? I didn't until I sat down to type this post. Founded in 1954, the ADS promotes wider interest in daffodils; encourages scientific research and education on daffodil culture, breeding, diseases, pests, exhibiting, and testing; and encourages, coordinates, and sponsors shows and exhibitions of daffodils. They also record and distribute horticultural information about daffodils and register daffodil varieties and standardize their names in cooperation with international authorities.

There are international authorities over flowers?

The New England Society is located in Greenwich, CT. That's about 2 1/2 hours away from us. Some of the societies across the country have Facebook pages.

The website also has a set of guidelines for growing daffodils. I've found them to be pretty hardy around here, which is a good thing because my thumb is much more brown than green.

What flower makes you think of spring? Do you have a garden? What is your favorite part of gardening?

Historical Fiction Feature: The King of Silk by Joe Douglas Trent

Michael reaches for the light switch and chides himself, again. There’s no electricity in the 15th century. But there could be.

A midnight attack on a Manhattan street transports rising corporate finance star, Michael Patriate, to the backwoods of Renaissance Italy. Fearing the brand "witch," he conceals his identity and his understanding of 21st century business and technology. But he can’t check his ambition, the drive which cost him love in the past and threatens to do it again.

He goes from laborer to successful provincial merchant, even moves down the coast to military and trade powerhouse Venice. And the knowledge in his head keeps nagging him.

When he takes shortcuts by introducing new concepts into the silk industry, he hits opposition from powerful elements of a culture which ruthlessly guards the status quo. And when he faces the ultimate adversary, he just may see himself.

Read an excerpt!

The thought came unprovoked.

Wilson.

Michael’s eyes narrowed. Wes “The Weasel” Wilson. Yes, it had to be. With the offer deadline for the PharmaCent-Nussbaum buyout looming, Wilson had moved himself and the Ransel Group into contention through a series of maneuvers Michael gave grudging admiration. Still, the deal was his own to lose.
What had Wilson done? He didn’t seem like a kidnapper, but one never knew how far some people might go to make this kind of money.

Well, the Weasel won’t beat Michael Patriate out of this deal. When I get to a phone, I’ll...

A bird chirped in the branches overhead. Michael eyed the sparrow for a moment and forced himself back to his situation.

How long before dark? He pulled back a grimy white sleeve with “MXP” monogrammed in gold on the cuff. Midnight, the watch said. Late afternoon, the sun contradicted.

Had only twenty-four hours elapsed since he remembered leaving the office? And if this was September, why did the trees and grass boast of new growth? Nothing made sense. What, who brought him this desolate place devoid of people? Why can’t I remember?
Michael sighed. Sitting and thinking wouldn’t get him a drink. He wiped a gritty palm across his sunburned forehead, then held out his hand and stared. He had stopped sweating.
Move.

He forced himself up from the tree root seat and tried to ignore the complaints from his aching joints and sore feet. A squishy twinge on the back of his left heel announced the beginning of a blister. Even at five hundred dollars a pair, these wingtips weren’t hiking shoes.

He limped back into sunlight, onto the clumpy grass growing beside the road. After a few paces his legs worked a little better. Then his situation intruded again.

What happened? Did he get disoriented and drive a hundred miles out in the sticks to run out of gas?

No, you don’t get Alzheimer’s before you’re thirty-five.

Michael realized he had stopped walking and forced his feet back into action.

“This is nuts,” he said aloud. “I’m going nuts.” He raised his head and shook his fists at a raptor soaring high overhead. “Where is everybody?” he screamed at the solitary hunter. Only a buzzing insect answered. He dropped his arms in defeat.

He plodded on, passing a patch of dead grass and weeds left from the previous season. Something exploded out of the brush at his feet.

“No!” He jumped back, heart pounding. The furry creature halted behind a stone twenty feet away and watched him with a sideways, one-eyed look only a rabbit can give.

His muscles tensed. His clenched jaws threatened to pop under the pressure. “It’s...a...bunny.” He held himself in check for a moment, then scanned the landscape around him. What other creatures might rove about, especially after dark?
Launching up the slope with an eye out for movement around him, he felt again in an empty pocket. No Chapstick. No cigarettes. His two comfort habits denied, he licked his cracked lips and tried to ignore the craving in his bones.

Michael turned his thoughts to the coming night. He needed to find food and a safe place to sleep. Panic rose in his chest as acknowledged the absence of the basics of life he had taken for granted for so long.

Desperation returned with a paralyzing grip on his chest. Danger closed in on him from every side. He leaped off the path, toward a line of trees, but the back of his shoe landed wrong on a clump of grass. A searing pain shot through his left heel and robbed him of his alarm.

“Aahh!” Michael dropped to one knee.

He sucked in a breath through his nostrils and popped his foot partway out of the shoe. Careful of the tender spot, he pulled down the sock. The sore had burst and the shoe already worked on another layer of skin.

What else could go wrong? Slowly he let his lungs empty. Think.

He stared at the stinging, mutilated flesh for a moment and reached in a back pocket for the handkerchief that wasn’t there. What could he use for a bandage? He grabbed the pocket on his shirt with his thumbs to tear it loose, but stopped and cocked his head.

Sounds floated from the other side of the hill. Creaking, accompanied by the sound of hooves and a one-sided conversation. The thought of rescue revived him and he drew a breath to shout, but checked himself and decided to get a look first.

He jammed his foot back into the shoe and, ignoring the pain, jumped up and ran, squatted behind a bush and waited.

A horse pulling a crude wagon topped the rise. Four solid wooden wheels bounced along in the ruts, rocking their commander back and forth in his seat.
Michael’s jaw dropped. Was he on a movie set?

Dressed in period clothing from some ancient era, the driver engaged his long-eared companion in boisterous, incomprehensible, accented oratory. His free hand slashed through the air, punctuating his point.

Fear turned to amusement and Michael choked back laughter in spite of his predicament. The wagon clattered by on its way down the hill before he recovered.

“Hey!” He hopped up and chased the strange pair, favoring his sore left foot. “Hey, stop.”

The driver looked over his shoulder with wide eyes, then turned and slapped his reigns at the horse’s flanks. They shot away in a wake of racket of hooves, wheels, and cargo.

“No,” Michael screamed. “Come back.” He hobbled down the hill after the receding wagon, but sucked in a lungful of dust and stopped in a choking fit.

Come back.

Hands on his knees, he watched the wagon go. Then the world did a funny dance and the earth rushed up to meet him.

Read the reviews!

"THE KING OF SILK is a thriller with a sharp intelligence that blends history, mystery and romance adeptly. Joe Douglas Trent is a new voice in fiction to watch."

--DeWanna Pace, GIVE ME A TEXAS OUTLAW, July, 2011

"For anyone who loves time travel and Italian historical fiction, this book is definitely a well-researched winner."

--Historical Novel Review

PURCHASE A COPY OF THE KING OF SILK BY JOE TRENT AT MUSEITUPPUBLISHING.COM OR AT THE FOLLOWING ONLINE RETAILERS:

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004M18XEI

Barnes and Noble: http://tinyurl.com/4ph8b29

Sony: http://tinyurl.com/4t4rmz4

Smashwords: http://tinyurl.com/4maqrlu 

Joe Trent is a writer, just like a lot of others trying to figure this business out.

He's married to his first love, has a couple of great children and a trio of sweet grandkids. He goes to work at a day job and writes in the gaps. He recently celebrated the publication of his novel, THE KING OF SILK. He also amuses himself by home-recording original songs. And He's having the time of his life.


You can find more about him on his website: http://www.jdtrent.com/.