Posts Tagged ‘Leigh Royals’

I was so excited to be asked, ok, arm twisted, to participate in the Summer Reading Trail. I hesitated. But, I’m a giver, so for your reading pleasure I would like to give you a taste of my first book of the series. You’ve seen teasers (yeah, so what, I’m a tease. ) But the excerpts I’ve shared before were the chaff. Here’s the wheat. This is what will be kept in the book. That is, until I get an agent/editor who suggest it be changed. Sharing this is so very thrilling for me. Giving of myself in this manner makes me feel vulnerable, yet at the same time, it invigorates me and spurs me on to complete the ambitious and monumental task I have given myself.

“Get back!” The warning sounded just as a cannonball whistled over their heads. The percussion knocked Connor Reid back. A boulder stopped his momentum with painful clarity. Strong spasms racked his chest as each inhalation constricted like a vise around his ribs. Tears pricked his eyes. Connor choked on the already thick swamp air, now filled sulfuric smoke. He held his breath and heard…nothing. He snapped his fingers by his ears but silence resounded.
Chaos surrounded him as he watched fellow militia men clamor to find cover and take aim. A flash of light followed a plume of smoke, soaring towards them. The team’s soundless mouths contorted in fear.
With tentative fingers he probed his scalp. Finding a large knot, he winced. He looked at his hands expecting blood but there was none. I am a sitting duck in this pluff mud. Must…move.
He tried to sit but blackness tunneled his vision. Can’t let the Yankees get me.
He rolled on his side, pushing with his feet and moved along, crawling, half on his belly. He soon found himself behind the boulder. He squeezed his eyes shut, picturing Arthur Delaney. Would he understand? Would he forgive?
A low buzz sounded, muffled shouts resuming. His battle mates retreated. He was alone. His eyes watered from the shifting smoke. Or was it tears? Through the haze, a figure approached. Closer. Was it friend or foe? Connor reached for his musket, but, of course, it was gone. He inched his hand slowly to his boot, hoping the knife hadn’t been lost as well. Just as he reached the handle, the figure loomed over him.
“Boy, stand up.”
Connor, stunned, just shook his head. The man bent forward and large hands hauled him to his feet. The blackness threatened again, his stomach rolled. If you vomit, you’ll look weak. Keep yourself together, Con.
“Aye, you are a lighter lad than I thought. You surely are aged only 15 years, at the most.” Connor could only stare back. The disdain in the man’s voice hardened Connor’s resolve.
“Well, can you speak?”
“I’m nineteen, Redcoat.”
“Sure you are. Silas, John. Take the boy with the other prisoners.”
Connor realized he was captured, but fire stirred within. One of the captor’s hands was within sight, restraining him. He bit, hard. As he was released, he lost his balance but spun around to the right, evading recapture. He brought up his foot, against the other man’s shin.
“Willem, we’ve got a feisty one here.” Their comments about him as if he were not there only heightened his ire.
“Nevermind that. He’s a boy. How much fight can a boy have against two men?” Oh, if they only knew.
Connor’s eyes met the man called Willem and saw a will as strong as his own. The dulled glaze of his men showed nothing.
“I’ll do it myself.” He’ll do what?
Willem bent towards him. Connor reached down for the knife but a sudden hard pressure in his wrist doubled him over in pain. His arm was held in Willem’s firm hand.
“Now you come quietly. We intend no harm.”
Connor struggled to break free, but was no match for Willem’s strength.
“Be still, or suffer the consequences–”
Connor stilled with the threat. It wasn’t just a reprimand. This was war.
“Bring me some rope–”
Connor thrashed, fear spurring him to break away.
“I’m not going to hang you. Come with me.”
Realizing he’d not escape, Connor clenched his jaw. Clarity dawned and he decided to face this like a man. Ha! Like a man.
#
Willem McCotry knew war. He understood the fervor. Not necessarily the cause. They trod out of the swamps. Willem trailed the boy behind him, hands bound, tethered to his waist. He said a silent prayer for whomever the young man was fighting, and leaving behind. Those were the ones hurt the most.
What would make a boy take up arms? Surely he was too naïve to understand the implications of what the colonists called a rebellion. He chanced a look back at the boy. Something else flitted across his young face. Too young. But he also saw the passion still in his eyes. The bright hazel stare became glassy. He looked as if he were about to cry. He wouldn’t harm the child. But he didn’t trust him, either.
At the edge of the King’s Tree, Willem found his horse and tossed his captive into the saddle. There was no room in the wagon where the still forms lay. Before mounting the horse, Willem followed the gaze of the prisoner to the wagon.
Silence. Only the clopping of hooves in the dirt rattled in Willem’s ears. It gave him time to think. About war. About prisoners. About his prisoner. The lad was so unyielding sitting in front of him. Had not slumped even once. Probably trying to be brave. There’s nothing heroic in fighting a losing battle.
Willem trailed the horse behind the cart. The better to instill fear and obedience from the site of the wounded. At least, he hoped they were only wounded. They were still and silent.
Conner stared straight ahead. Why he was on the horse with the one they called Willem, he’d never know. It was a precarious position and not the least bit comfortable. He dared not turn around and face him.
As it was, the heat from him reached through the thin shirt and bindings. Sitting rigid on a moving animal did not lend to comfort. Connor’s tender rump was surely red. He felt every jolt in each vertebra.
But he didn’t dare moan, whine or complain. Wouldn’t give this Redcoat the satisfaction. This redcoat didn’t wear a redcoat. In fact, he was dressed similarly to a farmer.
Hours later, the smell of salt water was a sweet tang in Connor’s nose. That scent was a part of his childhood left behind. He’d know it anywhere. Would he see shopkeepers he’s known? What if they recognized him? The clothing would surely hide his identity. He’d come here often enough with Papa selling rice, but not like this. If only he could keep the secret from his captors. He’d worry about the town later.
“We’re almost there. Son, you are much too young for the prison ship. I am inclined to find your Mama, and pack you up home.”
Connor felt the breath tickle his neck and suppressed a shudder.
“Don’t call me ‘Son,’ and I have no mother.” He silently cursed himself for returning dialog.
“Sorry to hear that, young sir. What shall I call you, then?”
He craned his neck around to look Willem in the eye but all he saw was shoulder. Damned horse.
“Are we becoming acquainted, Whig? I’ll not give you my name.”
“Don’t have to know your name to hang ya, boy.” A gruff voice grumbled from in front of the horse.
Connor turned his head back. The other prisoners looked warily back. Not dead after all. He couldn’t tell who said the hurtful remark.
“No one’s going to the gallows. You may call me Mr. McCotrey.” The squared shoulders stiffened. “Or Willem if you’d like.” Connor sniffed.
“Boy, you are going to talk at some point.” Being called boy in such a manner was galling. Indignation rose in Connor‘s chest. He couldn’t stop himself. He whipped his head around again, surprising Willem, if his widened eyes and fast tug on the reins were any indication. But recomposing himself, all Connor spat out was,
“We’ll see about that.”
Connor slapped his hands over his mouth, he’d been baited. Willem just chuckled. Connor fought the twitch to punch him for laughing. Control yourself, Con.
“Silas, take the others to the ship. I’m going into town for supplies. After that, you two are done for the night.”                      Connor held his breath listening as Willem instructed his subordinates.
“Where’ll you be, sir?” John or Silas answered. He couldn’t care who was whom.
“The Hangman’s Noose.” Did he hear right? He was growing weary. But Willem seemed to read his mind because the next sensation was like a spider crawling by his ear as Willem whispered, “It’s a tavern, Son.”
The wagon continued to the docks. Connor watched as his friends-well, acquaintances-faded in the distance. None really knew him. He’d made sure of that, being alone as much as possible. Didn’t want to give anyone a chance to find out what he’d done.
“If I take these bindings from your wrists, will you behave?”
Connor only nodded. Behave. Mr. McCotrey really did think he was a child. Hmph.
Willem dismounted, leaving a hand on Connor’s knee. The change in support was both a relief and startling.                           Connor let out the pent up breath he’d been holding. Then he looked the long way down from the horse and felt dizzy. With little to hold, he began to sway. The knock to his head was harder than he thought.
“Steady there,” then “oomph” as Connor’s momentum propelled him earthward. His back landed with a solid thwack on Willem’s chest.
“Let go of me, you big oaf” Connor squirmed and made an awkward attempt at standing with bound wrists. Willem stood up and pulled his knife from his belt.
“You‘re going to gut me for landing on you? It was an accident, and I am your prisoner. I have rights.”
“Quiet, boy, I’m going to unbind you.” His barking words chafed Connor’s raw nerves.
As Willem removed the coarse rope, Connor tried to still his trembling but the harder the fight to maintain composure, the more tremulous he became.
“Let’s go inside, I’ll make a man of you yet.” Connor mutely followed Willem in.
The change in light made Connor squint. He looked up at his captor. Willem was scanning the room. Seats were available near the back door.
The back door. He dared not breath. Should he even try? A plan formed and Connor knew he might not get another chance.
“The privy?” His voice cracked and he looked down, quickly.
“Aye. I’ll order you a pint. Hurry up.” Connor watched Willem find a seat. With rapid steps Connor moved towards the rear. As he reached the door, he gave one last glance toward McCotrey. Still seated and enjoying his rum.
The air was cool on his face as he reached the privacy of the stall. The door creaked as it opened but it was light. He closed the door and locked it. A latrine never felt so lovely. Could he escape? He took his hat off and hung it on the hook, surprised there was one. Strands of chestnut hair of varying lengths fell to his shoulders. It was uneven and unkempt. Connor swatted at the pieces floating in his eyes.
Not wanting to miss an opportunity, he let down his pants and sat. Then winced. That was a long ride. As he stood to finish his ministrations the door ripped open. Connor rushed to cover himself, but too late.
Connor read the surprise in Willem’s wide eyes. Heat flooded Connor’s face, but covering it would mean removing hands from a more delicate site. Shock froze him in place, so turning to hide was no option.
Willem just stood there. When he didn’t speak Connor finally breathed. The plan had failed. A rational person would have run.
Willem gaped at the boy. Strands of hair framed the young face. Out of its queue, it softened the features. His eyes followed down where slender hands tried to hide the soft curls. What he didn’t see was…well.
This was no boy.

I hope you enjoyed this, please feel free to let me know. And don’t forget to check out the other stories by clicking the link in the first line or this link to the UK Trail Head

I have titled this entry based on an idea I had as I went to sleep.
I get a lot of ideas at that time. Inconveniently so, as I no longer have room on my bedside table for the necessary pen and notepad. *note to self, reorganize nightstand.*

But, I have only a glimmer of what that idea exactly meant. I do know that currently, I have several things in life going through transitions. Mostly, stressfully.

But I feel good about them. Boss throws me a curve ball, I hit it out of the park. It does make me wonder what she’s gonna throw at me next. Bring it on, baby.

The changes her dictate caused affected not only me, but my family and their routines. I’m still resentful of it, but I plan to make the most of it and use it to my advantage. It’s really more taxing and stressful on my mother in law now, and because of her sacrifice, we’ll be less sturdy financially, but I’m hoping I can supplement the difference in other ways… I digress.

Among the new things in my life is a much needed treatment. I am sort of anxious about it, but in a positive, hurry-up-and-wait kind of thing. A benefit of this, besides improved health, is I hope some quality catch up writing time.

As it is, I’m motivated to move quickly on this book because more books are popping up in my head. I’ve saved the ideas in other files to return to at a later date, but the fact that this is happening is golden! My creativity has been dulled and an alternative choice created the change necessary to rewaken the muse.

So, change is good. It has to be. Otherwise, I’m just lost.

I’m good at it. I’m really very good at it.
I wait until last minute for almost everything. Like when you’re a teen and you get a call that Dad is on his way home from work so you run around the house shoving debris under the couch and bed, throw the dishes in the dish drain, barely washed, and shape up as fast as you can…yeah. That’s me. But sometimes I find other creative outlets to delay my writing.

One such tool is wordle. I had a new scene I wanted to play with. A rather intriguing development I didn’t expect. So I copy and pasted part of it into the application.

Hester. She’s a villain, of sorts. I’m actually trying NOT to like her. She’s being written after someone who deserves to be written harshly. But she’s coming off to be pitied. Interestingly enough, if I apply that sentiment to the real person, it makes total sense. My frustration with the real Hester aside, she should be pitied. So, I take a deep breath and my fingers are poised over the keys…what will hester do next, or will a pretty thing like Wordle distract me again?

Voila! (just click on the image to view in larger detail)

So what does an author of colonial historical romance do on President’s day when she’s off from her RL job and she has the kids?

I had planned to take out some large chunks of time and devote it to my current work in progress that is becoming a Herculean effort. But instead, I cleaned the heck out of my room while watching the History Channels presentations on the presidents. They only played from Washington to Lincoln. But I enjoyed it.

Of course, that led to plot bunnies and more inspiration. I can’t take NEW ideas right now. I can store them away for a while until it’s time for their turn. I’ll be damned if I never finish this book. I have 14 to finish before I get to my next ‘thing’ whatever that may be. I hate that I can’t finish anything. But it will happen.

Now that H is not showing anymore presidents day stuff, I pulled up my Netflix and have one of my favorite musicals playing. 1776 There you go for more inspiration.

What inspires, or derails you?

Oh, and by the way, a Plot off is just brainstorming with my author pals and pluging plot holes.

We all want to be liked. Let’s face it. It’s natural to desire approval. This could be true in varying degrees. Some people cultivate this naturally. Others seek it out, subtly or blatantly.

I don’t have that ‘it’ factor that some do, which garners that natural reaction of, “Oh, I LIKE her. I like HER.” But I do have enough confidence to feel that some people, with only moderate encouragement would say, “Oh, her, sure, she’s alright.” And I’m ok with that.

I have been known to look in the mirror and give myself pep talks, a la Stuart Smally. Those silly little moments really do wonders for ones psyche and ego. It was in that vein that I created a Facebook page for myself. It would be nice to have fans. And not just those in my family. (Thanks you guys!)

So then, why was I pleasantly surprised that I got fans? And even moreso to get a new twitter follow out of it. (Jennifer Keller, HI! and thank you)
I think it’s the nebulous concept of fans and fandom that leaks to the possible fanaticism that makes once fame starved celebrities shirk at the ’sudden’ onset of notoriety. I have no illusions that I will attain those heights (or lows as it were) but I do desire to have a respectable following.
As I am wont to do, I began thinking about fans. About the word fan. I assumed, erroneously that it was derived from the word fanatic. But NAY, according to wikipedia, it is short for fancy. Do you fancy that new colonial romance author? Why yes, I do.
To quote: There are certain common characteristics to be found in fans interested in different topics and these characteristics influence the behaviors of those involved in fan behavior. Those common characteristics include internal involvement.[1] Fans focus more of their time and resources intently on a specific area of interest than a non-fan would, and are not significantly concerned if non-fans (including family or friends) do not derive pleasure from the area of interest. Fans usually have a strong enough interest that some changes in their lifestyles are made to accommodate devotion to the focal object. As well, fans have a desire for external involvement – are motivated to demonstrate their involvement with the area of interest through certain behaviors (attending conventions, posting online, etc.). Fans often have a “wish to acquire” material objects related to the area of interest, such as a baseball hit by a famous slugger or a used guitar pick from their musical hero. As well, some fans have a desire for social interaction with other fans. This again may take many forms, from casual conversation, e-mail, chat rooms, and electronic mailing lists to regular face-to-face meetings such as fan club meetings and organized conventions.

Wow. I don’t think I’ll be auctioning off any of my sundry items; but the original (garbage) handwritten pages of Constance might be valuable once I sell the whole series to Hallmark for a movie.

In light of this and the fact that I’m watching the Golden Globes with some feigned interest, I want to thank my fans. All 33 of you. While I write with the hope that others enjoy my work, I do so out of the joy of the art.
Because I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggonit! People Like me!

My ideas come so sporadically sometimes that when I need to be productive I have to force it. And usually that doesn’t amount to very good work. They say that bad work is better than no work.
Why is it when I have projects for non writing tasks, the pressure just adds to the allure and quality of the piece? It’s not for lack of passion that my writing suffers. Discipline, maybe. Well, I do have a theory…it’s chemical. My muse gets silenced at times. But if I don’t partake of this Adult ADD thing then everything else suffers. You read (i hope) my previous post in which I described my ADD. It was not an exaggeration. Now, it was an example of my more hyper times. It’s not always like that.

One way that I ‘force’ myself to do whatever is to minimize distractions. I like too much and usually all at once. I feel like i’ll miss something if I don’t keep it at hand. TV, twitter, FB, Divas. Whatever. Well, this is obviously not conducive to writing. So I do a small exercise to refocus myself. I switch projects to do something quick and less stressful, like a blog post for example. And once I ‘prime’ myself I feel refocused and ready to take on the task at hand. It also helps when the demand is down. I serve in multiple roles.
That is really no surprise. Wife, mother, housekeeper. Full time job that is quite demanding.
So, today I took a mental day. Day off from FT job. Got some housework done without feeling pressured. Less guilt now to sit down at pc and enjoy.

*sigh*
So now I can work on my other job. my unpaying one. The one that I feel could pay off in the long run if my ambitions are met. You know, the whole colonial series being contracted and made into movies for Hallmark channel. (Hey it’s okay to dream and I could dream bigger, but really, I think that’s pretty lofty!)

But it won’t go anywhere if I don’t ‘get ‘r’ done’ So, after this side project called today’s blog post, I will write. I will finish these last few pages of edits and I WILL WRITE!

right?

We’ll see. Another tool to get in gear is the timed challenges. I have spoken of these before in my You gotta have friends post.
Off I go. What? You want to challenge too? Be my guest!

Compromising Positions releases today!

Falling in love is the last thing on his busy agenda…but compromising positions can lead just about anywhere.

David Strong knows how to do a lot of things—run an international fitness company, finesse stock portfolios and stay out of emotional entanglements. That is, until he gets tangled up with Sophie Delfino and her Sensational Sex workout. He’s supposed to help her demonstrate Kama Sutra positions for her couples’ yoga class. The rigorous postures require more than just physical control. And his co-instructor unexpectedly tests his control to the limit.

Sophie’s been fantasizing about David since her teens, but she never dreamed she’d actually be expected to run through her intimate desires—with an audience! The class is very professional, tame even—or it would be, if she’d been in any of the positions before. But she hasn’t—except in her wildest fantasies about David. Sophie knows she wants David in every way, and she’s flexible enough to use whatever she has to get him.

David can’t afford any unexpected distractions. Besides the sensual positions he has to endure without embarrassing himself in public, there’s an embezzler stealing from his company. And then there’s Sophie—who is well on her way to stealing his well-guarded heart.

Warning: This is one exercise program you won’t need to consult your doctor before beginning…unless he’s hot and available for house calls. The Kama Sutra isn’t for the prudish or faint of heart, and neither is this story.

Read An Excerpt Online

REVIEWS

“With sensual love scenes, flirty repartee, and a man and woman clearly meant to be together, you get everything you could ever want in a romance novel. Overall, I have to say that Compromising Positions is a must read!”
~ Long and Short Reviews

“Compromising Positions would have to be one of the best contemporary romance novels I have read in a long time. Jenna Bayley-Burke delivers it all, romance, humor, and great chemistry between her hero and heroine. It is so well written. The pace is great, and the story line fantastic.”
~ Fallen Angel Reviews

“This thoroughly enjoyable romantic comedy has likable characters and a smart, spitfire heroine…Bayley-Burke delivers a really fun read. ”
~Romantic Times

So I have four google chrome pages up. I’m eating, watching tv and playing a game. I’m listening to music and I’m blogging. But how can any one thing get my full attention?

Well, it can’t. But it allows my easily distracted brain to not get bored. My current fascination is with the Celtic Woman clips on youtube . PBS had a showcase of their talent and I went to find more. And as I do, I had to find out about them. One of the members names is Maeve. A very lovely name. It will feature in one of my colonial books.

But for now I have the music playing on an autoplay, finding not only that particular group, but others with similar musical qualities. And it’s inspiring. While I should be continuing my work on the never ending novel of Constance, I’m moved to write Maeve. I don’t even have her story fleshed out yet. But the sounds move me. At least the accompaniment is peaceful. Very pleasant a soundtrack for writing, or for playing games or for ….oh look, a kitty.

For an author, I don’t write much. According to one acquaintance, I should blog more. And I guess I should. Well, I know I should. If anyone expresses interest in me, I get googled. And according to FaceBook applications, it appears I’m rare. They said I was the only Leigh Royals. Which feels pretty good. But really? The only one? How many people did they ask/look through?

If I am the only one, which, sorry FB, but I think I’m not, that would be great. Neat! Heard of that author? Leigh Royals? The ONLY LR in the world? (the FB world, sure.) Yeah, she’s that awesome writer of historical romance? Can’t you tell how much she loves history by her words? She must have researched the revolutionary war for days! Hours! Can you imagine?

That would be nice.

You know another nice thing? My books can be (er…will be) found between Nora Roberts and Danielle Steele. (Roy is after Rob and before Ste….) I didn’t plan that but rather noticed it after I settle on my name. It’s good to be me….

So, what have YOU all been doing? Oh fans and friends of mine?

Welcome to my first foray into Excerpt Monday! First, I must thank  our hosts: Mel Berthier and Bria Quinlan. Mel writes Urban Fantasy at a PG-13 rating; Bria, RomCom at PG. I would like to share with you a prologue to the first of the colonial series. This is being cut from the current draft, but will hopefully be enough of a taste to gain your interest.

The rain had finally stopped and little Constance Delaney stood on the long porch of the plantation house and inhaled the fresh after-the-rain smell. It was too crowded inside the home with so many guests milling about. Ever since Mama went to sleep and didn’t wake up everyone was acting strangely. But Connie wasn’t sad. She never cries.

Mama, you told me you’d still be here even when I can’t see you.

A large dragonfly garnered her attention. A bubbly sound escaped her as she chased it. She felt the air beneath her as she jumped off the porch. Her feet sunk in the mud and water splashed up from the puddle. The dragonfly lured her around the corner of the great house and landed on the white rhododendron. What a pretty bug. A murmur of sound eased out of the open window. A familiar voice piqued little Constance’s curiosity, but the tone sounded strange. Papa?

“Dora was my life. What am I supposed to do with two girls?” The muted voiced filled her head. It was her father, but why was he so sad?

“I’ll never love another.” The ensuing sobs rang in her ears. Her brows knit. The insect darted to the next bush. She reached to catch it.

Papa never cries. He always says be strong.

“We wanted so much more from life; she wanted to give me a son. Damn the pox! Now I’ll never get to teach my child how to run the plantation. What difference does it make anyway?” His voice turned sour, giving her an ache in her chest.

Papa can teach me, he said I was a big girl. I don’t want Papa to be sad.

Now the tears came. The salty drops fell from her face and onto the white flowers; the dragonfly flitted away.

Thank you for playing. I’m learning, so bear with me. And check out these other authors:

Kinsey W. Holley, Paranormal (PG)    Babette James, Fantasy Romance (PG13)  Christina DeLorenzo, YA (PG 13)

Caitlynn Lowe, Epic Fantasy (PG)     Nika Dixon, Romantic Suspense (PG 13)  Kaige, Historic Romance (PG-13)

Dara Sorensen, Paranormal (PG)   Bryn Donovan, Paranormal Romance(PG13) Julia Knight, Fantasy Romance (PG 13)

Adelle Laudan, Contemporary Romance (PG 13)  Jeannie Lin, Historical Romance(PG13) RF Long, Paranormal (PG13)

Rebecca Savage, romantic suspense (PG 13)  Crista McHugh, Paranormal Romance (PG 13)