[Audio Blog Tour] 'Widdershins' (Widdershins, Book 1) By Helen Steadman Narrated by Christine Mackie #HistoricalFiction #Witches #Audiobook

Widdershins - Tour Banner

The Book: 

Widdershins
(Widdershins, Book 1)
By Helen Steadman
Narrated by Christine Mackie

• Publication Date: 25 June 2021
• Publisher: Impress Books
• Audiobook Length: 8.5 hours
• Genre: Historical Fiction
• Video of Narrator talking about audiobook

The Blurb:

The new audio book of Widdershins is narrated brilliantly by talented actor, Christine Mackie, from Downton Abbey, Coronation Street, Wire in the Blood, and so on.

The first part of a two-part series, Widdershins is inspired by the Newcastle witch trials, where 16 people were hanged. Despite being the largest mass execution of witches on a single day in England, these trials are not widely known about. In August 1650, 15 women and one man were hanged as witches after a Scottish witchfinder found them guilty of consorting with the devil. This notorious man was hired by the Puritan authorities in response to a petition from the Newcastle townsfolk who wanted to be rid of their witches.

Widdershins is told through the eyes of Jane Chandler, a young woman accused of witchcraft, and John Sharpe, the witchfinder who condemns her to death. Jane Chandler is an apprentice healer. From childhood, she and her mother have used herbs to cure the sick. But Jane soon learns that her sheltered life in a small village is not safe from the troubles of the wider world. From his father’s beatings to his uncle’s raging sermons, John Sharpe is beset by bad fortune. Fighting through personal tragedy, he finds his purpose: to become a witchfinder and save innocents from the scourge of witchcraft.

Praise for Widdershins:
The Historical Novel Society said of Widdershins: “Impeccably written, full of herbal lore and the clash of ignorance and prejudice against common sense, as well as the abounding beauty of nature, it made for a great read. There are plenty of books, both fact and fiction, available about the witch-trial era, but not only did I not know about such trials in Newcastle, I have not read a novel that so painstakingly and vividly evokes both the fear and joy of living at that time.”

Trigger Warnings:
Domestic abuse, rape, torture, execution, child abuse, animal abuse, miscarriage, death in childbirth.

Widdershins - dark and haunting

Buy Links:

• Amazon UK ✔ Amazon US ✔ Amazon CA  ✔ Amazon AU ✔  Audible Link ✔ Blackwells ✔ Waterstones ✔ Kobo ✔ iBooks ✔ iTunes ✔ Foyles ✔ Book Depository ✔ Universal eBook link ✔

Widdershins - audio cover

'Widdershins' - Excerpt:

Helen Steadman

Author Bio:

Dr Helen Steadman is a historical novelist. Her first novel, Widdershins and its sequel, Sunwise were inspired by the Newcastle witch trials. Her third novel, The Running Wolf was inspired by a group of Lutheran swordmakers who defected from Germany to England in 1687.

Despite the Newcastle witch trials being the largest mass execution of witches on a single day in England, they are not widely known about. Helen is particularly interested in revealing hidden histories and she is a thorough researcher who goes to great lengths in pursuit of historical accuracy. To get under the skin of the cunning women in Widdershins and Sunwise, Helen trained in herbalism and learned how to identify, grow and harvest plants and then made herbal medicines from bark, seeds, flowers and berries.

The Running Wolf is the story of a group of master swordmakers who left Solingen, Germany and moved to Shotley Bridge, England in 1687. As well as carrying out in-depth archive research and visiting forges in Solingen to bring her story to life, Helen also undertook blacksmith training, which culminated in making her own sword. During her archive research, Helen uncovered a lot of new material and she published her findings in the Northern History journal.

Helen is now working on her fourth novel.

Connect With Helen Steadman:

• Website ✔ Twitter ✔ Facebook ✔ Instagram ✔ Amazon Author Page ✔ Goodreads ✔ YouTube ✔

Narrator, Christine Mackie

Audiobook Narrator Bio:

Christine Mackie has worked extensively in TV over the last thirty years in well-known TV series such as Downton Abbey, Wire in the Blood, Coronation Street, French & Saunders and The Grand. Theatre work includes numerous productions in new writing as well as classics, such as A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Comedy of Errors, Richard III, An Inspector Calls, and the Railway Children. In a recent all women version of Whisky Galore, Christine played three men, three women and a Red Setter dog!

• IMDB for Christine Mackie

Widdershins - Tour Schedule Banner

[Blog Tour] 'Redemption' (The Hacker Chronicles, Book 2) By Philip Yorke #HistoricalFiction #EnglishCivilWar

Redemption - Blog Tour Banner

The Book:

Redemption
(The Hacker Chronicles, Book 2)
By Philip Yorke

• Publication Date: 2nd July 2021
• Publisher: Mashiach Publishing
• Page Length: 480 Pages
• Genre: Historical Fiction

The Blurb:

Saturday, the second day of July, in the year of our Lord, 1644, will be a day long remembered by the men and women committed to ending the reign of a tyrannical King. For on this day, the forces of Charles the First were crushed on the bloody fields of Marston Moor.

The calamitous defeat forces the increasingly desperate Royalists to intensify their attempts to bring about the immediate demise of their Parliamentarian enemies. This includes devising an audacious plan to assassinate the man they believe is key to the war’s outcome.

With the plotters ready to strike, Francis Hacker, one of Parliament’s most loyal soldiers, becomes aware of the conspiracy. With little time to act, he does everything in his power to frustrate their plans. But, alas, things start to unravel when brave Hacker finds himself pitted against a ruthless and cunning mercenary, a man who will resort to anything to achieve a ‘kill’.

• Buy Links: (This novel is available with #KindleUnlimited subscription.) Universal Link ✔ Amazon UK ✔ Amazon US ✔ Amazon CA ✔ Amazon AU ✔ Philip Yorke ✔

Redemption - book cover

'Redemption' - Excerpt:

It is past midnight and the songbirds retired to their treetop roosts long before I set about seeking comfort and solace in this quiet, grief-stricken place.

I am sitting in a large, sterile room. My thoughts are my own, as I have little to occupy my mind other than study lines of terracotta, web-encrusted bricks that make up the interior wall of a building hastily commandeered to house Parliament’s most senior officers, the men who masterminded the full-scale destruction of the King’s army some two days since.

From where I am sitting, I have spent a couple of hours scrutinising the crumbling, blistered masonry, measuring every line of mortar, and identifying line after line of imperfection and weakness. While doing so, I have wished and prayed for the torment that afflicts my companion to cease, so he and I can celebrate the magnificent victory he led us to, one that may have swung the tide of this brutal war firmly in our favour.

Alas, it will not be so. Merriment and revelry are the last things my friend has on his mind.

Hundreds of rotting, naked Royalist corpses, stripped bare of anything valuable and with their dignity on show for all to see, still litter the bloody killing fields less than three miles away, on the grasslands of Marston. They are waiting to join the thousands who have already been buried in mass pits, with no marker or recognition offered for their courage and sacrifice. In these cruel times, a final resting place, hidden amongst the bracken and many miles from their loved ones, is all that is afforded the vanquished.

The moorland, a nondescript place just south of York, is the site of the first significant victory for those opposing the King's autocratic regime. And, at a time when we should be toasting the heroism and courage of our troops, ordinary men who have bested their social superiors, I find I have little choice but to surrender as the chill of the summer’s morn starts to torment my aching bones.

I am impotent, unable to play the part of the comforter. And I feel wretched.

My gaze falls on the man I respect more than any other in this violent and turbulent world.

Oliver Cromwell is Lieutenant-General of the Eastern Association army. He is also my friend.

Magnificent on the field of battle, Oliver now sits before me a broken man, no longer the powerful, all-conquering soldier who has just blooded a Sovereign's nose. Tonight he is closer to resigning his commission than ever before. He has been tested many times already in the turbulent months since Charles raised his standard at Nottingham. Tearful and angry, he is no longer the warrior hero his devoted men perceive him to be.

The source of his distress is the double dose of tragedy that has befallen him and his family.

In the battle that saw Prince Rupert’s finest men routed as a direct result of Cromwell’s strategic brilliance and bravery, Oliver’s nephew, Valentine Walton, was killed.

A cannonball sliced through the young man’s leg while he was leading a charge against the enemy. Despite his best efforts, the field surgeon could do nought for him, so the limb was lost, as was much of the young man’s precious blood, which bathed the fields of Yorkshire in garnet gemstone red.

After the hacksaw that sliced through Valentine's bone had been wiped clean, the young man's life force quickly ebbed away, condemning him to the same fate that awaited many comrades that day – men like Major Charles Fairfax and Captains Micklethwaite and Pugh. All fought and died so bravely for the cause we all serve.

Cromwell has spent the last few hours writing a letter conveying the terrible news to his brother-in-law, the dead officer’s father, a man who also carries the name of Valentine Walton.

"What say you, Francis? How does this read, is it any better than my previous inadequate attempts?" whispers Oliver, his voice barely audible as he holds the manuscript with a shaking hand. He moves a flickering candle closer, allowing its dancing flames to offer an illuminating shroud of light.

“Tell me, truthfully, friend, do my words offer the comfort and love that is intended and needed at this most terrible of times?”

Brushing aside several sheets of paper, Cromwell rises from the table and steadies himself. He turns to face me. His eyes are swollen. Deep folds of skin hang like sacks underneath his sockets. Grief has taken its toll. He pauses for a moment and then slowly starts to recount the few short sentences that will surely bring further miseries to another unsuspecting family.

“Dear Sir,

“It is our duty to sympathise in all mercies, that we may praise the Lord together, in chastisements or trials, so we may sorrow together.

“Truly England and the church of God hath had a great favour from the Lord in this great victory, given unto us such as the like never was since this war began. It had all the evidences of an absolute victory obtained by the Lord’s blessing upon the godly. We never charged, but we routed the enemy. The left-wing, which I commanded, being our own horse, saving a few Scots in our rear, beat all the Prince's horse. God made them as stubble to our swords; we charged their Regiments of foot with our horse, routed all we charged. The particulars I cannot relate now, but I believe of twenty thousand, the Prince hath not four thousand left. Give glory, all the glory to God.

“Sir, God hath taken away your eldest son by a cannon shot. It broke his leg. We were necessitated to have it cut off, whereof he died.

“Sir, you know my trials this way, but the Lord supported me with this, and the Lord took him into the happiness we all pant after and live for.

“There is your precious child, full of glory, to know sin nor sorrow any more.

“He was a gallant young man, exceedingly gracious. God give you his comfort. Before his death, he was so full of comfort; it was so great above his pain. This he said to us. Indeed it was admirable. A little after, he said one thing lay upon his spirit. I asked him what that was. He told me that it was that God had not suffered him to be no more the executioner of his enemies.

"At his fall, his horse being killed with the bullet and, as I am informed, three horses more, I am told, he bid them open to the right and left, that he might see the rogues run. Truly he was exceedingly beloved in the Army of all that knew him, but few knew him, for he was a precious young man, fit for God.

“You have cause to bless the Lord. He is a glorious saint in heaven, wherein you ought exceedingly to rejoice. Let this drink up your sorrow, seeing these are not feigned words to comfort you, but the thing is so real and undoubted a truth. You may do all things by the strength of Christ. Seek that, and you shall easily bear your trial.

“Let this public mercy to the church of God make you forget your private sorrow. The Lord be your strength, so prays your truly faithful and loving brother…”

As he reaches out and puts the letter on the desk, I can clearly see the tears flowing steadily down Oliver’s reddened face, staining his doublet and the shirt beneath. His acute distress is plain to see.

“Is it suffice, dear friend?” he enquires of me. “Is it the epitaph and encourager I hope it to be?”

I nod my head in approval, saying: “Words are inadequate at moments like these, Oliver. You know that as well as I. Yet what you have written will be a true source of comfort. They will know their son died bravely, like the martyr he is.”

For the briefest of moments, a flicker of contentment flashes in Oliver’s eyes. Then it is gone.

“Thank you for your forbearance, Francis,” he adds. “I may make some further, minor amendments, but I think it will do. It will have to. I must write to more unfortunate people who have suffered the loss of loved ones, and there are also campaigning matters to consider.”

I have never met Valentine’s mother, but I am told her son was the embodiment of her. All members of the Cromwell family have the same distinctive physical features: a prominent nose and a full, strong forehead. They are also the bravest of people. Margaret, Valentine’s mother, is cut from this rock. So, too, is her brother, Oliver, the rising star of the Parliamentary army.

Philip Yorke

Author Bio:

Philip Yorke is an award-winning former Fleet Street journalist who has a special interest in history. His Hacker Chronicles series, to be told in five fast-paced historical fiction novels, tells the story of Parliamentarian soldier, Francis Hacker.

Redemption, the second book in the series, is set during the period 1644-46 (during the first English Civil War), when events take a significant turn in favour of Parliament.

Philip is married, and he and his wife have five children. He enjoys relaxing to classical music, reading the works of Nigel Tranter, Bernard Cornwell, Robyn Young and CJ Sansom, and supporting Hull City FC and Leicester Tigers RFC.

He lives in Leicestershire, England.

Connect With Philip Yorke:

• Website ✔ Twitter ✔ Facebook ✔ Instagram ✔ BookBub ✔ Amazon Author Page ✔ Goodreads ✔

Redemption - Blog Tour Schedule Banner

[Blog Tour] 'Where Your Treasure Is' By M. C. Bunn #HistoricalFiction #VictorianRomance

'Where Your Treasure Is' - Tour Banner

The Book:

Where Your Treasure Is
By M. C. Bunn
Publication Date: 23rd April 2021
Publisher: Bellastoria Press
Page Length: 454 Pages
Genre: Historical Fiction, Historical Romance, Victorian Romance

The Blurb:

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.

Buy Links:

• Universal Buy Link ✔ Amazon UK ✔ Amazon US ✔ Amazon CA ✔ Amazon AU ✔ Barnes and Noble ✔ Waterstones ✔ Kobo ✔ Page 158 Books ✔ Quail Ridge Books ✔ Indie Bound ✔ 

'Where Your Treasure Is' - Cover

'Where Your Treasure Is' - Excerpt:

Winifred and the man stumbled down a flight of narrow stairs. He kicked a door. Before them a deserted kitchen gleamed. Pots steamed unattended. The man pushed her toward the scullery. In a moment they would be outdoors. She redoubled her efforts to break free of him.

In a corner, a scullery maid and a butcher’s boy kissed. At the sound of Winifred’s screams, they broke apart guiltily and stared openmouthed at her. Her captor swore and pointed his gun at the couple. The girl screeched, and the boy snatched up a dripping pot lid in defense of his paramour.

“Fire!” the man shouted at them. “Run for your lives!”

The boy threw down the pot lid, grabbed his girl, and they fled outside.

Gasping, the man pushed Winifred after them. Stairs, fresh air—she gulped at it. Then she saw a hackney waiting in the alley and the driver in his purple coat.

******

Court’s horse remained wary, her ears up, and swung her head toward the stairs that led down to the scullery. All at once, the butcher’s boy and a shrieking scullery maid clambered up the steps. They raced down the alley and took off in the boy’s cart at top speed. There was another rumble like the one Court had heard a minute ago. It sounded like distant thunder. He was vaguely aware of a rattle of bells in the street at the other end of the alley. A fire brigade passed. He smelled smoke.

Suddenly Geoff and a woman appeared at the bottom of the stairs. They were covered in white dust and coughing. A bright, wet, bloody streak covered half of Geoff’s face. Their progress was impeded by the woman’s wildly kicking little boots. Her struggles and the flashes of her bright green and purple silks made her look like an exotic bird thrashing in Geoff’s arms.

“What in ’ell ’appened to you? Where’s ’Ez?” Court shouted and ran forward to help.

“I don’t know!” Geoff coughed. “Forget ’im! We’ve got to get out ’o ’ere!”

“What about ’er? I saw a fire truck! Is she ’urt?”

“She’s comin’ with us!”

“Bleedin’ ’ell! ’Ave you lost your mind?” Court shouted. “Put ’er down!”

Geoff coughed and swore. “No! She saw me! Open the door!”

Geoff did not wait for Court to comply and thrust the woman at him. While Geoff bent over in another fit of coughing, the woman struggled and kicked, fanning dust all over Court, and cried for help. Involuntarily, he clapped his hand over her mouth. She only screamed louder.

“Shut up, you fat sow!” Geoff swatted her across the temple with Hez’s pistol.

The woman’s eyes rolled and she went limp.

Court howled in dismay and caught her.

Unconscious, her face took on an even sicklier pallor than the dust already gave it. In his arms, she was a mountain of soft cashmere and folds of velvet. Her mantle fell open, and her scent hit him. Lilies and some dark, exotic spice. It was so unexpected and heavenly that the alley and the hackney disappeared. Even his panic was gone.

“Give ’er ’ere!” Geoff grabbed the woman and hauled her into the cab. The hem of her skirt caught on the door and ripped. “Give me your tie,” Geoff ordered.

Court removed his neckerchief, thinking Geoff wanted to wipe the blood off his face. Instead, he gagged the woman then removed his belt in order to bind her wrists. This was too much. Court grabbed the woman’s ankles. “Put ’er ’ands in front o’ ’er at least!”

“The bitch tried to stab me with a ’atpin!”

“Do it, or we ain’t goin’ nowhere!”

Geoff scowled in disgust but tied her hands in front. “Soft!”

From above came another low rumble. The mare lunged. Court let go of the woman to steady the horse. Another fire truck raced past the end of the alley. There was a distinct odor of smoke.

Geoff dumped the woman onto the floor of the cab. “The gas lines is goin’! Go on, drive!”

In spite of the horse, Court made another attempt to extract the woman from Geoff’s clutches. “We can’t leave ’Ez! We can’t take ’er!”

Geoff clicked off the safety and waved the pistol under Court’s nose. When Court did not let go of the woman, he pointed the pistol at her head. “I ain’t arguin’! Drive!” He slammed the cab door.

His heart hammering, his head whirling, Court untied the horse, swung up onto the box, and grabbed the reins. As he turned the cab into the street behind the bank, yet another fire truck raced past.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! They were in for it now.

M. C. Bunn 

Author Bio:

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.”

Connect with M. C. Bunn:

• Website ✔ Twitter ✔ Facebook ✔ Instagram ✔:Pinterest ✔ BookBub ✔ Amazon Author Page ✔ Goodreads ✔ 

'Where Your Treasure Is' - Tour Schedule Banner

[Blog Tour] 'At Her Fingertips' (The Chronicles of Alice and Ivy, Book 3) By Kellyn Roth #HistoricalFiction

 'At Her Fingertips' - Tour Banner

The Book: 

At Her Fingertips
(The Chronicles of Alice and Ivy, Book 3)
By Kellyn Roth

• Publication Date: 17th July 2021
• Publisher: Wild Blue Wonder Press
• Genre: Christian Historical Romance

The Blurb:

She’s willing to do anything to follow her plan.

Debutante Alice Knight is ready for her first social season in London. She’s determined to impress society and her mother with an affluent match, at last escaping her past and embracing a future of her own making.

Peter Strauss, an American reporter visiting England, isn’t exactly what Alice had in mind. However, his friendship proves invaluable as Alice faces the challenges of her debut. Almost immediately, she attracts the attention of a well-born gentleman—perfect save for the simple fact that he’s not a Christian.

The life she longs for is finally at her fingertips, but between her own heart and the convictions of her faith, she isn’t sure she ought to grasp it.

At Her Fingertips, a romantic women's fiction novel, is the third novel in Kellyn Roth's Christian family saga, The Chronicles of Alice and Ivy.

• Buy Links:This book is available to read on #KindleUnlimited ✔ Universal “Amazon” link ✔  Amazon UK ✔ Amazon US ✔ Amazon CA ✔ Amazon AU ✔ 

'At Her Fingertips' - Book Cover

'At Her Fingertips' - Excerpt:

Miss Knight was sitting by herself after dinner, staring into the fire with her eyes absent. Normally, Peter left people who seemed consumed by their own thoughts alone—that was what he preferred. But something told him she wasn’t the type to enjoy her own ponderings.

She continued to puzzle him. Strong and weak. Over and over again, those words echoed in his head. Miss Ivy was a delicate flower that would continue to bloom if crushed; he didn’t sense that in Miss Knight. She was more like a mighty pine that, once felled, would lie there until it crumbled into splinters. He didn’t know how she would handle collapse, or if she would at all.

Was it his business? No. Normally he would’ve made his observations within his own mind and kept silent. However, something about her compelled him to take a seat near her and make the necessary pleasantries.

After conversation faded again, he asked her if they could visit the library with Miss Ivy. “I haven’t had a chance, and Miss Ivy has told me about it often. Of course I wouldn’t go with her alone.”

“Of course.” There was grudging respect in her eyes. Did she think it was so different in America that he wouldn’t take care of Miss Ivy’s reputation? He honestly wasn’t sure why Miss Knight was so suspicious of him.

Had America stolen her father? Was that her reasoning? Or was she just too traditional to conceive of a friendship with him? He supposed it wasn’t exactly normal, but he made friends with anyone he could, and that usually included women. Not in an improper way—most women just seemed to, for no discernable reason, confide in him.

It was simultaneously frustrating and touching.

The three of them went to the library together, and Miss Ivy rambled on about their collection, who had added books over the years, and so on. Peter found it interesting but couldn’t help but be concerned about Miss Knight, and he began searching for a conversation topic that would suit all three of them.

It was when he gave up, however, that he succeeded. “Do either of your parents read?” he asked, deciding to focus his efforts on Miss Ivy, who actually wanted to talk to him. Reading, he felt, they could talk about.

Miss Ivy answered that her mother would read occasionally, and Miss Knight’s eyes focused on them both, interested for the first time.

Thank God, he thought.

“Mother reads what Nettie does,” Miss Knight said. “But then she’s not had time until lately to read.”

“Oh?” Peter supposed the lady had had a child almost every year, but she only had somewhere in the range of three to five children—he’d gotten confused at this point as to which were hers by birth and which by marriage. Ned certainly was the child of the late Mrs. Hazel Bailey Knight, but otherwise he didn’t know.

“Yes, because—” Then Miss Ivy stopped and looked to Miss Knight.

There was a moment in which the sisters stared each other down, clearly unsure who was going to communicate what. Then Miss Knight cleared her throat.

“Mr. Strauss, I know you asked one of our footmen for details about our family, and he declined to give you the full story.” Her dark eyes focused on him, intense to the point of anger. “If I were to tell you my family history, I don’t know what your reaction would be. Ivy promises me you are a fair, compassionate man, but I don’t know you, and you are a reporter.”

Peter winced. “I am at that. But I’m not the type of reporter who would ever discuss private details publicly, either in writing or with my mouth.” He struggled for the correct words. “I always take my cues from Proverbs. ‘Whoso keepeth his mouth and his tongue keepeth his soul from troubles.’”

“I see.” Miss Knight glanced at Miss Ivy.

She nodded.

“I’ll tell you a bit of what’s happened, so that there need be no awkwardness to us.” She gestured to a few chairs across the library. “It’s a simple story, really.”

Miss Ivy raised her eyebrows. “It is not.”

“Nevertheless, let’s sit down and go over it. Quickly.”

Curiosity spiked, but determined to remain compassionate, Peter took a seat and fixed his eyes on Miss Knight’s face.

Kellyn Roth

Author Bio:

Kellyn Roth is a Christian historical women’s fiction & romance author from North-Eastern Oregon who has independently published multiple novels, the most notable being The Chronicles of Alice and Ivy series. You should definitely call her Kell.

Kell lives on family-owned property outside an unmemorable but historical town with her parents, two little brothers, precious border collies, a dozen cows, and lots of chickens. She also possesses a classic, vintage aesthetic which does not at all speak to her country girl side, but such is life.

When not writing, Kell likes to blog, work as a virtual assistant for authors and other small business owners, and spend lavish amounts of money on Dairy Queen french fries. She also likes to talk about her books (and occasionally Keira Knightley) way too much. You’ve been warned.

Connect with Kellyn Roth:

• Website ✔ Twitter ✔ Facebook ✔ Instagram ✔ Pinterest ✔ BookBub ✔ Amazon Author Page ✔ Goodreads ✔

'At her Fingertips' - Tour Schedule Banner

[Blog Tour] 'The Whirlpools of Time' By Anna Belfrage #HistoricalFiction #TimeTravel

'The Whirlpools of Time' - Tour Banner

The Book:

The Whirlpools of Time
By Anna Belfrage

• Publication Date: 11th June 2021
• Publisher: Timelight Press
• Page Length: 388 Pages
• Genre: Time travel romance, Scottish Historical Romance

The Blurb:

He hoped for a wife. He found a companion through time and beyond.

It is 1715 and for Duncan Melville something fundamental is missing from his life. Despite a flourishing legal practice and several close friends, he is lonely, even more so after the recent death of his father. He needs a wife—a companion through life, someone to hold and be held by. What he wasn’t expecting was to be torn away from everything he knew and find said woman in 2016…

Erin Barnes has a lot of stuff going on in her life. She doesn’t need the additional twist of a stranger in weird outdated clothes, but when he risks his life to save hers, she feels obligated to return the favour. Besides, whoever Duncan may be, she can’t exactly deny the immediate attraction.

The complications in Erin’s life explode. Events are set in motion and to Erin’s horror she and Duncan are thrown back to 1715. Not only does Erin have to cope with a different and intimidating world, soon enough she and Duncan are embroiled in a dangerous quest for Duncan’s uncle, a quest that may very well cost them their lives as they travel through a Scotland poised on the brink of rebellion.

Will they find Duncan’s uncle in time? And is the door to the future permanently closed, or will Erin find a way back?

• Trigger Warnings: Sexual Content. Violence.

• Buy Links: Universal Link ✔  Available on #KindleUnlimited ✔

'The Whirlpools of Time' - Book Cover

'The Whirlpools of Time' - Excerpt:

Duncan has just taken his first ever ride in a car…

Once the contraption had come to a halt, Duncan carefully released his hold on his seat. His head throbbed but most of all his brain ached, trying to make some sense of all these new impressions. Erin opened her door and got out. He studied the door on his side, not knowing just where the locking mechanism was. She made no move to help him. Mayhap she intended to keep him here, confined in this box of metal on wheels.

He groaned and hid his face in his hands. What had happened to him?

The door opened.

“Need help?” she asked.

“Aye.” With everything, really, starting with an explanation of where he was and how he came to be here. But he didn’t say that. He just took her offered hand and gingerly dragged himself out of the vehicle. Part of him—the rational part—was intrigued by it, wanting nothing more but to understand how this piece of advanced engineering worked. The other part quivered with fear. This was some sort of magic and he’d ended up in a time of powerful sorcerers. Except that Erin did not look like a witch should look. That curly hair of hers framed a face in which the most distinctive feature were her eyes, at present studying him with concern.

“Are you alright? That gash on your forehead is bleeding.”

“It is?” He lifted his hand to his head, surprised at discovering she was right. Blood coated his fingers. “No great matter,” he said. But the world was spinning and he gritted his teeth, willing the dizziness to abate.

She slipped an arm round his waist, holding him steady. “It’s the concussion,” she said. “The nurse said you might feel the effects for some more days.”

“Likely.” He’d had one several years ago when he’d stolen a ride on one of Michael Connor’s precious brood mares and been thrown for his efforts. That time, it had been Grandma Alex looking after him.

She helped him to the door, had him steady himself against the wall as she unlocked, fiddled with something that emitted several strange high-pitched sounds, and then invited him inside. He drew in a surprised breath when she set her finger on a little protuberance and flooded the interior with light.

The room was huge. On the opposite side, large windows replaced what should have been walls and even on a day as overcast as this, Duncan could not tear his gaze away from the large expanse of water that lapped at the shoreline a stone’s throw from the windows.

“Stunning, isn’t it?” she said, and he could hear the pride in her voice.

“It is.” Truth be told, everything about the space they were standing in was stunning. White walls were hung with paintings that were mostly a collection of colours, there was a thick Turkish rug on the floor that would have had Kate Jones turning green with envy. The thought brought him up short. Was she dead yet? And then he shivered: everyone he knew was dead—since centuries back. He shook himself free of these thoughts and concentrated instead on the huge hearth with wood neatly stacked to the side and a pelt spread out before it, the wide-open mouth of the cat who’d once owned the hide frozen in a permanent snarl. Beside him, she shifted on her feet.

“I inherited it,” she said, sounding apologetic. “I’d never have bought a tiger skin.”

“Ah.”

“I guess my great-grandfather shot it before tigers became an endangered species,” she added and he didn’t understand one word of that but nodded all the same, kept on nodding as she chattered on about how few tigers there were left and how much she despised trophy hunters. He found her voice soothing even if he had never heard of trophy hunters and as to the poor tigers, how could one possibly know how many such ferocious beasts roamed the jungles?

Other than the fireplace, the room contained a large table to one side, something resembling an overgrown settle on the other. Bright red cushions and matching throws added gaiety to a room otherwise dominated by wood and black leather. An opulent space, along the lines of the Jones’ residence in Annapolis, and Duncan threw Erin a look. In her revealing breeches—very revealing—a pink shirt that barely covered her midriff and shoes in brightly coloured fabric that covered her ankles, she did not quite match the furnishings. She reminded him of a butterfly, all bright colour and flitting movements as she darted from one side of the room to the other, plumping up a cushion here, tweaking at a coverlet there.

Anna Belfrage

Author Bio:

Had Anna been allowed to choose, she’d have become a time-traveller. As this was impossible, she became a financial professional with two absorbing interests: history and writing. Anna has authored the acclaimed time travelling series The Graham Saga, set in 17th century Scotland and Maryland, as well as the equally acclaimed medieval series The King’s Greatest Enemy which is set in 14th century England.

Anna has also published The Wanderer, a fast-paced contemporary romantic suspense trilogy with paranormal and time-slip ingredients. Her September 2020 release, His Castilian Hawk, has her returning to medieval times. Set against the complications of Edward I’s invasion of Wales, His Castilian Hawk is a story of loyalty, integrity—and love. Her most recent release, The Whirlpools of Time, is a time travel romance set against the backdrop of brewing rebellion in the Scottish highlands.

All of Anna’s books have been awarded the IndieBRAG Medallion, she has several Historical Novel Society Editor’s Choices, and one of her books won the HNS Indie Award in 2015. She is also the proud recipient of various Reader’s Favorite medals as well as having won various Gold, Silver and Bronze Coffee Pot Book Club awards.

• Find out more about Anna, her books and her eclectic historical blog on her website, www.annabelfrage.com .

Connect with Anna Belfrage:

• Website ✔ Twitter ✔ Facebook ✔ Instagram ✔ BookBub ✔ Amazon Author Page ✔ Goodreads ✔

'The Whirlpools of Time' - Tour Schedule Banner

[Blog Tour] 'Kingfisher' (The Kingfisher Series, Book One) By D. K. Marley #HistoricalFiction #TimeTravel

Kingfisher - Blog Tour Banner

The Book:

Kingfisher
(The Kingfisher Series, Book One)
By D. K. Marley

• Publication Date: June 28, 2021
• Publisher: The White Rabbit Publishing (HFC Press)
• Page Length: 530 Pages
• Genre: Historical Time Travel

The Blurb:

The past, future, and Excalibur lie in her hands.

Wales, 1914. Vala Penrys and her four sisters find solace in their spinster life by story-telling, escaping the chaos of war by dreaming of the romantic days of Camelot. When the war hits close to home, Vala finds love with Taliesin Wren, a mysterious young Welsh Lieutenant, who shows her another world within the tangled roots of a Rowan tree, known to the Druids as ‘the portal’.

One night she falls through, and suddenly she is Vivyane, Lady of the Lake – the Kingfisher – in a divided Britain clamoring for a High King. What begins as an innocent pastime becomes the ultimate quest for peace in two worlds full of secrets, and Vala finds herself torn between the love of her life and the salvation of not only her family but of Britain, itself.

"It is, at the heart of it, a love story – the love between a man and a woman, between a woman and her country, and between the characters and their fates – but its appeal goes far beyond romance. It is a tale of fate, of power, and, ultimately, of sacrifice for a greater good." - Riana Everly, author of Teaching Eliza and Death of a Clergyman

Buy Links:

• Available on Kindle Unlimited.✔  Universal Link.✔  Amazon UK.✔  Amazon US.✔  Amazon CA.✔  Amazon AU.✔

Kingfisher - Book Cover

'Kingfisher' - Excerpt:

Excerpt from Chapter 2 “The Rowan Tree”

Five pairs of eyes gazed up at my face when I approached, all in various states of inebriation—glazed, half-closed, wide-eyed, curious, and another with a look I dared not label from the leer on his lips. I raised my chin and steeled my courage, holding out the two pennies.

“Is there a fortune-teller here?” They looked askance at one another, murmuring and gesturing. One of them, a thin wiry man with a snaggled grin, slurred out an answer.

“Dw I dymm yn dallt.”

He did not understand. I smiled, my mind searching the Welsh tongue still tucked beneath my English facade. Father insisted on his girls speaking English on an everyday basis, especially when visiting London or attending the Season in search of husbands, as he concluded the high-born aristocrats of London society never stooped to learn the language of the least populated section of Great Britain. He was right, for even Edward, the Prince of Wales, knew only a smattering of the tongue. Even our house staff he hired from Dorset and Warwick instead of any locals to ensure we maintained the speech. In truth, his insistence on all things English piqued my curiosity on more than one occasion. I dared never ask, though.

“Dach chi’n siarad Saesnag?” I answered back, hoping at least one of them spoke English.

Each of them, in turn, shook their head. I held up the coins again, this time asking for the fortune-teller in their language.

“Ble mae’r rhifwr ffortiwn?”

The same wiry man stood up, brushed the dust from his trousers, and motioned for me to follow him. He approached one of the wagons and tapped his swarthy knuckles against the frame.

“Kezia,” he belted out. “Mae gennych fusnes ac arian.”

The woman, upon hearing that she had business and money, peeked out through the small square side window. She looked as ancient as the Black Mountains, grey hair, furrowed brow, and eyes full of fog.

She opened the door, her twig-like fingers beckoning for the coins and curling over them once obtained.

“Come in,” she said, her voice unmatching her appearance—wispy and soothing, yet rich like fine boxed Belgian chocolate.

I glanced back to the carriage and waved to Isla who stared out the window, biting her fingernails, while Harri stood near the campfire with the other men, accepting an offer of a cup of something to warm his gut. Blowing Isla a kiss, I mounted the steps and entered the cramped quarters.

The woman cackled softly and pointed towards a chair across from a round table in the centre of the room. I sat, taking in the surroundings. A fire burned in a iron-belly stove at one end of the room, the scented heat inundating the ambience with oakwood and anise. Snatches of herbs dangled from a hemp rope along the ceiling and rich burgundy scarves embroidered with botanical scenes lined the walls, as well as decorating my chair and the cushions behind my back. The air exuded mystery.

The woman, Kezia, blended into the atmosphere as naturally as a butterfly on a flower, even in her worn, aged state. She poured out two cups of tea and sat across from me, smiling a quite uncomfortable yet knowing grin.

“Ye sister not want to come?” Her question billowed out and her dark midnight eyes narrowed.

“My sister? No, she did not . . . how did you know?”

She chuckled and took a sip of her tea, tapping one finger to the side of her head. “I am knowing many things.” Leaning forwards, she stared deep into my face. “Like this . . . I know who ye are, my lady of waters.”

A sudden flush of nausea flooded my stomach and I touched my hand to my neck, my pulse racing beneath my fingertips.

“Lady of waters, what do you mean?”

She leaned back, draping her arms over the thick brocade upholstered arm chair she sat on. “Is this not why ye came . . . to hear ye ffortiwn?”

The nausea morphed into fear and I made a move to stand, but she stilled me with her words.

“I remember ye mam-gu, ye nain,” she said. “Illya was her name, was it not?”

“Wha . . . what?” I sputtered, easing back down. “How?”

“Ooh, ‘tis fifty years now, I think, when she died. I knew her before the Major, before India . . . that journey kill’d her, ye know.”

I huffed through my nose, an sardonic sneer as I pushed my teacup away and crossed my arms. “No, I wouldn’t know.”

She replied with a wink and a chuckle. “No, I suspect ye wouldn’t living with secrets now, would ye?”

“Secrets?”

She snickered and struck a white-tipped matchstick, lighting a thick beeswax candle in the centre of the table. The flickering flame danced in her pupils and she held the smouldering stick in between her thumb and forefinger; the smoke wafting in two slender entangling streams.

“White phosphorous . . .” she said, “very deadly, if eaten. One pack of matchsticks can kill a person.”

I arched my eyebrow, uncertain if I ought to sip any more of the tea. She blew away the smoke with a blast of breath, finishing off with a wave of her hand and crooked a smile.

“Useful information, is it not?” She added.

“I suppose, if you need to know such a thing.”

She nodded in agreement and pointed to my teacup. “Go on, finish the tea and with the last few drops, swirl the leaves and hand me the cup.”

With much trepidation, I finished the strong brew, deciding if she indeed poisoned me, at least Harri and Isla were close enough to ensure a rescue.

Handing her the cup, I waited for a moment as she turned the cup clockwise from the handle, her slight hum pausing once, twice, and a third time, with a ‘hmm’ or ‘ahh’.

She set the cup down and pointed to a long line close to the rim, formed by the residue of the leaves.

“Ye will take a long journey . . . far away from here. And here . . . near the bottom . . . the ‘T’. Do ye see it?”

I squinted and tilted my head, unsure, but agreed any ways. “Yes . . . I think.”

“This is for love . . . ye will look for this letter in your search for love. And the last, ye are a traveller as ye grandmother before ye.”

My heart leapt in my chest. “And where does it show that?”

She smiled and pushed the cup away, wrapping her warm hands over mine. “I need not the cup to see that.” Raising her hand, she pointed her forefinger and jabbed her rounded fingernail into my chest, right above my pounding heart. “Here . . . in ye soul and in ye eyes.”

The words lured me in with a strong pulling sensation, creeping into my core. “You said you remember her,” I said, hoping to draw more information from her about my past.

“Yes, she was like me.”

“A gipsy traveller, you mean . . . a Kale . . . from Caernarfon.”

She snickered. “Ooh, much more than just a Kale . . . for she knew the ways of travellers from long ago. She was a woman Bard with a voice like a nightingale—her favourite was Keats . . . do ye have a favourite?”

“Yes . . . I do. I adore Tennyson.”

“Ah,” she acknowledged, her eyes alighting with a long ago remembrance. “Of course, ye love Tennyson . . . the days of King Arthur. Romantics, both poets in search of escape, and dreamers of days long gone.” She narrowed her eyes. “Ah, I am seeing doubt in ye eyes. You have listened to rumours that we gipsy folk are ignorant . . . illiterate, even. Some are, no doubt, but ye nain was special, like a muse of fire to poets. She used to read poetry to me late into the night. One of her favourite lines was from Keats—‘O, for a life of sensations rather than of thoughts!’”

I grinned at the quote. “I know that line . . . my mother recites that quite often. But, what do you mean ‘of course, I love Tennyson’?”

She chuckled and lifted the teacup, tilting the rim for me to see inside. “What do ye see when ye look inside?”

I thought, for a moment, that her question answering my question was her attempt to evade, but as I stared into the cup, a clear picture formed in my thoughts. I shook my head and touched my fingers to my temple, just above my right eyebrow.

“The roots of a tree . . . like my ancestry reaching deep into the soul . . . searching for water . . .”
She cackled, reached across and touched my arm. From her fingertips, the goose flesh sped across my skin, all the way to the crown of my head. She narrowed her eyes and quoted another line. “Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry, for large white plumes are dancing in mine eyes.”

Keat’s poetic words compulsed from my heart and throat. “Last night I lay in bed, there came before my eyes that wonted thread of shapes, and shadows, and remembrances . . .”

She continued. “You know the Enchanted Castle—it doth stand upon the rock on the border of a lake . . . ye know it well enough, where it doth seem a mossy place, a Merlin’s hall, a dream . . .”

And I added, without volition. “Here do they look alive to love and hate, to smiles and frowns; they seem a lifted mound above some giant, pulsing underground.”

She leaned towards me, her eyes narrowing. “And from them comes a silver flash of light, as from the westward of a summer’s night; or like a beauteous woman’s large blue eyes gone mad through olden songs and poesies . . . it is a flaw in happiness to see beyond our bourn—it forces us in summer skies to mourn, it spoils the singing of the nightingale . . .”

“I have a tale to tell,” I rhymed. “And yet, I cannot speak it.”

“And yet, your dreams speak the tale, do they not?”

I shook my head, scattering her question tingling the hairs on my arm, and rubbed my brow again.

“What . . . what just happened?” I asked.

She answered only with another low chuckle.

Even with much eye-lash blinking and lip-biting, confusion bubbled inside me, fearing what just passed between me and the gipsy. Looking over to the empty tea cup, I felt a sudden fear that more than tea, indeed, poured from her kettle and down my throat.

D. K. Marley

Author Bio:

D. K. Marley is a Historical Fiction author specializing in Shakespearean adaptations, Tudor era historicals, Colonial American historicals, alternate historicals, and historical time-travel. At a very early age she knew she wanted to be a writer. Inspired by her grandmother, an English Literature teacher, she dove into writing during her teenage years, winning short story awards for two years in local competitions. After setting aside her writing to raise a family and run her graphic design business, White Rabbit Arts, returning to writing became therapy to her after suffering immense tragedy, and she published her first novel “Blood and Ink” in 2018, which went on to win the Bronze Medal for Best Historical Fiction from The Coffee Pot Book Club, and the Silver Medal from the Golden Squirrel Book Awards. Within three years, she has published four more novels (two Shakespearean adaptations, one Colonial American historical, and a historical time travel).

When she is not writing, she is the founder and administrator of The Historical Fiction Club on Facebook, and the CEO of The Historical Fiction Company, a website dedicated to supporting the best in historical fiction for authors and readers. And for fun, she is an avid reader of the genre, loves to draw, is a conceptual photography hobbyist, and is passionate about spending time with her granddaughter. She lives in Middle Georgia U.S.A. with her husband of 35 years, an English Lab named Max, and an adorable Westie named Daisy.

Connect with D. K. Marley:

• :Website ✔ Blog ✔:Podcast ✔ Group ✔ Twitter ✔ Facebook ✔ Instagram ✔ Pinterest ✔ Amazon Author Page ✔ Goodreads ✔

Kingfisher - Blog Tour Schedule Banner