Sweet Romances, Just 99 Cents, until Feb 28th

I have several sweet romances and sweet-to-sensual romances, several with money off until Feb 28th.

Prince Orlando has found Sleeping Beauty – but can his love break the enchantment of her sleep? 

A Christmas Sleeping Beauty - Historical Fantasy Romance - now on reduced Winter Special offer at:

MuseItUp Publishing  
Amazon      
Kobo    
Omnilit      
Bookstrand
Coffeetime Romance
All Romance Ebooks

Barnes and Noble

Sweet Romance.

Only 99 cents/0.77p Amazon  and Amazon UK 

What readers are saying:
"Lindsay Townsend used her own magic wand to create a vivid and colorful backdrop for this timeless love story!"

"You'll love this twist on the classic!"

"Townsend makes a nice twist on the familiar fairy tale of Sleeping Beauty."

My historical romance novel, 'Flavia's Secret,' just 99 cents 

(0.77p) from Bookstrand.

This novel is set in Roman Bath and has its climax during the Saturnalia, the ancient Roman version of Christmas. More details, including an excerpt here.

My historical romance novella, 'Mistress Angel,' just 99 cents (0.77p) from Amazon and Amazon Co UK. 


This novella is set in medieval London and is a kind of medieval Cinderella. More details, including the first chapter, here.

My collection of short stories, 'A Rose of Midsummer,' just 99 cents (0.77p) from many sellers, including Smashwords.

Christmas in July - a host of Christmas pasts

As part of Christmas In July I'm giving away a pdf of my historical romance, Flavia's Secret. This romance is set in Roman Britain, in and around Aquae Sulis (The Roman city of Bath) and has its climax during the ancient Roman 'Christmas' - the Saturnalia.

It may not have been Christmas exactly, but the ancient Roman Saturnalia (17th-23rd. December) was certainly an opportunity for feasting and gift-giving. Over the years, this time of merry-making, sacrifices and gift-giving expanded to a week and the poet Catullus - who knew a thing or two about parties - called it 'the best of days'.

In many ways this ancient festival was rather like Christmas:

Schools were on holiday.
Gambling was allowed.
Shopping at special markets was encouraged.
Holiday clothes were worn - the informal, colourful 'dining clothes' instead of the plain, bulky toga.
Presents were given - parrots, wax candles, dice, combs, perfumes, little pottery dolls.
Feasting was indulged, with Saturn himself in charge as Lord of Misrule.
People wished each other a merry Saturnalia with the evocation, 'io Saturnalia!' ('Yo Saturnalia!')

Some of my other stories also take in Christmas. Why? Because Christmas is a time for families and for romance: the romance of exchanging gifts and vows, the romance of walking together in crisp white snow, the romance of sitting together before a blazing fire.

My A Knight's Captive finishes at Christmas-time, too. With the heroine Sunniva and the hero Marc, we witness the Christmas-Day coronation of William of Normandy as King of England. Then we go with them to Sunniva's holding in the north of England, where, in a hut in the snow, she discovers the truth about her own dead mother.

In a lighter vein, to celebrate the fun side of Christmas, I've a short story coming out with Muse It Up in December about a beauty that just won't wake up, despite the kiss of the handsome prince....

Christmas is a time of contrasts: the dark outside contrasted with the bright fire inside, the feasting after the careful mid-winter saving of treats, the hope that finally the year has turned.

This is what draws me to writing about Christmas, and Christmas as it was celebrated in the past.

How about you? What do you find appealing about Christmas?

My latest book, by the way, is another medieval, To Touch the Knight, available now.

Lindsay

The Baths in Ancient Rome were rowdy! Also sexy. Read on to find out how

The Roman philosopher Seneca lived over a Roman baths in ancient Rome. He complained in letters about the noise!

Things he really hated:

Men exercising hard at the baths and grunting as they did so.

Hair-pluckers wandering about the baths, yelling for customers and then making their customers yell as they plucked out their arm-pit hairs with tweezers. (Ouch!)

Men 'dive-bombing' into the plunge pool.

Cake and sausage sellers shouting about their goodies all round the baths.
However, Roman baths could also be sensual, sexy places - as you will discover if you pick up a copy of my Roman historical romance, FLAVIA'S SECRET, now available as a free download until Valentine's Day.

http://www.bookstrand.com/flavias-secret

Here's another excerpt from the novel, taken from the great bath in Aquae Sulis (Roman Bath at Bath in England, where the novel is set.) Here the hero and heroine, Marcus and Flavia, are together while the baths are quietening, having encountered the corrupt Decurion, Lucius Maximus.

EXCERPT:


As they walked side by side back through the great bath, Marcus said, `An impatient man, and cruel. Detestable.' He cracked his fists together.

`He's hiding something,' Flavia said. `Why else was he so concerned about Lady Valeria's papers and that fictitious journal?'

`Ah, so you knew I had made that up!' Marcus put an arm about her shoulders and steered her towards the shimmering waters. `You are right, though, and so was Valeria. That is not a man to be trusted.'

`I wonder why he warned you off politics.'

`I'm wondering that myself.'

As they closed on the top step of the great bath, Flavia sensed a new kind of danger and tried to forestall possible trouble. She lifted the small wax tablet attached to her belt. `Should I make a note of anything, sir?'

`I think not.' Gently, but inexorably, Marcus turned her to face him. `Thank you for shackling my temper, little Celt.' He bent and kissed her forehead. `When he spoke of my mother -' His fingers tightened around her shoulders, instantly relaxing as if he realizedwhat he was doing. `Forgive me.'

To her own amazement, impelled by a sense of sympathy she hardly dare acknowledge, Flavia touched a hand against his chest. `There is nothing for you to be sorry about,' she whispered.

His hand brushed against her head. `Amazing stuff,' he said, running a loose tendril of her hair through his fingers. `Like foam.' He lightly kissed her nose and then, as she laughingly protested, her mouth.

A passing bather made a ribald comment, which Flavia did not hear. She was in Marcus' arms again, her own arms floating shyly around his middle, tightening as he groaned and gathered her closer. She closed her eyes and lost herself in the kiss, her lips becoming ever more sensitive as their embrace deepened. His arms were locked about her, his sensual mouth both taking and offering, his tongue tracing her teeth, the inside of her lips.

`Flavia,' he breathed, as his hands spread across her back and waist,one dipping lower and stroking exquisitely slowly over her bottom.

She gasped aloud, wanting yet not wanting to break free.

`Hey, soldier!' yelled another bather. `Have pity on the rest of us!'

Horrified, suddenly aware again of exactly where they were, Flavia tried to draw back, but Marcus followed her, his mouth smiling against hers. `Not yet,' he murmured, `Just one more.' He kissed her again and lifted her in his arms, half-threatening to drop her into the great bath.

`No, please!' Flavia squirmed, the rising steam dampening her clothes as she was lowered helplessly close to those pale green waters. `I will bite your arm!'

`Do that, my girl, and your backside will regret it,' growled Marcus,sitting on a marble bench close to the top step with Flavia on his lap. `Now be still a moment and stop scandalising the bathers - the few that are left.'

`The baths close soon after sunset here,' Flavia reminded him,leaning her head against his shoulder. She felt a disturbing mixture of shame and exhilaration, but overall she was grateful for the respite, a breathing space for her overwhelmed senses. Watching the emptying waters of the great bath with Marcus, she told herself that
she could not afford to be close to him. Yet she had heard of masters who had freed and married their slave girls, a beguiling thought.

Marcus watched her, taking in her warm, bright eyes, her flushed face and prettily reddened lips. She dovetailed so snugly in his lap it was a pity to move. Delicate, he thought, watching the shadow of her
long lashes falling across her high cheekbones, but surprisingly passionate. A water spirit, very much in keeping with their surroundings.

He scowled, disquieted by his own thought. He had never been sentimental before. He remembered Drusilla his wife, an honored spouse, whom he had treated from the very beginning with respect, good-will, and loyalty. This girl was not even his own race.

She licked her lips, one hand absently pressed against her stomach.

`Thirsty?' he asked. `And hungry no doubt.'

`Not for any delicacy provided by Lucius Maximus,' the girl said quietly. Marcus applauded her principles: she had great spirit.

He patted the marble bench. `Wait here. I will find us a drink, at least.'

`Thank you, sir.'

She left his knee and although that was what he had asked for, Marcus was frowning again. She had called him the slave`s term of respect, as was his due, but he was disquieted as he set out through the rapidly emptying baths in search of a wine-seller. He had discovered that he did not really want Flavia to call him 'Sir'.

Best wishes, Lindsay
Lindsay Townsend: FLAVIA' S SECRET
How Far Dare You Trust Your Lover? Especially when he is also your master?

http://www.lindsaytownsend.net/

The Paranormal in my fiction

Paranormal elements creep into almost all of my fiction. Why? Because eerie, hair standing up on the back of the neck moments do happen in life, Also because I place my characters into strange situations and unusual settings, where their senses are heightened to an almost supernatural state.
In real life, people can experience extraordinary things. A woman I know of was passing a man on a staircase and a thought entered her mind: this is the man you are going to marry. She dismissed the idea as absurd - but it happened and they are still married. In life, people under stress can do extraordinary, almost superhuman things. The woman after a car crash lifting an engine block to free her trapped child beneath. We can all experience feelings of disquiet, of something being 'off'. We can all have dreams which can stalk us.
This is very much the stuff of fiction. Romance especially lends itself to the paranormal and supernatural. When we are in love we feel to be in a transfigured state: all senses and emotions are heightened. In addition, I write romantic suspense, where my characters are in danger and those warning senses we have are on high alert. I also write romance set in the past, at times in the far distant past, where beliefs in spirits, strange creatures, omens and gods were part of everyday life.
In modern life we tend to separate religion and state. In the past belief in supernatural forces, particularly malign supernatural forces, was far stronger. How else could people in the ancient world make sense of what happened to them and around them? When the causes of illness were not understood it would seem logical that an outside influence - an angry god or an evil spirit - had targeted that person or that animal.
Belief is a powerful force. If a character believes he or she can do something out of the ordinary, then sometimes they can. In my historical fiction I use the beliefs of my characters to allow them to tap into something larger than themselves. This 'something' can be a thing of delight or of terror. It is the wonder of the story-teller, used in tales before humans devised writing. And when we did begin to write, ghost stories, paranormal stories 'spooky' stories, were among the earliest tales we committed to clay, papyrus or parchment.
Here are a few paranormal moments from my novels. The first is based on an ancient Roman ghost story of a haunted house, which I adapted to use in 'Flavia's Secret'. In this excerpt, the paranormal is used to show wonder and delight in a special, secret place; a place where Flavia finds the strength to tell Marcus her own deadly secret.

EXCERPT:

Walking quickly, to show that she did not regret her decision to share this place with him, Flavia returned along the twisting beaten-earth path between the rampant rosemary and lavender bushes. One more twist of the path and they reached the heart of the garden and its startling secret—a private outdoor pool, its shimmering waters steaming in the sun.
‘By Mithras, what a place.’ Looking around, Marcus halted beside her, dropping onto his knees to test the waters of the deep, lead-lined pool. ‘It’s hot!’ he exclaimed, shaking moisture from his hand.
Flavia pointed to a large lead pipe leading away from the pool in the direction of the deserted house before it was lost in the luxuriant undergrowth.
‘We think the owner fixed a conduit somewhere off the spring waters of the Aesculapius spring and directed some of the thermal water here,’ she explained. ‘The pool drains somewhere, too, but we do not know where.’
Marcus sat back on his heels. ‘We?’
‘Those of us who come here, when we can.’
‘Your own private bathing place.’ Marcus jumped to his feet again and walked around the marbled perimeter of the pool. ‘I am surprised nobody has tried to make money with it.’
‘We are careful who we tell,’ Flavia said, squashing disappointment at Marcus’ mercenary approach, but he was staring across the sun-gilded water at the leaf-strewn timber portico leading to the deserted house.
‘I am not surprised at that,’ he said quietly. ‘It is beautiful.’
He watched a small breeze tumble a bronze oak leaf along a small marble walkway leading from the semi-derelict portico to the edge of the pool. ‘Mysterious, quite eerie, but also...comforting. As if you are in an entirely different world.’ He turned about, pointing to the sparkling spiders’ webs on the lavender bushes, rimed with heavy dew. ‘Somewhere forgotten by the rest of the city. A place where magical things become possible.’
‘You understand,’ Flavia whispered, breathing out in relief.
He smiled. ‘It is more than likely that the old owner saw an easy chance to grab some free hot water, but what he has made here, what time has made...I am not surprised he was thought to be a sorcerer.’
Marcus held out both hands to her. ‘Thank you for sharing this, and be assured—your secret with be safe in my keeping.’
Flavia walked to the edge of the secret pool and joined him in studying the waters.

In 'Bronze Lighting,' set in Bronze Age Europe, many characters believe in and practice magic. Here Fearn and Sarmatia, hero and heroine, are taking part in a sky ritual, a dangerous rite that they believe may unmask a murderer.

EXCERPT:

By this time it was early evening. A pall of dark clouds had gathered over the Sacred Hill. The sun hung over the eastern hills like a bloodstained shield. Fearn looked up at the sky.
'The God will come here when I summon him and we must be ready. Each of you strip off your gold, your silver and bronze. The Sky God does not like the gleam of metal on others.'
He lifted the bronze diadem from his head and laid it on the grass. 'Pile your ornaments here together. Give it to the earth for safekeeping. Quickly!'
At his command, Atterians broke their circle and came to heap their metal broaches, swords, arrows, arm-rings and finger-rings upon the King's diadem. Sarmatia watched Laerimmer take off his golden throat disc and glanced down at her own bronze ring, reluctant to remove it. Looking up, she saw Fearn walking towards her.
'Must I take off my ring?' she asked in Kretan as he reached her. Fearn answered in the same tongue.
'I fear so, Sarmatia.' He looked at her. Men were still gathered about the growing heap of metal. He and Sarmatia had a moment together.
'What is this ritual?'
'Nothing you need fear, Sarmatia. The Sky God knows our hearts. He does not touch those who are innocent. Twice now as King I've been asked to do this rite. The God may take some of our metal as sacrifice and payment, but that's a small thing for the truth.'
Sarmatia took off her bronze ring and gave it to Fearn. 'You must put this with the rest, Fearn. I can't.’ Then, although she already sensed the answer, she asked, 'Is the Sky God the same whose shrine is the Great Stone Circle?'
'It's the same God. And this is the rite the southern kingdoms have forgotten.' He turned and left her.

There are gods in my novels, too. In 'Blue Gold' the gods of ancient Egypt watch mankind from the sun-boat that crosses the sky each day and they sometimes interfere more directly.

EXCERPT:

“What happens now?” asked Astarte-with-the-moon-in-her-hair.
The eastern goddess of love was paying another visit to the sun boat of Ra. She thought the climate good for her complexion.
The blue god Amun, casting an admiring glance at the silver-haired goddess’s shapely long legs, mumbled something about a race. He ran his hands through a thick fleece of cloud, parting it with his fingers. “Look below us. There is my Pharaoh, a true Egyptian.”
“Ah yes. Sekenenre. The king who toils like an ant. He certainly looks to be making haste.”
Astarte leaned forward, the corners of her eyes crinkling at the sight of Sekenenre and his retinue of priests running their chariots again and again at the same high dune instead of doing the sensible thing of going round it. At her high vantage point, the fifteen chariots moving with such fanatical haste from the small water course where they had hidden their ship looked bizarre, like weevils.
No one on the sun boat reproved or remarked on the goddess’s comments. Those long, shapely legs were even better when she bent over the gunwale. From the middle of the boat came a muffled exclamation as the soul of the long dead Pharaoh Unas dropped the sun god’s fan.
“Fool of a mortal,” said old Ra sharply, squirming on his throne, crossing hands over thighs.
Astarte looked round over one shoulder and smiled, but she reserved her warmest look for Amun. “He is a long way from Thebes, your Sek-en-enre. Did you send a dream to instruct him? Does this true Egyptian know where he is going?”
“Pay no attention to anything Amun says. Sekenenre’s dash into the desert is due entirely to me.” Set materialized at her elbow. He directed Astarte to look over the other side of the boat. “Here’s my man.”
Aweserre’s chariot scuttled jauntily along below them.

In ‘Blue Gold’ when these two pharaohs meet, it is a clash of arms, force and beliefs and it leads to the unleashing of more paranormal forces.

Happy Halloween!

Lindsay
http://www.lindsaytownsend.net

The bath-house

Setting is always a key element for me - I tend to fix 'where' a story is going to take place early on, so I can research it. I don't have a glitzy city background, or lots of specialist knowledge in a particular sexy field, so I knew that to tempt editors I'd need to place my stories in special settings. Also I find it exciting to research places abroad or in the past - another kind of 'abroad' to me.

So far as room settings are concerned, I love water and I love to bathe, so I've chosen bath-houses as my room for this theme week.

Here's an excerpt taken from my historical romance, Flavia's Secret. In it, Flavia has just gone into the main great bath at Aquae Sulis (Roman Bath: Aquae Sulis - means 'Waters of Sul, the goddess). Sadly, in 206 AD,
when the story is set, her bath is not quite the same as the baths we see today, but I attempted to re-create them from research.

Excerpt: Flavia's Secret.

Leaving her shawl with the unsmiling Rags, she followed Marcus into the great bath, hearing behind her the slap of sandaled and bare feet as new bathers began gathering for the tenth hour—the time any fashionable citizen of Aquae Sulis would aim to be at the baths.
`Wait there a moment, please.' Marcus stopped by one of the pillars close to the rectangular pool and expanse of the great bath and shouted something in a German tongue at a blond, rangy swimmer with only one eye, who raised a fist from the steaming waters and yelled back an answer, in obvious delight.
`I know Otho from Germania—this won't take long,' he said hurriedly to Flavia, grinning as he stepped down the top step of four broad steps at the water's edge and stood waiting, immersed up to his knees, for his former comrade, both arms spread wide in greeting.
Amused at their back-slapping antics—Otho seized Marcus' hand and tried to drag him under the water—Flavia left them to their incomprehensible talk and took in the scene around her.
The great bath was a wonder, she thought, grudgingly acknowledging the powers of the Roman engineering. Set in a huge aisled hall with a soaring barrel vault overhead supported on massive columns, the great bath was surrounded by four deep steps on all sides and its aisle walkways were lined with massive white limestone flagstones. After the dimly-lit corridors leading here, the bath was dazzlingly bright, the light from huge arched upper windows reflected by white limestone columns and smooth plastered walls. The steaming water itself, a pale
green, shimmered with light making the statues lining the bath seem alive.
In the water or waiting in the colonnade were the bathing attendants: slaves holding towels or bottles of scented oil, or strigils to scrape off the oil; masseurs calling out their prices; hair-pluckers flashing their tweezers.
Flavia studied the bathers with narrowed eyes, resting her chin on one hand as she crouched by the base of a statue. She had never been in the baths so late before and she soon understood why, and why some of the women were leaving. The men flooding fast on her heels into the great bath were not elderly veterans. These were a different breed.
She picked out a few figures in the bobbing, chattering mass. There was a magistrate, whom she recognized from one of Lady Valeria's rare dinner parties, swathed in towels as he swept along the side aisle with his entourage and various cronies trailing behind. There was a rich young nobleman with a bored, sulky look, being lifted directly from the bath onto a waiting litter, which bore him away into one of
the hot sweat rooms. There was a massively fat man with a scarlet nose eating a sausage and singing while floating on his back in the water. He was being propelled in the bath by an elderly slave whose
back was still raw with lash marks.
`Don't stare, he is not a forgiving man,' said a familiar voice by her ear.
Flavia turned on the damp limestone. Crouching beside her, his German friend nowhere to be seen, Marcus jerked his head towards the eastern exit.
`Let us get this visit over with and go home,' he said.

I feature bath-houses in my medieval novels, too. Just as today, medieval women and men enjoyed a dip in a warm bath. Monks were allowed to bathe for health reasons, medieval pilgrims still flocked to the baths at Bath in hope of a cure from the warm spring waters. By 1100 AD, hot baths or 'estewes' had been established in London.

These 'stews' could be rather shady places - brothels in fact - but many were simple bath houses. In this excerpt from A Knight's Vow we see the hero and heroine together in a bath house.

Excerpt: A Knight's Vow.

‘I heard about your vow.’
Guillelm did not pause in his stoking of the bath-house fire. He had sent the other men and servants out, but Fulk had entered as if he had a perfect right to be there.
‘Do you not think it a sign from God?’ Fulk continued, in that pious, smug way of his. How had I not noticed this aspect of him before? Guillelm thought, depressed anew. In everything it seemed he was a poor judge, willfully blind. The only skill he appeared to have was in killing.
‘Yes, it is a sign - of my own inadequacy. Boil, damn you,’ he added under his breath to the already steaming tub of water. He longed to be clean, to feel clean. ’I want no one here with me now,’ he growled. He had not forgotten or forgiven Fulk over the man’s mean trick with his wife’s diadem.
His wife - what a reckless dream that had been! Heloise was right: no woman wanted him.
‘Go!’ he snarled and Fulk paled and went, backing out rapidly and skidding down the bath-house steps.
Guillelm hurled more logs into the fire. Presently he heard the door creak and bawled, ’Out!’ without turning round.
‘Where shall I put the towels?’ asked an achingly familiar voice.
He spun round and there she was, Alyson his wife. Even as he gawked at her, longing to beg her forgiveness, to snatch her into his arms, to drag her with him into the steaming bath and frolic there until the water turned cold, his tongue felt nailed to the roof of his mouth. What could he say? He had failed her so badly.
She smiled and he was smitten afresh, more stunned than he had been that time in Outremer, when a stone from a sling had struck him on the visor of his helmet and he had almost blacked out. There was no fear of his losing consciousness now, but certainly she mazed his wits.
‘I shall put them here, shall I, my lord?’
Nimbly, she arranged her armful of towels by the side of the great tub, scattering something on the lapping water that instantly perfumed the bath-house.
‘An old remedy, lavender,’ she explained, lifting her skirts to tread lightly over the flags towards him. ’I have spearmint, too, for our teeth and breath.’
‘Our teeth?’
She did not answer, merely passed straight by him, close enough for him to feel the swish of her robe against his legs, and lit two beeswax candles from the torch. She placed these on the stone shelf beside the tub, where most bathers put their trinkets, or goblets of wine.
‘I find that bath-houses are always a little gloomy, even in summer,’ she remarked. ’Do you not think the candles add cheer?’
They did, and they put a glow into Alyson’s face, warm shadows on the vaulted stone roof of the bath-house and a flickering play of lights on the water. They added little light, if truth be told, but something else instead, a sense of being in a dream.

To end, I do not feel I have explored all aspects of bath-houses and look forward to exploring more in this most sensual and romantic of rooms.

Best wishes, Lindsay Townsend

Romantic Roman flowers

Since it's spring where I live, and with my Roman books in mind, I thought I'd talk about some romantic Roman flowers. Some are surprising. Some are popular even today.

Sweet violet is a pretty, sweet-smelling flower used, like the anemone and the madonna lily, in garlands at Roman banquets. The scent was believed to ward off drunkenness! The Romans loved the scent of violets and even drank wine infused with violets and honey.

Vervain is a dull-looking plant but one which the Romans believed held magical proprieties. Believed to bring good luck, it was used in love potions.

Roman brides used mint for their garlands, and their faces may have been cleansed with a facepack made from the juice of yellow elecampane, because it was believed that Helen of Troy was collecting the flower when Paris abducted her.

Then as now however, the most popular romantic flower was the rose. Roses were grown in Campania for sale and the streets in Rome were red with rose garlands. They were known as flowers of seduction - Cleopatra was rumoured to have seduced Mark Anthony with rose petals. I'll leave it to your imagination as to how!

(Painting by Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema and drawings of sweet violet, elecampane and mint from Wikimedia Commons.)

Lindsay
http://lindsaysbookchat.blogspot.com

Heroes: masterful but no bullying, please!

I write historical romances, and like my heroes to be strong-minded and powerful. Alpha, yes, but not a bully. For that reason, I give my heroes doubts and 'issues'.

A man who does not listen, who never pities, who treats those around him like dirt, who always orders without explanation, who never allows the heroine an opinion or input - these traits are not attractive to me. In my romances, even in a master-slave relationship, there must be trust and respect. There are good historical reasons to show this: it was rare, but masters and mistresses did sometimes free their slaves and marry them as equals.

I try to show this by humour and tenderness. Lovers or soon-to-be lovers are indulgent to each other and they listen. In this scene from Flavia's Secret, Marcus owns Flavia. He has his own reasons for being uneasy with slavery and although he is masterful, he is never a bully. I love writing bright, caring, passionate women and my little Flavia is a particular favourite of mine. Here she is with Marcus, arguing about what she thinks is right:

Flavia ignored the rest of Dexter's sales patter and focused on the
headstone. The inscription was full of conventional platitudes about
so-and-so being a perfect mother, but with no true sense of the real
woman beyond the centurion's wife. Above the lettering was a carved
figure of a woman seated on a couch, dressed in a fine gown and
jewels and holding a fan.

`Yes, I like the size and the clarity,' Marcus was saying. `The fan's
impressive, too: the way all the folds are shown.'

`Naturally, we would produce the same standard for Lady Valeria's
memorial,' Dexter said, rubbing his hands together as if he was
already scenting a sale.

`Then we are agreed,' Marcus said, nodding approval. `And the price?'

Let it go, Flavia thought, as Marcus squared up to the bearded
sculptor to begin haggling, but she could not. `My lady never used a
fan,' she said.

At her low distinct voice, the two men stopped in mid-bargaining and
stared at her.

`What was that?' Marcus demanded, his eyes narrowing.

Flavia did not know if he was irritated at being interrupted or angry
at being reminded of Lady Valeria's true character, but she
persisted. She loved Marcus, but she had loved her mistress, too, and
to have a memorial that captured so little of that lady—

`You cannot have a headstone showing her with a fan.'

`They are very fashionable,' said Dexter, smoothing a smear of chalk-
dust from his beard.

`Only women of substance are shown with fans.' Marcus took a step
towards her, his jaw clenching ominously. `Would you have your lady
shown as less?'

`I would have her shown as she was,' said Flavia. `She considered
such things—' and here she waved a hand at the carved figure—`as
total frippery. If you must show her with anything, show her with a
book!'

`We can do that,' said Dexter rapidly, glancing from Flavia to Marcus.
Marcus was shaking his head. `By Mithras, you're a stubborn wench,'
he growled.

Flavia swallowed but did not budge, or flinch as Marcus stooped
beside her, shading his eyes as he glared at the headstone from her
eye-level. `What fuss,' he muttered.

`Would you be shown with a fan?' Flavia retorted.

The instant she spoke, she bit her lip, not daring to smile, but
Marcus' shoulders shook at her suggestion. `All right!' he exclaimed,
laughing, throwing up his arms. `Let the Lady Valeria be carved
holding a book!'

`And the inscription?' asked Dexter.

`Ask Flavia.' said Marcus laconically, but he was smiling. He
scratched his stubble along the length of his jaw and chin. `You
mentioned wine?'

In this scene, Marcus acknowledges Flavia's reason. He respects it. He changes his mind as a result. That kind of generosity of spirit is what makes a male Alpha to me.

Writing historical romances means that the roles between men and women are often more starkly defined. In a society where men were often armed to the teeth and there were no police, a lone woman could be vulnerable. I explore the romantic and sensual possibilities of this disparate 'power' relationship in my novels, but always in the end it is the lovers themselves who 'win' and who go off in a committed relationship of loving partnership. Sometimes the man 'tales charge' for a space, sometimes the woman. (If you want to see a role reversal involving a warrior woman and a sword, you may be interested in my forthcoming Bronze Lightning.)

I leave you with a scene from my forthcoming medieval historical romance, A Knight's Captive, where the hero Marc acts as a hero should and rescues the heroine, Sunniva:

"Rot in hell and back!" Marc bawled, bringing his sword round in a close, lethal arc that raised sparks on the bastard's belt buckle and rent a bloody welt across his chest. "No sanctuary here - you are dead!"

He stamped on the jerking creature and raised his sword, aiming for the heart, when a low moan beside him had him tumbling to his knees to guard her. At the same instant, her two attackers crawled away, stumbling through the door and out.

Marc let them go. Dropping his sword, he gathered Sunniva into his arms, whispering over and over in Breton, "You are alive. Safe. Safe, my angel. Safe."

He had been so afraid she was harmed that having her trembling but whole beneath his hands was overwhelming. Tears stormed into his eyes, swiftly followed by rage.

Where was her father? Her brothers? Where were the useless escorts, meant to protect?

"Hush, hush," he crooned, rocking her back and forth as he struggled to keep his own grief and anger in check.

He dared not look at her too closely while he had tears in his eyes and looked so unmanned, but the warrior's sense in him told him she was not fatally hurt in the flesh. He could smell no blood or sickness on her and though she shook, she did not grimace or writhe in pain.

The injury to herself, however: her integrity, trust, humor, spirit - Marc furiously blinked away the moisture in his eyes as he prayed that Sunniva would soon recover and forget.

"King Christ, ruler of heaven, let her not be afflicted by night terrors, as my poor Isabella is. Let her know peace."

He should be raising the alarm, since none of the other fools of the pilgrim party seemed to have realized yet that anything was amiss. He should be returning to his own three. In a breath, his memory went back to the fire that had carried off his elder brother Roland and his wife: on that dreadful night he had cradled his niece Alde in his arms, even as he was now clutching Sunniva; he remembered how his and Alde's tears had mingled as they clung to each other.

Sunniva did not cling. She was still too stunned to do anything save take great gasping breaths and shiver. There was a dark, welling bruise on the left side of her cheek and her eye was puckering, threatening to close altogether. Tears had streamed down her face; he saw them glistening near her nose and quivering lips. Such a red, soft mouth -

"Do you hurt anywhere else?" he asked softly, relieved when she shook her head. Longing to wipe away her tears, he held her close.


Best wishes, Lindsay.