Launch party for Bristlecone Pine Press!

[Leslie]

Here's an excerpt from Ransom courtesy of the author, Lee Rowan.


Prologue

Plymouth, England, June 1796

It could have been a play, Archer thought as he stood in respectful silence, his midshipman's hat tucked under his arm. The scene before him was like some outdoor theatrical, David and Goliath re-enacted in modern dress. Two men also in midshipmen's uniforms, the elder burly and red-faced, the younger slim and deathly pale, stood back-to-back in a sunny glade not far from Plymouth harbor. Each held a pistol in his right hand.

The warm breeze and sylvan loveliness of the place were lost on the principals, and on two of the three onlookers. Three only, not the four participants demanded by the code of duelling—but the proprieties were fulfilled nonetheless. Archer himself and Mr Parrish, the purser of HMS Titan, stood as seconds. Their ship's surgeon, Dr Dean, had agreed to also act as referee. Not only were the rules thus properly observed, knowledge of the affair could be kept within the confines of the ship.

The doctor raised his voice. "Mr. Correy, Mr. Marshall… Gentlemen, you are certain you cannot be reconciled?"

"Oh, I could be, easily," said the larger man. "Mr Marshall knows well that I would be happy to make our acquaintance a closer one."

"No," said Marshall. He bit his lip, pushed a stray lock of black hair behind his ear. "Impossible."

"Very well," said Dean. "Gentlemen, take ten paces."

They did.

"On the count of three, turn and fire. One. Two. Three."

Both turned quickly; the shots sounded as one. After a moment, Correy toppled slowly to one side. By the time the surgeon reached him, he had breathed his last.

"Best clear out before someone comes," said Parrish, Correy's second. His attitude seemed cold-blooded, but Archer knew that Correy had asked the purser to be his second only because Parrish had a cousin who owned a livery stable, and could rent them the
necessary carriages cheaply. Why the man had agreed was anyone's guess—to help his cousin, perhaps. And Mr Parrish was right in urging haste. Duelling might be common enough but it was still illegal and Captain Cooper disapproved of it.

Archer clapped his bicorne upon his blond head and helped the others carry the dead man to the carriage in which he had arrived. Dean got in with the body; Parrish climbed up and took the reins.

"What—what happens now?" Marshall asked. For all his earlier resolve, he seemed at a loss now, clearly anxious about the possible consequences of his victory.

The surgeon shook his head. "Lad," he said, rather kindly, "You've not been aboard Titan long, have you?"

"Only since last week."

"Then my guess is that Captain Cooper will not be sorry to report Mr. Correy's death in a duel with an unknown landsman. And if Correy's family is wise, they'll let it go at that. Every man aboard knew his habits, but he was too clever to leave evidence."

"You've done the ship a service," Parrish said. "Begone, now. And clean your pistol." He snapped the reins and clucked to the horse. In a moment the carriage disappeared from view.

"Come, Mr. Marshall," Archer said. "Quickly, before someone comes to see about the gunfire."

"Mr. Archer, is he serious?"

"Yes, completely. Come, sir, he was right, we must be off." They climbed into the light trap they'd hired in town, and Archer skillfully guided the horse back onto the roadway.

Marshall was silent for a long time. "I...have never killed in cold blood before," he said at last. "Nor ever killed an Englishman." He turned and met Archer's eyes, looking for an instant like the 18-year-old boy he was rather than the correct officer and gentleman he had been while facing death. "Tell me, Mr. Archer ...what else could I have done?"

"Nothing," Archer said. "In fact, what you did do – that was more than anyone could have hoped for." He had liked Marshall from the moment the quiet, serious midshipman came aboard the Titan, even though Marshall's time in the service gave him seniority over Archer himself. That immediate affinity was part of the reason he had agreed to act as Marshall's second in this affair; his new shipmate was all alone, but that hadn't stopped him from standing up to a bully. "The man was a menace, sir. He made life hell for any boy above the age of consent. Younger than fourteen, a boy could charge rape, so he let the children alone. Older, the victim dared not speak—he could be hanged himself, for participating."

"In the first place," Marshall still seemed to be trying to convince someone, most likely himself, that he'd been in the right. "In the first place, the Articles of War specifically forbid sodomy between men, on penalty of death."

"Indeed."

"I've never—I have served three years in His Majesty's Navy, Mr. Archer. On a sloop, to be sure, and under a strict captain. I know all men have human weaknesses, but I have never seen such a blatant disregard for common decency!"

"I believe Captain Cooper has been in an awkward position," Archer said. "He knew Correy was untrustworthy, but the man was  clever and deceitful. He bribed the men under his command to act as his spies and lookouts, and Correy's family has influence enough to lose Cooper his command if he had acted without ironclad evidence. The Captain did the best he could to keep Correy from power—he never made him acting lieutenant, nor recommended him for the lieutenant's examination."

"His family must have been influential indeed, for him to flout the Articles," Marshall replied. "How could he make such a proposition, bald-faced, and even threaten me? To claim he'd had a boy flogged for refusing him—!"

"He did, more or less," Archer said. "Correy made his wishes known and the boy refused, so Correy brought him before Captain Cooper and charged that the youngster had made the proposition himself. The boy was so flustered he must have appeared guilty of something. The Captain had him caned, not flogged, for `unclean behavior.'"

"What?"

"He had to do something; Correy swore on the Bible and all the boy could do was deny he'd done anything. At least there's no death penalty for it. And refusing didn't even help the lad. Correy had his way with him eventually, poor little bastard."

"My God." Marshall let out a long breath. "Thank you for telling me that, Mr. Archer," he said. "I will not speak of this to anyone, but you have eased my conscience."

Archer smiled. "You have made the Titan a safer place for our youngsters, sir. It is I who should thank you."

They drove on again in silence. Marshall seemed at ease, but Archer's spirit was now in turmoil. His gratitude was far deeper than that of a concerned officer; Marshall had freed him from a demon who had made his existence a living hell.

He had not told Marshall that the boy he spoke of had been himself.

And he had not, and never could, tell Marshall that he just had fallen in love with a brave and beautiful gentleman who would likely shoot him dead if he ever gave voice to his feelings.

[Leslie]

Another excerpt from author Lee Rowan, this one from Winds of Change:


Three days of freedom. Three day…and nights. It was not as though they could afford to relax their vigilance or discretion; sodomy was as much a capital offense in all of England as it was in the Navy, and of any town, Portsmouth could almost be considered the Navy ashore.
But they could buy a little privacy, and there was nothing remarkable about two young lieutenants economizing by sharing a room in an inn less respectable than the Keppel's Head, where the Drinkwater family was lodged.

Luck was with them. The tavern was nearly empty—a lull between dinner and supper—and none of the few faces in the Anchor's taproom belonged to anyone they knew. They ordered a simple meal, sausage and mash with the house ale, and Davy proceeded to consume his
sausage in a manner that had Will blushing scarlet and kicking him under the table. He wouldn't have been so unkind if he hadn't been
ready to burst his breeches at the sensations his lover's performance evoked.

"For God's sake, Davy, hurry up and finish the damned thing!" he finally growled.

"But, Will, it's our first meal ashore!" Davy said, running his tongue over his lips with a look of unbelievable innocence.  "You wouldn't want me to ruin my digestion, would you?"

They were sitting in a corner, out of sight of most of the other patrons, and the bored-looking codger behind the bar was paying no
attention. David's back was to the room; Marshall sat across from him. Astonished at his own boldness, Will slipped one foot out of its
shoe and planted his toes squarely in David's crotch, not enough pressure to hurt, but enough that he could feel his lover's excitement at the game he was playing. "You can eat on the ship," he said, as Davy choked on his mouthful. Will left his foot where it was for just a moment, enjoying the effect, then went back to behaving himself.

"You're absolutely right!" Davy said when he was able to compose himself. He finished the food and drained his cup. "It's amazing, Will. I never realized the barnacles in Portsmouth were so fierce—I could swear one of them was just trying to get a foothold on my bowsprit."

"It's the shipworm you must watch out for," Marshall said. "They'll bore right into your bottom if you aren't careful."

"Only if my luck's in," Davy said under his breath.

Marshall just shook his head. At least he had worn his cloak for protection against the sharp autumn wind; he could fold it over his arm
and prevent embarrassing himself when he stood up.

After what seemed like forever, they were upstairs with the door bolted and the keyhole blocked. Since the idyllic week they'd spent
traveling together after they'd first become lovers, this was only the second time they'd had such privacy.

Davy came into his arms like Calypso sailing into port. The feel of his body pressed full-length against Will's own, the warmth, the scent of him, was simply overwhelming. What a wonderful thing it was to be able to hold him close like this!

"I don't know what I'd have done if they'd separated us," Davy said, sliding his hands up under Will's jacket. "It isn't just this…"

"This is good, though, you must admit." Will pulled back far enough to start unbuttoning Davy's waistcoat. "Never expected we'd have three whole days."

"And nights." Davy pulled his face down for a kiss.

"Even better."

[Leslie]

As part of the launch party, Alex Beecroft posted a few questions to the authors, Erastes and Lee Rowan. Here are Erastes' answers:


> Who has been the biggest influence upon your work?

Strangely, JK Rowling.  It was through her that I discovered fanfic, and up to then, I hadn't really written anything. I'd tried to write,  several times, and I have two novels started, begun about 15 years ago - one is a demon story, which stalled because i didn't know whether it should be for kids or adults, and another is a story about a witches' apprentice, started before I'd ever heard of Pratchett, and after I found him, I realised that no-one would want my book because they'd think it was a pale imitation. Cranky witches, rebellious apprentice with humour.

So having discovered fanfic I found I had something to write about, which then led to Standish in short succession.  I had no idea what I
was doing, so I wrote the ending pretty much early on because that's what JKR did, and I gave the characters "meaningful" names, again
because JKR did.

So, despite that I was hugely disappointed in her last couple of books, I feel very grateful that she sparked that creativity in me.

> What upcoming project of your own are you most excited about?

Hmm. I'm not sure - I don't have anything in the SOON TO BE PUBLISHED corral, I've got one novel done- Junction X - and one novel within a gnat's crochet of being finished - Mere Mortals - and I'm not excited per se - but I'm pretty pleased with them.  Or rather, I'm very
pleased with Junction X and I think Mere Mortals will be good once I've tidied it up.  I can't be excited about either of them as neither
has a publisher yet.  I'm trying to get an agent for JX, as it's not a romance and would like to try and get it into the mainstream--and I'm
under contract to offer Mere Mortals to Running Press first, and I'm rather nervous about that.

> What's the strangest thing you've had to do in the name of research?

I'm a little ashamed to admit this, but when I was writing Standish I wanted to make sure I could turn gay men on, so I went onto gay chat
rooms three or four times and hooked up for cybersex. It was quite a lot of fun, but once I had the information i needed (!!) I didn't go
back.

> Which of your stories has been the most emotionally challenging for you to write?

Definitely Junction X so far. It's a love story although it's "not a romance" and loosley based on a true story. It's in first person
(yes, i know, i'm losing prospective readers by the bucketload) and I had to live for about 8 months "as Edward Johnson" - a 34 year old
deeply closeted married man with a knack for self-justification. He falls heavily in love for the first time with the son of his new
neighbours and of course as you can imagine (seeing as how its set in England in the 1960s) it all goes uphill and then downhill from there.
I found the experience deeply harrowing. I know that many people veer away from "oh god not another dead gay story" but as this was
something that actually happened, I felt it was important to tell the story.

Thanks, Alex.

Erastes
xxxx

[Leslie]

Same questions, answers from Lee Rowan:


> Who has been the biggest influence upon your work?

Someone I doubt most people have ever heard of; he died far too young, and he'd only had a few books published. His name was David McDaniel, and he wrote a few of the original novels based on the Man from UNCLE series. There was no sex in the books, they were straightforward action-adventure, but he had a knack for keeping a story going while showing the characters' affection and concern for each other. I think this was the first time I recognized that different writers had distinct styles. There were about 20 books in the series (UNCLE was enormously popular) but the handful he wrote were the only ones that really captured the feel of the show--the blend of a lively plot with the characters' chemistry. I think I've unconsciously adopted a lot of his style because it's so comfortable.

> What upcoming project of your own are you most excited about?

Two, really. Tangled Web from Running Press--it's due up for sale October 13, and I'm anxiously awaiting the advance review copies--and the next Royal Navy book, Home is the Sailor. This WIP is giving me fits--it's complicated but if I can make it work it should bring the story arc ... well ... home.

> What's the strangest thing you've had to do in the name of research?

Things never seem strange when I'm doing them, only necessary... the first thing that comes to mind is climbing about 40 feet up an oak tree when I was first writing Ransom, to get a sense of being up in the air on a shifting object. It was wonderful--I didn't want to come down.  I've also participated in Native American sweatlodge and vision quest ceremonies (the real thing, not commercial fakes) for fanfiction; that turned into a personal journey, and I hope to do something with that 'research' someday. I love it when that happens--but it's part of why I enjoy research so much. I get far more out of it than what makes it into the story.

> Which of your stories has been the most emotionally challenging for > you to write?
>
Ransom, definitely. In the first place, I'd never done a book with the intention of submitting it to a professional publisher, so that was
daunting. And some of the scenes hit emotional buttons--I had an ex-husband who got stalkerish when I decided to end a marriage that was making us both miserable, but I still had to deal with him to actually get the divorce without a huge court fight. Some of Davy's
walking-on-eggs nerves in dealing with Adrian ... well, my situation was never that awful, thank heavens, but it was a case of building on
experience. Worth doing, though--very cathartic.

Good questions -- thank you!

Lee

[Leslie]

And the party continues! Here's an excerpt from Aftermath, by Charlie Cochrane. This is a short story included in the Speak Its Name trilogy which includes stories by Charlie, Lee Rowan, and Erastes. It will be published in October.


Edward opened the door to his friend's knock, wearing the broadest smile  that Hugo had ever seen displayed on his handsome face. In the room there was coffee waiting, with little biscuits and cakes which looked like Edward had arranged and rearranged fifty times for perfection of display. Hugo took a seat, picked up his cup and a tiny sweetmeat, but said very little. The careless conversation of their first meetings had dissipated, leaving a hollow awkwardness that came mainly from the older man this time, not the younger.

Edward looked like he could stand the tension no longer. "You don't want to be here, do you? You want to say this is all an awful mistake; that we should never meet again. I know what I did yesterday stepped outside the bounds of decency. I'm sorry, I've made a terrible error." Tears began to well in his eyes and he wiped them on his sleeve like a little boy.

Hugo could have borne shouting, he'd half expected insults or argument, but to see his friend cry unmanned him completely. The sight of such a striking face wracked by pain and tears was overwhelming. "No, no. It's not like that at all." He left his chair, moved across to Edward, took the man's face in his hands, let the last walls of defence go down. He gently kissed Edward's brow again and again, working down his face, cheeks. The skin felt softer than he'd expected when he'd only kissed it in his imagination. "I didn't mind a bit what happened yesterday, but you don't understand what all this is about, truly." He had reached his friend's lips and their mouths met.

The intimacy of the act shattered them both. Moist, soft, tender, frightened lips meeting for a fleeting moment and then again for a longer congress. Neither had ever known so profound an act. The sweet taste of their mouths, the darting tongues that pushed against lips and made them lose all ability to think clearly. Hugo had done this just the once before, kissing that nameless boy in the back of a car, but kissing Edward was more stimulating, more thrilling, than anything he had done with Domino. Now he was close to someone for whom he had great affection mingled with desire, and now he was more frightened than words could possibly describe.

Hugo pulled away from the by now frenzied kissing, holding Edward's face between his hands and breathing hard. "You have no idea where this might lead. I swear I didn't hear a word of the sermon in chapel this morning. I just spent the whole time praying not to be led into temptation this day, and in your room temptation comes in droves. If I kiss you again, I'll want to touch you, and if I touch you, I'll want to take you to my bed. Do you understand that? Do you understand what would happen there? And afterwards there wouldn't be any happiness left, just hatred of each other and what we let happen here. I don't ever want to hate you, Edward." Hugo shook with emotion.



L

[Leslie]

Here's another excerpt. This one is from Gentleman's Gentleman, by Lee Rowan, also in the Speak Its Name trilogy.


Gentleman's Gentleman

Excerpt 1

The sudden clash of steel woke Lord Robert Scoville from a troubled doze. His head jerked up, and for a confused moment he looked around for the enemy. Then he realized that the sound was not the clash of arms, but merely his hired railway carriage rumbling over a switch point, the metallic rattle and rumble merely the wheels on the track and the links between cars. He was a decade and a continent away from that old horror, somewhere between Zurich and Salzburg, lounging about in a private railway car in which everything was modern and agreeable. The comfortable divan upon which he sat would, come evening, be transformed into an equally comfortable bed. His man—for not only had Darling survived Maiwand, he'd accepted Scoville's offer of employment—was in an adjoining compartment, ready to supply anything His Lordship might require.

The newspaper he had been reading was folded neatly beside him, and a small brocade cushion had been tucked between his face and the window against which he was leaning. Obviously, Darling had found him asleep and tidied up rather than waking him, as he occasionally did if Scoville dozed off in his study at home.

Darling was a treasure, without question. His unobtrusive competence allowed Scoville to maintain his town home with only a housekeeper and maid who went back to their families in the evening, and additional hired help for the occasional party. The peace and solitude were balm for Scoville's soul. He no longer wished, as he had in his childhood, to be poor enough that he didn't require servants trooping through the house at all hours. One man was all he needed. The right man.  

Scoville occasionally wondered about Darling's origins; he'd never been able to tease the secret out of the man himself. It sometimes seemed as though Sergeant Jack Darling had materialized from the ethers in full uniform when the regiment first assembled, but Scoville suspected an investigation would reveal his gentleman's gentleman as a gentleman in blood at least. He might be a younger son disgraced or strayed, or possibly the indiscretion of some nobleman who'd had the decency to see that the boy got a good education.

It would be possible to hire someone to investigate Darling's past, of course, but that would be a betrayal of trust. Better to wait, observe, and see if he could eventually solve the mystery on his own. He hadn't really made an effort in that direction, though. There weren't many clues.

Darling had made the transition to civilian life without so much as a blink. His careful attention to uniform regulations and placement of insignia was transformed into a scrupulous exactitude regarding what a self-respecting gentleman was required to wear, enforcing his dictates with a deference that held a touch of gentle mockery. Always inclined to comfort rather than fashion, Scoville allowed himself to be bullied in matters of haberdashery. Darling's taste in such matters was impeccable.

Darling himself was no chore to look at, either—strongly built without being bulky, thick dark hair neatly trimmed, eyes a surprisingly dark blue, a pleasantly shaped mouth in a pleasantly arranged face, and throughout it all a spark of intelligence and humor that belied the man's less than lofty occupation. He moved with the grace of a dancer or an athlete; he would have looked perfectly at home sitting in Parliament or at the head of his own firm. Why he chose to devote his considerable talents to making Lord Robert Scoville's life comfortable was another minor mystery, but his lordship was content to let that one lie. A pity he couldn't just marry the man—Darling would have made a splendid life's companion, without the trouble of children or feminine vapors.

Scoville warned himself off that line of thought. Discreet Darling might be, a pleasure to gaze upon, loyal as a bulldog, even willing to turn a blind eye to his master's occasional male guest who stayed the night and shared His Lordship's bed. That was more than a man of Scoville's unconventional sexual habits could reasonably expect, and Darling had never given any hint that he might be willing to consider a more personal sort of service.

And that was just as well, wasn't it? If that particular question were ever raised, it would forever affect their relationship, might even destroy it. The principle that Scoville always followed in the army, A good officer keeps his hands off his privates, was just as sensible a maxim in civilian life. One did not make advances to an employee whose livelihood depended on pleasing his employer.

Lord Robert had an ingrained awareness of his own privilege—not a sense of entitlement, but the sure knowledge that he'd done nothing to earn the good fortune that was his by birth. He had seen too many working-class heroes to think that his title made him better than the soldiers who had fought and died beside him, and he abhorred slavery, whatever its disguise. He might have paid for sexual services on occasion, but only in fair trade; he had never bedded an unwilling companion and never intended to.

Particularly not someone whose friendship he valued. If he looked at the matter squarely, Darling was perhaps the best friend he'd ever had. He could think of no one he trusted more, or would rather have at his side in a tight spot. If he asked Darling for more than the man was willing or able to give, he'd lose him, certain sure—and he did not want to lose Jack Darling. How could one replace the irreplaceable?
This would all have been so different if they had met as equals. He could give the man a look, say, "Well, Jack, how about it?" and go from there—or go nowhere at all.

But at least that way he would know. As it was, the forces of social convention could be a straightjacket for a man with principles.

[Leslie]

Another excerpt, this one from Blessed Isle, a new novella by Alex Beecroft coming out in Cheyenne Publishing/Bristlecone Pine Press’s anthology, Hidden Conflict on Veteran’s Day/Remembrance Sunday, November 2009.

Blessed Isle is a novella told in the form of a shared diary, with entries by two disgraced ex-Navy men, Harry and Garnet, now living in Rio and reminiscing about the extraordinary hardships they went through in the process of falling in love.

EXCERPT

You cannot guess how I am laughing in my heart. Well, why should you? I am dead and dust, and all you see is the change of writing from Harry’s crabbed scrawl to my elegant hand. There will be fewer ink splots in this portion, I promise you.

Every night it is the same! We tryst with great mutual pleasure, and I, sated, fall asleep, only to be awoken in the grey of dawn by a flutter of curtains, a cold wind and the sound of his snoring. Yet again, he’s slumped over the desk, tallow from the candle overflowing the tin saucer in which it stands and greasing his head and elbow. His fingers are in the ink. I have become quite the expert at hauling him from chair to bed and tucking him in without waking him.

Then I sit, and read what he has been saying, and chuckle to myself. He’s so earnest! So pedantic. So convoluted in his meaning and expression! I love him for it, but still I laugh.

Look here where he has said ‘I don’t remember what it was he was singing.’ Is that not shocking? It reminds me of my father, trying to recount his own courtship over the dinner table. “Your mother was the most radiant creature I have ever seen,” he would say, “in a blue satin dress that matched her eyes…”

“Darling, it was teal,” my mother would reply. “And silk. I can’t believe you can’t even remember my dress. Thank God one of us was paying attention!”

And they would bicker for the rest of the afternoon, both of them with the same smug smile, taking great pleasure from their children’s annoyance.

I feel a little like that now. For the song was Give me but a Friend and a Glass, Boys, and it was flung out like a net to see what I could catch. In case it is not sung where you are, dear reader, here are the words.

Give me but a friend and a glass, boys,
I’ll show you what t’is to be gay;
I’ll not care a fig for a lass, boys,
Nor love my brisk youth away.
Give me but an honest fellow
That’s pleasantest when he is mellow
We’ll live twenty four hours a day.

You see? I was angling for a fish to bite, so I shall not rebuke him too much for being unaware of the lure, when he took it down whole and was hooked. Evidently he was so dazzled by my numerous and wondrous qualities, that my message utterly passed him by. I find I can forgive him for that.

Do you think I’m a fool? Yet it isn’t folly which makes my words so light, and causes nonsense to spill out of my mouth like the notes of an aria. It’s just that I’m happy. I didn’t believe it possible to be this fortunate in life, being what I am. But I was wrong. Happiness goes to my head like wine. I daresay I am insufferable with it. If that’s the case, I ask you to bear with me. I will become much more miserable presently.

I suppose I should cease this drivel and pick up the account where Harry has left it off. That momentous instant when Cupid’s arrow pierced us both. Straight through one heart into the other, it flew. Metaphorically speaking, you understand, though, at the time, had I looked down and seen blood, I would not have been surprised. The rosy dimpled boy, having done his worst, clapped his bow back between his wings and flew off, chuckling. I was left trying not to smile, trying not to flirt or to stare. Trying not, in short, to get the pair of us hanged.

I had enjoyed the game of it, in the past. I did not enter the Navy because I feared to put myself at risk, and I have always found that life tastes sweetest with a slight spicing of terror. If you go looking for them, there are always men to be found, three weeks out of port, who are willing to take the chance of a quick fumble, a whisper misjudged so that the lips brush skin, the torment of squeezing by, just that little bit too close in a confined space. All this leading to a hasty climax on the cable tier or the spirit room. The gunpowder magazine, that’s my favourite. Biting kisses and the little death in the dark, surrounded by all that slumbering fire.

I’m not a gambling man, despite what my present neighbours might tell you. But I believe the reckless compulsion a man finds at the tables, I found in this. Knowing I could be destroyed at any moment, loving the high stakes and the thrill.

And so I was singing in invitation when the door opened and Harry ducked beneath the sill. He has waxed lyrical over my charms. It is only fair I be allowed to do the same, lest you think that he is all the gainer and I the loser of this transaction. Nothing could be further from the truth. He was a broader man than I. Strongly built. Traces of the lower deck lingered in that awful jacket he wore and in his hands, made muscular and large by manual work, early in life.

I would not dream of a liaison with a tar. A crewman could not in all conscience say no to me, an officer. I could never be truly certain he was as willing as I, and so I have never dallied outside my rank. But I’ve looked. And I must say Harry’s slight coarseness appeals. He has a pugnacious face, and keeps his hair cropped to the scalp. It is the colour of the stone called ‘tiger’s eye’, a beautiful blend of brown and gold, and I wish he would let it grow, just a little. He says it irks him in the heat, but I would make it worth his while.

Yet it was his eyes I noticed then. An indeterminate colour, somewhere between blue and green, as though the Creator had taken the pale blue of the English skies and added a liquid wash of gold. They changed from shadow to light, from expression to expression. I thought I saw a different me in them; a man I liked better than I had liked myself hitherto.

I drew out my own chair for him and made him sit. He toyed with his wine, his tanned face white as if freshly painted. I thought he looked thunderstruck as I; still deafened and dazzled by that moment of the divine. No wonder Jove’s lovers burned up entire when he revealed his full power to them! We had seen but an instant of it and we were as shaken as a toddler by the blast of his first cannon. Such a physical thing, I could have fallen on my arse from the recoil, and bawled for fright.

He looked afraid too. Instinctively, once I had made my introductions, I found a patch of shadow in which to sit, and let the Second Lieutenant, Angus Kent, fill up our silence with a long account of those things our old captain used to do, which he supposed our new would wish to continue.

Harry nodded in appropriate places. I saw his eyes stray to me. I wondered there was no crack, no snake of lightning following the path of them, for I felt it in me. Every fibre of my frame clenched and then released with a strange tingling snap.

He snatched back his gaze when he saw me watching, and coloured. His jaw hardened. “Well, gentlemen,” he said, “I honour your captain’s name, and he seems to have run a taut ship. But I go my own way. I will keep those traditions I find useful, but I do not intend the hand of a dead man to guide me. You must reconcile yourselves to change.”

A firm voice, a frank stare. They were impressed. But I had noticed that after that first glance he did not look my way again. His eyes travelled from one side of the room to the other by way of the table, avoiding me. I sat in a notional abyss cut out of the wardroom by his will, consigned to Coventry or to Hell, whichever would suit me best.

Oh, I thought, feeling the chill of it already, so that’s the way of it. He means to reject this. The most extraordinary event of my life, and I’m sure of his, and he intends to pretend it did not happen? I will admit that grudgingly I was pleased he was wiser than I and more self controlled. But I was wounded to the quick in my pride.

To be so easily dismissed was more than I could bear! Oh no, I thought. You do not feel the thunderbolt of Jove, and go on as though nothing has happened. The gods punish hubris such as that. You do not have the strength to fight against Olympus.

Look at me again, sir, I thought. You do not want to make them angry. But he would not, and neither of us would have believed the retribution that was to come.

[Leslie]

Here's another excerpt. This one is from Our One and Only by E.N. Holland which is another one of the four novellas included in Hidden Conflict.


They spent four days in Ocean City. Eddie wanted to stretch it to five and Philip was tempted, but common sense prevailed—Eddie still had packing to finish as well as loose ends to tie up before he left for Fort Meade. Philip couldn’t be selfish; he knew Eddie needed to spend time with his family, especially his mother, before he left.

They spent their days at the beach, venturing into the ocean to swim and retreating back to their blanket and big umbrella to dry off. Philip would lie on his side, propped on his elbow, staring at his lover. He had never realized how sensuous the beach could be. “You were a genius to think of this,” he commented one afternoon.

“Think of what?” asked Eddie.

“Coming to the shore. It’s brilliant.”

“Not so brilliant, we’ve done it all our lives.”

Philip chuckled. “Yes, but now I like to look at you in ways I didn’t know before and this gives us a legal excuse to lie around half-naked.”

Eddie grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his shoulders. “You shouldn’t be staring at people in public!” he laughed.

Philip pulled at the towel, bunching it up and throwing it aside. “I’m not staring at people,” he said. “Just you. You know I think you’re gorgeous.”

Eddie blushed at the compliment. “You’re a pretty fine specimen yourself, you know.”

“Nah, I’m skinny with ordinary brown hair. You’re the good looking one…” and as he said this, he reached out for Eddie’s cheek, touching it lightly with his fingers, looking at the lashes feathered on his cheek, the shock of dark hair falling on his forehead. Philip leaned in as if to kiss the other man, then recoiled and glanced around, wondering if anyone had seen the intimate gesture.

Eddie caught Philip’s fingers and twisted them in his, nodding his understanding. “It’s okay,” he said softly. “No one is paying any attention to us.”

Philip paused, realizing this was probably true. Even at the height of summer, the number of people on the beach was just a fraction of what it would have been in the pre-war days. Blankets and umbrellas were spread out far along the sand. Everyone seemed absorbed in their own world; no one was noticing the two young men who kept to themselves.

“There are probably people here just like us,” Eddie said and Philip looked puzzled.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Couples spending a few last days together. Girlfriends, boyfriends, fiancées…we’re not so unusual.”

“Father O’Malley says we are. In fact, he says we’re sinners.”

Eddie snorted. “Father O’Malley doesn’t have sex. How the hell a priest is supposed to advise couples about what goes on in their intimate lives is a mystery to me.”

“If you want to know the truth, I’ve kind of wondered about that too.”

“Trust me, sweetheart,” said Eddie, reaching again for Philip’s hand. “We’re not unusual.”

“No, we’re not,” answered Philip, finding strength as he clasped Eddie’s hand. “Just two people who love each other, struggling with good bye.”

[telracs]

I soared through "Frost Fair" and loved it!  I'm having a harder time with "Ransom."  For some reason, I can't keep straight which of the two main characters is which...  I don't know why.

[Leslie]

I soared through "Frost Fair" and loved it!  I'm having a harder time with "Ransom."  For some reason, I can't keep straight which of the two main characters is which...  I don't know why.

Glad to hear you loved Frost Fair. I did too and like you, soared through it the first time I read it. I have since read it a few more times, more slowly, to savor it.

In Ransom:

David (Davy) Archer is blond and from a well-to-do family; he's a gentleman. He's a midshipman but studying to take his Lieutenant's exam. Of the two, he's a little more outgoing.

William (Will) Marshall is dark haired and the son of a Vicar, so a more humble background than David comes from. At the beginning of the book, Will is 18 and is the one who kills the other man in the duel. When the story proper begins it is three years later and Will is 21. He's the more serious of the two.

Hope that helps!

L

[telracs]

Glad to hear you loved Frost Fair. I did too and like you, soared through it the first time I read it. I have since read it a few more times, more slowly, to savor it.

In Ransom:

David (Davy) Archer is blond and from a well-to-do family; he's a gentleman. He's a midshipman but studying to take his Lieutenant's exam. Of the two, he's a little more outgoing.

William (Will) Marshall is dark haired and the son of a Vicar, so a more humble background than David comes from. At the beginning of the book, Will is 18 and is the one who kills the other man in the duel. When the story proper begins it is three years later and Will is 21. He's the more serious of the two.

Hope that helps!

L

I'm going to go back to Ransom in a week or so after I finish Blood Vice and my re-read of Rogue Hunter (yes, Kevis I'll be keeping my promise to you), so hopefully then I'll be able to sort out the characters.

I have a spoiler question about Frost Fair is Gideon working with his fried the chimney sweep at the end?  It's not quite clear to me....

Leslie, PM me if you don't want to post the answer here, thanks!

[Leslie]

Scarlet,

I asked Erastes the same question! LOL. She intentionally left it vague for the reader, but did allow, in her comment to me, that that was most likely what Gideon was doing, yes.

She is pondering the idea of writing another story/novella that would feature Mordecai, because so many people like him as a character (I do, too).

Also, Speak Its Name (the book coming out in October) has a story by Erastes, Hard and Fast, that features Thouless. So if you said, "Hiss! Boo!" every time he showed up on the scene, here's a chance to say Hiss! Boo! again. LOL

And, question for you: was my description of the sensuality level of the story on target?

L

[Leslie]

Regarding Blessed Isle, Alex Beecroft was asked this question:

The incident with the vanishing ship seems like the kind of thing that's too weird even for fiction, but you've said it's no such thing. Can you explain that?

and her reply:

It was actually two vanishing ship's boats. HMS Pandora, which was sent out to find the mutineers from the Bounty, doesn't seem to have been a very happy ship. As a matter of historical fact, her captain and one of his lieutenants were very cruel, and as they were patrolling the Pitcairn and surrounding islands, looking for mutineers, they suffered a bit of desertion themselves when the two ship's boats and fourteen crewmen disappeared one night.

When I read that, I decided that I would link Harry and Garnet's story into it and make it the explanation for why that happened and where the boats finally ended up.

Sometimes I think you couldn't make up the stuff the real life navy got up to!

[telracs]

Scarlet,

I asked Erastes the same question! LOL. She intentionally left it vague for the reader, but did allow, in her comment to me, that that was most likely what Gideon was doing, yes.

She is pondering the idea of writing another story/novella that would feature Mordecai, because so many people like him as a character (I do, too).

I figured she'd intentionally left it vague, because of the possible jealousy issue between Joshua and the sweep.

And a Mordecai story/novella/full length novel would be WONDERFUL!!!  I loved him and think he deserves his own story. 

Also, Speak Its Name (the book coming out in October) has a story by Erastes, Hard and Fast, that features Thouless. So if you said, "Hiss! Boo!" every time he showed up on the scene, here's a chance to say Hiss! Boo! again. LOL

Hmm, I did NOT like Thouless (I know, I know, I wasn't supposed to), but I don't know if I'd really want to read about him again, unless he gets what deserves!

And, question for you: was my description of the sensuality level of the story on target?

L

And yes, your description was right on target.  Thanks!

[Leslie]

Hmm, I did NOT like Thouless (I know, I know, I wasn't supposed to), but I don't know if I'd really want to read about him again, unless he gets what deserves!

I think he does. He's also a pretty minor character but it was fun to see him pop up again.

Hard and Fast may be one of my favorite things that Erastes has written (although I like all her writing). She also had a really great short story, Ten Kisses, in a collection called Connections. I actually made a small homage to her in Our One and Only; we'll see if she picks it up. 



 

[Leslie]

And another excerpt. This is from No Darkness by Jordan Taylor, the third of the four novellas in Hidden Conflict.


He woke suddenly, aware of being intensely, overwhelmingly, cold.

The cold was in his flesh, in his very bones. The cold was so powerful he could not think, could not even understand for a moment that it was cold he was feeling. It was like a living force taking control of his body, weakening him, holding him immobile in a deathly grip like the heart of a glacier.

When thought returned, it was for his companion. Instinctively, he closed his hand and felt Darnell's wrist still there, in his grip.

"Darnell," he whispered the word, though he had not meant to. He had to cough and clear his throat for speech but the cough made his whole torso explode in pain. As he tried to catch his breath more pain seared through his body. He could not sit up, could not see, could not speak. His heart raced as his eyes stared desperately into the nothingness above him. A panic so powerful it drove both cold and pain from his mind took hold of him. It was a kind of blind, uncontrollable terror he had never felt before in his life.

"Darnell!" This time he shouted the word. The two brief syllables echoed in his ears like shells exploding at close range.

Beside him, he felt Darnell jerk awake and sit up in one fast, almost instantaneous, motion. The split second of relief Fisher felt to think that Darnell was awake and with him vanished as soon as the wrist was pulled from his grip.

"Christ! Where did all this water come from?"

Fisher made a blind grab and caught a sleeve of Darnell's jacket.

"Let go!" Darnell shouted at him from above his head. "We've got to get up out of it. Bloody hell! The whole place is flooded."

"I can't sit up," Fisher gasped, still clutching the sleeve as if it was his only chance at life.

"Well what the hell are you doing lying down in the first place? I thought you couldn't do that either!"

Darnell grabbed at Fisher's arms, felt his way up past his elbows, and pulled him into a sitting position.

Fisher screamed. The agony of being jerked so suddenly upright was almost beyond his mind's ability to take in. Explosions of light burst once more in front of his eyes. He could not sit up on his own and fell sideways. Darnell hung onto his shoulders to keep him up as he nearly lost consciousness.

"Dammit!" Darnell was still yelling, very close to Fisher's face. "Why didn't you wake me? There must be six centimeters of water in here."

"I—did wake—you," Fisher gasped the words out, fighting to stay conscious, clutching Darnell's wet sleeves. "Who do you think—that was—shouted . . . ?"

"Feels like Greenland in here," Darnell said. He let go of one of Fisher's shoulders, scrambling for something in his pocket. Fisher heard a small splash as the matchbox plummeted into the water. Darnell swore as he turned to find it but Fisher clutched tighter to his arms.

"Don't let go of me!"

Darnell had already let go and was trying to push Fisher back. "Get off, Fisher! I've got to get them back."

"They won't work anymore."

"They might! Let go!"

"I can't stay sitting up on my own." Fisher's voice was choked. "Please don't let me fall back into it."

Darnell stopped fighting him. He stood still for a moment, panting, though Fisher could feel his arms shaking from the cold. Only then did he realize his own body was shaking.

Darnell took Fisher's upper arms in his hands. Fisher felt how weak the grip was. There was another splash beside him, then a thud just behind him. Darnell had lifted his foot from the water and kicked the wall to see how far they had to move.

"Okay," Darnell said, his voice now calm. "I'll get you back to the wall. You're going to need to stand up though, to get out of this water."

Sliding through the water with Darnell lifting and Fisher pushing with his legs, brought home for him how very wet it was. It wasn't just the paralyzing cold. It was like sitting in a shallow bath of just melted ice.

"You need to let go now," Darnell said once Fisher's back was against the wall. His face was very close to Fisher's as he bent over him. Darnell had already released his grip on Fisher's arms, but Fisher clutched Darnell's sleeves as tight as ever.

"Let go," Darnell repeated.

Fisher waited for the order, but it did not come.

"Fisher, you've got to let go. Let me get the matches. I'll be right here. Okay?"

[Leslie]

And as the party goes on...author Lee Rowan had an interview with Lt. David Archer and Commander William Marshall, from the Royal Navy series.


For a couple of 19th Century gentlemen, Commander William Marshall and Lt. David Archer have been surprisingly ready to accept the notion that people in the 21st Century might be interested in their lives. I say as much. Lt. Archer leans back in his chair and shrugs.

Davy: And why not? I would leap at the chance to speak to Shakespeare, if he would explain the truth of the gentleman to whom he
wrote his sonnets. The war in which we have been engaged must be important in your own history, and therefore interesting. Since you are
addressing me in English, I venture to guess that England triumphed in her disagreement with Bonaparte?

LR: Yes, though it will be a long, bitter struggle. You were both right—the Peace of Amiens was only a break in the battle.

Will: But England will win?

LR: Yes, decisively.

The gentlemen exchange a smile, and Commander Marshall asks me to commence.

The first question is for him. One of the readers is curious to know what he would dream of spending his prize money on.

Will: (After a moment's hesitation) I have no idea, really. The prize money sits in the bank. I am not one of those fools who risk all on a throw of the dice. You may think it strange, but my needs are very simple, and my pay is sufficient to cover them. A few pounds now
and then, for a comfortable room and good food when we're ashore, a Christmas treat for my crew... Someday, I suppose, when I leave the
Service, I shall want a home, but that day seems a long way off. And—forgive me, ma'am, but most sailors do not make old bones. Ask
me that question again, in twenty years' time, and I may have an answer.

Davy: He'll have a tidy fortune. Our prize agent is an honest man, and a clever one. We might find a quiet little place somewhere....

LR: : Would that be your choice—a home together, ashore?

Davy: Oh, yes, but I fear it's a forlorn hope. I've grown a bit cynical on the subject of honor and glory—public honor, at least, as
opposed to the personal sort—but I do not think I could coax Commander Marshall away from the Navy.

LR: Commander Marshall?

Will: Why hope for something we can never attain? You say that in your time, in England, we might live together openly. (He reaches out, unconsciously, and Davy takes his hand.) In our lifetime, that would be impossible.

LR: I'm afraid you're right—and even two hundred years later, such freedom is not universal. But if we can move to a happier subject, a reader would like to know how you feel about one another. What do you think of Lt. Archer, sir?

Will: I ... pardon me, but that seems a very bold question!

Davy: (grinning) The Commander is very shy, ma'am. Let me just step out of the room for a few moments, so my presence will not inhibit
him! (leaves)

Will: (looks after him as though he's about to leap up and leave, then settles back) What do I think of him? I have no words for that, he is the one whose head is full of poetry.

LR: Is it fair to say you hold him in high regard?

Will: Regard? Really, madam, regard? He is like my breath. Until we became ... intimate, I do not think I was truly alive, and for all the joy he has given me, there is an equal measure of fear. (He is silent for a little while, then shakes his head.) As you apparently know, he has insisted upon staying in the Service with me, despite—what befell him last year. Mr. Archer has much more courage than I do. I tell you, I do not know what I should do if he were to be wounded again, or worse. I truly do not know if I will be able to command him in battle, when the Peace is broken.

LR: I thought you settled that question between yourselves, aboard the Mermaid.

Will: You could more accurately say he settled it. In my more sensible moments, I hope that I might be killed first, so that he would go ashore, out of harm's way. If I had more sense and more self-discipline, I should send him away for his own safety and my peace of mind. I cannot. (He rises abruptly, glancing off to the next room.) I can say no more. Shall I send him in to spill all our secrets?

LR: Please.

He nods, and walks out. After a moment, Davy enters and reclaims his chair. I almost feel I should warn him of his lover's misgivings, but
that seems unfair. I find I need not have worried.

Davy: Poor Will. He's still fretting over that target painted on my back, is he not?

LR: Well, you did nearly die, after all. He's much more worried about you than about himself.

Davy: Yes. Silly, isn't it? I don't suppose you could reassure him—no, of course not. Even if you said we'll both survive, he'd never believe you! But please, do go on with your questions.

LR: It's the same question I asked him—what do you think of Will?

Davy: How many hours do we have? (He grins, and I suddenly see why Will is so conflicted—this man has a smile that shuts down rational thought and turns the pheremones up to Warp 6. If I weren't happily married ... and his boyfriend didn't have a cutlass and pistol...)

LR: As long as you need, but the sooner we're finished, the more time you'll have to yourselves—I reserved this room for you for the whole weekend.

Davy: Ah! Well, then—excellent Captain, good manners, lovely in bed—will that be all? (laughs) He is the most attractive man I've ever known, and he does not realize how handsome he is, which I find endearing. He is truly honorable—and believe me, I've seen far too many despicable gentlemen to know how rare that honor is. Will wants to make the world right. He thinks himself a cynic, but underneath it all he has a very tender heart.

LR: And what about yourself?

Davy: Oh, I am a cynic; I expect the worst, so when life gives me a surprise, it's generally a pleasant one. Will himself has been the
grandest surprise of my life—he deserves to be knighted for his prowess in the bedchamber, as you have reported at great length.

He raises an eyebrow, as if inviting me to comment on the double entendre, but I just nod.

LR: Anything else?

Davy: I would like to grow old with him. Passion is glorious, but I think as time goes on, the physical expression diminishes and, if one is fortunate, the affection remains. It seems so with my parents, at least. I envy them their long life together, because I doubt I will ever be so lucky. Will is utterly fearless in battle. He seems able to step outside himself, takes risks he would never require of another. I fear that he may one day take one chance too many. As he said himself, that is the most likely 'future' for us both. I know that such anxiety is considered unworthy of a true man, but as my father has often observed, I have many such 'unmanly' faults.

LR: Will has said he'd like to see you leave the Navy.
 
Davy: I know. But, really, leave? And go... where? With whom? If I were to leave him, we might never meet again, or if we did, we might not even know one another. A ship is a world apart... I would not miss the Navy, but I do not want to live without Will.

LR: Do you think he could adjust to life ashore?

Davy: I wish I knew.

At this point, Commander Marshall tapped discreetly at the open door. I told him to come on in, thanked them both for their time, and asked if there was anything more either of them would like to say.

Will: Only this—whatever may befall us in the future, if I had the chance to take this path again, I should do so without hesitation. Come what may.

Davy: Indeed. But for my part, I would not object to a long, happy life together. So, madam writer—what are you going to do about it?

David Archer has a knack for getting the last word.

[telracs]

Leslie--

Tell Lee Rowan that that is absolutely the best interview.  And I love-
"Davy: And why not? I would leap at the chance to speak to Shakespeare, if he would explain the truth of the gentleman to whom he wrote his sonnets."

[Leslie]

Leslie--

Tell Lee Rowan that that is absolutely the best interview.  And I love-
"Davy: And why not? I would leap at the chance to speak to Shakespeare, if he would explain the truth of the gentleman to whom he wrote his sonnets."

I'll be happy to pass the message along. It is a great interview, isn't it?

Earlier today, I finished editing Eye of the Storm, the third book in the Royal Navy series. It will be out in September and I don't think I am giving anything away to say it's really good!

L