Speak Its Name and Hidden Conflict: We're Having a Party!

[Leslie]

Cheyenne Publishing and Bristlecone Pine Press are doing a special promotion on Thursday November 5th -- today -- to promote Hidden Conflict: Tales from Lost Voices in Battle and Speak Its Name: A Trilogy. Visit this thread throughout the day to read excerpts from the two anthologies, watch the book trailer, and get details on how to enter the drawings to win some really cool prizes.

Bristlecone Pine Press will give away a free eBook of each title, and Cheyenne Publishing has a brand new paperback of Hidden Conflict with a bookplate signed by all four authors, and a paperback copy of Speak Its Name with a bookplate signed by all three authors. Everyone who enters the drawings will be eligible to win Hidden Conflict bookmarks.

Please feel free to post here throughout the day as the party gets going!

Here are links to both books (Kindle versions) at Amazon, to get things rolling...

 

[Leslie]

Details from Mark about how to enter the drawing to win a print copy of Speak Its Name or Hidden Conflict:

Cheyenne Publishing invites you to enter a drawing to win a bookplate-signed copy of Hidden Conflict: Tales from Lost Voices in
Battle or Speak Its Name: A Trilogy.

To enter the drawing, send an email to webmaster@cheyennepublishing.com with the name of the drawing you would like enter (either Hidden Conflict OR Speak Its Name) in the subject line and your name and address where the prize would be shipped should you win. Names will be randomly drawn for each book and all remaining contestants will be eligible to win bookmarks (up to 10 additional names will be drawn) The contest ends at midnight Pacific Time (3 am Eastern).

Once the contest is over, emails will be deleted and Mark will not keep any of the information that you send. It will only be used for the purpose of this drawing.

The contest ends at midnight Pacific Time (3 am Eastern).

Be sure to get your entries in because these are two really great books!

Mark
www.cheyennepublishing.com

[Leslie]

Details about how to win the ebooks of Speak Its Name or Hidden Conflict:

Good morning everyone!

If you would like to win a copy of the ebook of Speak Its Name or Hidden Conflict, send a PM to me, here at Kindleboards, with the name of the book in the subject line that you would like to win -- yes, you can enter twice, one email for each book. In the body of the message, please indicate which format you would like (PDF, HTML, prc, or epub; prc is the format that works on the Kindle). Please include an email address so I know where to send the book, should you win. Also include a mailing address because I will also be sending out bookmarks to a number of extra lucky winners.

Don't worry, once the contest is over, I'll delete the messages and not keep any of the information that you send. It will only be used for the purpose of this drawing.

These are really great books so be sure to get your entry messages submitted by the deadline: 3 am EST (midnight PST).

I'll be posting the name of the lucky winners tomorrow.

Leslie
www.bcpinepress.com

[Betsy the Quilter]

Woohoo, a contest!  Love contests!

Thanks for posting this, Leslie!

Betsy

[Leslie]

Yes, contests are good!

Here's an excerpt from Not to Reason Why, one of the four stories in Hidden Conflict.

Fort Abraham Lincoln, North Dakota

May 15th, 1876

Brett was peripherally aware that Mrs. Kerrigan had just spoken to him. "Hmm?"

She smiled demurely. "I said, would you like some more tea, Brett? And whatever are you thinking about? You were a million miles away right
now."

His cheeks warmed and he looked down at his teacup. It was nearly empty. "Yes ma'am, I will have a little more, thank you." He scooted the cup toward her. She refilled it, looked at her husband, then glanced at the clock above the mantel.

Seated to Brett's left, Sergeant Dermot Kerrigan gently wiped the crumbs from his mouth, then placed the checkered napkin back in his lap.
His long, slender neck rose above the yellow neckerchief to a smooth-shaven, deeply cleft chin. His sideburns squared off just above
his jawline and were a much darker shade of red than his hair, which he parted neatly on the side. His eyelashes were so blond they were white.

"A man couldn't ask for a lovelier or more gracious wife," he said.

A hint of a smile passed over her lips. Just a shade over five feet tall, Dermot's wife barely came up to his shoulder. She was petite and fair-skinned, and her hair and eyes were very dark. She was somewhat plain, but her inner beauty shone through and created an illusion of outward beauty. In the eighteen months they had been married, they doted on each other. Dermot treated her like a queen and she was impossible to spoil. Though the cavalry required them to be separated for long periods of time, Sarah was a soldier's wife through and through, an office she performed dutifully and proudly.

Sarah stood, gathered the few remaining dessert plates and the teapot, and carried them to the kitchen. Dermot leaned closer to Brett and spoke in a low voice, sharing a joke about a saloon girl and a virgin. They were chuckling over the punch line when Brett suddenly realized that Sarah had reentered the room. Dermot's back was to her so he couldn't see the icy stare directed at Brett. The reprimand he could
see in her expression caused him to scoot away from Dermot and pick up his teacup. She retook her seat, her countenance once again sweet and smiling in front of her husband. Brett was always welcome in their home and Dermot invited him to dinner often, but he seemed oblivious to the fact that his wife sometimes resented the intrusion.

"Oh no. I was hoping it would be a while longer," Sarah said.

Brett had missed something. "What would?"

She reached over and touched his shoulder. "Oh Brett, you're daydreaming again."

"General Custer's back. Just arrived from Washington this morning," Dermot repeated.

"Oh, then I guess we'll probably be marching again," Brett said, moodily. The past two months had been a reprieve for the soldiers of Fort Lincoln. During Lieutenant Colonel George Armstrong Custer's absence the fort had been under the command of Major Marcus Reno, and
everything had been peaceful, the soldiers at ease, and the wives happy. Most of the soldiers and their families wouldn't have minded if
Custer and his ambition had just stayed in Washington D.C.

"I think it's miraculous that he managed to get the president to give him back his command after all those nasty accusations he
made," Sarah said.

"He did stir up quite a hornet's nest." Dermot beamed with pride, straightening his neckerchief in a subconscious gesticulation. "Accused Belknap of graft and then proceeded to name off a whole list of congressmen on top of that. Even accused the President's brother of accepting bribes! Blew the lid off all the corruption in Washington."

"Is it true?" Sarah asked. "I mean was Custer telling the truth?"

"I don't doubt what he said was true." Brett fidgeted with his teacup and avoided looking at Dermot. "Congress seemed to think so. They impeached the Secretary of War based on his testimony. But however true his accusations, I think he really just wants to make sure
Congress doesn't look too closely at him."

"I really don't understand what you all have against the general," Dermot said.

That was Dermot for you. He was just about the only soldier in the fort who actually admired the man, and insisted on honoring him by referring to him by his earlier pro tempore rank.

"It's just I think he takes too many risks," Sarah said. "I know he wants to be the next president, and I sometimes wonder if
maybe winning a few battles isn't sort of a campaign for him."

Brett was impressed. Sarah was no empty-headed housewife.

"Nonsense, darling," Dermot said. "He is simply doing what needs to be done to keep this country safe. He may want to be president, and why not? He's earned it. If it weren't for him, the Indians would be running wild and scalping every settler west of the Missouri River."

Brett thought it was more likely that the dissent among the Sioux and Cheyenne was in retaliation for Custer's raids and the government's constant reneging of its treaties. But there was no use arguing these politics with Dermot. His patriotism was unflinching.

Brett finished off the last of his tea, then rose from the table, grabbing his forage cap from the hat-rack by the door. "I'd better be getting back to the barracks. Thank you ma'am, for the fine dinner." The news of Custer's return had soured his mood. He had planned to spend more of the evening with the Kerrigans, but now he didn't feel like socializing. They said their goodbyes, Brett gave Sarah a light kiss on the cheek, then turned to Dermot and gave his shoulder a friendly squeeze. He donned his cap and stepped out into the night air.

copyright 2009 by Mark R. Probst

[koland]

Looks like i'm early to the party ... I'm going to go snarf down the best appetizers and see if the punch has been spiked yet.

[Leslie]

Here's an excerpt from Gentleman's Gentleman, one of the stories in Speak Its Name, with a few comments from author Lee Rowan:

I'll have to be away for a few hours, but will be back later to post another couple of excerpts.

I had the idea for Gent's Gent for awhile--I love Sherlock Holmes and the mixture of horsepower and new technology and the ability for
characters to travel so much faster than in age of sail--but the story didn't click until we moved to Canada and our new home had a fire
hydrant -- the DARLING model, from the Canada Valve and Hydrant Company. It's always a struggle to get the right name, and this was an
irresistible pun. Major Scoville was just a combination of syllables that sounded right... until Charlie reminded me that chile peppers are
rated on the "Scoville" scale.

Hope you enjoy this!

Lee

www.lee-rowan.net <http://www.lee-rowan.net>

Summary:

Jack Darling fell hard for his commanding officer the day Major Scoville joined the regiment. But he noticed from the start that the Major has
never looked twice at anyone below his own social station. As a man who came up through the ranks and doesn't even know his own father, Jack is sure Lord Robert would find a mere servant beneath his notice. He has done his best to be satisfied with the lesser intimacy of caring for the man he loves, but his feigned role as a below-stairs ladies' man leaves his heart empty.

When a simple diplomatic errand turns dangerous and a man from their past raises unanswerable questions, both men find themselves endangered by the secrets between them. Can they untangle the web of misunderstanding before an unknown attacker parts them forever?

Excerpt:

May, 1891

The Continental Express, transiting Germany

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, 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, tobe 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]

Looks like i'm early to the party ... I'm going to go snarf down the best appetizers and see if the punch has been spiked yet.

Welcome! Glad to have you here....yes, help yourself to an appetizer and a glass of punch. After lunch we'll be serving the strong stuff. 

L

[Leslie]

Here's an excerpt from No Darkness by Jordan Taylor, one of the four novellas included in Hidden Conflict.

–1915, near the Western Front–

Private Fisher lay on his stomach with the wind knocked out of him, fighting for breath. He dug his fingers into the earth floor beneath him, mouth wide open, though his face was also against the wet, cool dirt. Lights were popping in front of his eyes like tiny bombs. The pain in his back made him feel as if all his ribs had been broken off where they joined his spine. His whole body was shaking as he fought to suck air into his bruised lungs.

A full minute passed in which Fisher was aware of nothing but his own struggle to breathe, to be alive. At last he was inhaling and exhaling in fast, shallow gasps that drove most of the light bursts from his eyes and steadied his shaking hands. He tried to push himself up on his elbows but the moment he moved, pain shot up and down his back and through his ribs. The pain traveled like fire across his legs and arms and every toe and finger ached with it. Distantly, as if his own thoughts were coming from another person, he was aware of being grateful that he could feel his legs at all. That meant they were still there.

"Private! Private Fisher?" a voice called out through the haze of darkness and spotty lights.

He opened his eyes. There were no lights at all. He was lying in total darkness. The pitch black of a grave. The death of a grave. The stink of a grave. The smell came rushing back to him as if being struck in the face with it. Like whatever had hit him––ground shake, explosion, world falling in on itself. The ceiling. A beam from the underside of the house had collapsed in the explosion and smashed him to the ground.

"Private?" The voice was close, but Fisher could not think who it was coming from.

With an effort, he moved one of his feet, scuffing the toe of his boot across the ground. He could move his hands and feet, blink his eyes, open his mouth and breathe. His back was not broken. He closed his eyes, turned his head sideways and rested his cheek against the cool ground.

He heard someone making a great deal of noise nearby; scrabbling, scraping, panting sounds. Like someone rearranging furniture in a great hurry. The image, along with his own whole-back prognosis, amused him and he chuckled.

The sounds stopped at once.

"Private Fisher? Is that you?"

"Me mum used to have a big fancy do every month or so," Fisher said, smiling into the darkness, eyes closed.

"Oh hell—I thought you were dead, Private." There was relief in the voice, bordering on hysteria.

"She'd redecorate the whole house, every time. Get me dad to move the couches and trunks and tables. And I'd have to help her put up new curtains and set the tables with brand new china."

"Were you hit on the head?"

Fisher chuckled again. "She wasn't throwing the china at me."

Something bumped against his knee, then a hand grabbed his calf. Fisher jumped.

"There you are," Darnell said.

"Don't scare me like that, mate."

There was a pause.

"Sir."

"What?" Fisher pushed slightly up onto his elbows, fresh pain racing down his back and through his whole torso as he moved. He lifted his head and looked in the direction of the voice, roughly two feet above his legs.

"I'm not your mate, Private. I'm your lieutenant."

The image of his mother's elaborate, velvet-clad parlor vanished from Fisher's mind's eye so fast it was as if it had never been there at all.

"Yes, of course, sir. Sorry, sir."

"Are you hurt?"

"Something very heavy hit me, sir. I'm not sure how bad I'm hurt."

"A ceiling beam?"

"Yes, sir. Must've been, sir."

"You're lucky to be alive, Private."

Fisher grinned in the darkness. "Yes, sir, extremely. I can move my arms and legs and all. Just feel like my back's about split in two."

"Can you sit up?"

"I don't think so, sir."

copyright 2009, Jordan Taylor

Thank you for reading! Please check out the giveaways going on today from Cheyenne Publishing and Bristlecone Pine Press.

You can watch the trailer for Hidden Conflict here:

<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HDEJhdTOETQ" target="_blank">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HDEJhdTOETQ</a>

The book is available in print and Kindle from Amazon and is also available from Barnes & Noble and All Romance Ebooks.

Jordan

[Leslie]

Here's an excerpt from Aftermath by Charlie Cochrane, one of the three stories included in Speak Its Name.

This was my first published story and I feel hugely privileged to have had the chance - via this relaunch - to give it a going over and change some of the errors of inexperience. Getting the UK spellings back was a great bonus.

Charlie

~

The Easter vacation was looming on the horizon, horribly near for Edward, who preferred even his lonely life in college to the tense and repressive atmosphere of home. He met Hugo every day between the time they'd sat down to coffee, cakes and guilty kisses, and the end of the Easter term. Sometimes they walked, or sat together in hall—it was just friendship on the surface, but all the time the undercurrent of attraction wouldn't go away.

On the last but one day of term, Edward stood in Hugo's rooms, watching the man pack, desperately keeping his hands pinned behind his back so he couldn't reach out and touch him. "I suppose you'll be having a big family gathering to welcome you home?"

"I guess so." Hugo didn't look up from his packing. Edward wondered why the man looked so uncomfortable; he hoped it was at the thought of their being apart for weeks on end. "I dare say all the family will turn up in Hampshire at some point, they usually do, although it won't be as mad as when I was a boy. Not so many Lamonts now—what the war didn't take, the flu did, but Mama will make sure we keep up the traditional family festivities."

Edward always felt jealous of Hugo's family—not just because they had first claim on him. "I don't suppose we'll be particularly festive, we've never been great ones for partying." He swallowed hard. "I'm dreading going home, really."

Hugo put down a book he was putting in the box and looked straight at his friend for the first time that morning. "I'm sorry, truly. If I could do anything…" He tailed off. There was no point in even beginning the conversation. "You'll write?"

"I will." Edward felt the tears welling, turned on his heels and returned to his own rooms, where he started drafting what would be the first letter.

~

It arrived in Hampshire only a couple of days into the break, a very stiff and proper letter full of formality, but awash, to Hugo's eyes, with a million hidden meanings. He pored over it time and again, wondering whether last term was a very interesting and instructive one referred simply to the chemistry lectures Edward had sat through or if I look forward very much to my return to Cranmer meant that he was as desperate as Hugo was for them to meet again.

Hugo wished he'd had the nerve to ask Edward to come and visit, but he didn't have the moral courage for it yet. His mother would have been delighted that one of his friends was paying them a call as her son rarely invited any of his acquaintances home. But it wasn't any inconvenience to his parents which was the important issue; it was the temptation that his hands and lips would be feeling that was crucial. Having Edward Easterby half way across the college, sleeping in his little bed, breathing softly into the night, was a clear and present danger. Having the same man three doors away, down a carpeted and quiet corridor, in a large and warm guest bed, would have been the height of peril.

His letter of reply was slightly less cautious, although still within the strictest bounds of decency, and the to and froing of letters continued to the brink of their return to college and the chance of saying aloud what they'd only been able to write for the previous month. By the time the last letter appeared at Edward's breakfast table, Hugo's style of writing had become like his conversation that day by the river—light and full of laughter, warm and generous, speaking of a love that was burgeoning without ever using the word itself. Whatever Hugo had said over coffee and cakes, the day he had both awakened Edward's soul and almost broken his heart, the words he used on paper told a very different tale. Perhaps their separation was making the man's heart grow fonder, as the old saying had it.

[Leslie]

Here's an excerpt from Our One and Only by E.N. Holland, one of the novellas included in Hidden Conflict and a comment from the author.

~

I was inspired to write this story after visiting my husband's uncle's grave in France in March of 2007. Uncle Eddie (yes, I used the same name) was killed in the second round of D-Day on September 21, 1944. My husband's father died on the exact same day, 40 years later. I was the first person in the family to ever visit Eddie's grave. It was a profound and moving experience for me.

E.N. Holland

~

Synopsis:
Our One and Only by E.N. Holland
1944 US World War II and aftermath

What happens when one must grieve in private? That is what Philip Cormier is forced to do when his closest friend and lover, Eddie Fiske, is killed in France during the second round of D-Day in September 1944. The story covers a forty year arc, told in decade-long intervals, that chronicle Philip’s loss, his life without Eddie, and ultimately, the acceptance and resolution of his grief.  Most importantly, it demonstrates the healing power of love that can be found in unexpected places and ways.

~

July, 1943

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.”

[Leslie]

Another excerpt from Gentleman's Gentleman...

Gentleman's Gentleman  Excerpt 2: 

Thank God for a good vocabulary; this was definitely an occasion for euphemisms. "He was under the misapprehension that the scope of my service to you was of a more personal sort, and that your orders included similar service to himself. Service of what I might call an intimate nature."

A slow flush crept up Lord Robert's fair skin. "That—that smirking son of a bitch!"

"Yes, my lord. I told him that he was mistaken. He declined to believe me. I concluded the discussion by advising him to consult with you if the accommodations did not meet his needs, and I left the room. I may have judged him harshly—he made no attempt to interfere with me in any physical way."

"I should hope you'd have knocked him on his arse if he had!"

Jack released the breath he'd been holding. "Indeed, my lord."

"That explains it, then," Lord Robert said. "He made himself obnoxious that night, teasing me about my devoted, 'darling' batman and—well, suffice it to say I saw nothing amusing in his attempt at humor. Even if the fool weren't completely mistaken about you, to suggest that I would take advantage of a man under my command—!"

His face was still flushed—whether with anger or embarrassment, Jack could not tell. "It was enough to make me wish for the old days of pistols for two at dawn and coffee for one afterwards. I wanted to smash his teeth in."

Jack said nothing. He didn't dare. The truth was stirring in him like a living thing, but he simply did not know what to say. No, he wasn't mistaken. I would love to have you take advantage of me! That would hardly do. In fact, he was grateful for his lordship's integrity. How wretched it would have been to serve under an officer who expected sexual favors, if the attraction were not mutual.

But was it mutual? Jack could not deny what he himself felt. And hope stirred again, a tenuous thread of possibility. A man who would not take advantage might be exercising self-restraint, not indifference. Did he dare speak?

Lord Robert was still fuming, oblivious to Jack's dilemma. "He must have thought me absurdly naïve. I suppose I was. It had never occurred to me that anyone would stoop so low as to make such an assumption about me. Or about you!" He looked up, his eyes full of some unspoken emotion. Anger? Guilt? "My dear fellow, I am deeply sorry. You must believe I never intended to subject you to anything like that. I can't do a damned thing about my own nature, and I'm grateful beyond words for your tolerance. I had no idea you would be offered such an insult."

"Insult, my lord?" Jack's chest felt tight, and his heart was suddenly pounding. Here it was, then—the chance of fulfillment or the destruction of all he had come to know.

"That you were my—that I would—" Lord Robert flung a hand into the air, helplessly.

"The only insult he offered," Jack said carefully, "was the assumption that I would be willing to lie with him."

It was Lord Robert's turn to hesitate. "I'm not certain I understand."

Their eyes met once more, and Jack could not look away. "He was not mistaken about my nature." And, since at this point there could be no going back, he added, "Nor my feelings for you."

His heart sank at the look of shock on Lord Robert's face, and he rose hastily. "I'm sorry, my lord. I've said too much, I'll go to my—"

"No." Lord Robert caught his hand. "Jack, sit down, please. I had no idea—"

Someone knocked on the door.

[Leslie]

And the party continues. Here's an excerpt from Blessed Isle by Alex Beecroft, in the Hidden Conflict anthology.

~

From Alex: Love at first sight does not automatically go smooth for Harry and Garnet, despite Garnet's best laid plans:

I looked at Garnet, and the pale topaz light sleeked lips turned in as if to smother a smile. His eyes gleamed like the moon.

“Where are you leading me, Mr. Littleton?”

“Just here, sir.”

A mud-brick building, visible in the darkness only as scattered yellow dots of light, lay like a rockfall on the side of the hill. My eyes adjusted, picked out the gaps where dirt had fallen from an angle, and lamplight shone through the chink. The roof was all holes, like a colander turned over a lantern. When the door opened, the whisper of human voices was added to the sea and trees, and a drum began to thud out a dim irregular heartbeat. Something like a lute, sweet and stringed, picked out a lazy, meandering melody, now approaching the drumbeat, now drifting apart, like a long silken pennant falling, twisting and fluttering from a high mast.

Within, it was dim; a tawny, confiding, ill-lit place. They crammed us into a little stall like a donkey’s at the back of the room. Indeed, I believe the place may have been a stable-block once, now tricked out as something else; a ballroom, a bawdy house, I wasn’t sure. A woman with long hair straight and black as poured tar and skin the colour of polished rosewood put down before us bowls of some kind of stew, and flagons of wine as raw as vinegar. I took off my hat and turned my coat inside out to hide the gold, but as I did so, the small stir caused by our entrance evaporated. One by one the onlookers took their fill of watching us and looked away.

The music began again, like rainfall.

The table gave us scarce room to put down knives and tankards together. Behind it, we needs must touch. The buttons of Garnet’s pocket-flap poked me in the hollow of my hip. Our elbows jostled as we ate, and the stew was spiced with little red flecks that bit my tongue like fire, until I had no option but to quench it in long pulls at my wine.

I drank too much, too quickly. Sweat beaded on my scalp and itched beneath the wig. I took the damn thing off, wretched horsehair and sticky pomade and authority abandoned all together.

Peeling out of my coat too, I sat on it to keep it safe. And all the while that heartbeat went on pounding, lazy and hot and sweet, until the room reeled about me, and I could not get the scent of Garnet out of my mouth, no matter how burned. It wound about me, like the music, every time he moved; some modern cologne, orange blossom and rosemary, overlaid atop of tar and sweat and heat.

“This…this is a mistake,” I said, not quite sure whose mistake it was; his or mine. I should not have followed him here, let alone come through the door. I did not know why I had, except that I had very much wanted to.

A little ripple of applause went through the room. Voices called out in soft encouragement, and Garnet leaned over to whisper, like a friend with a confession, his lips just grazing my ear, his breath warm on my skin, raising all the little hairs on the nape of my neck with shivery, appalled desire, “On the contrary, it’s most carefully planned. There is even a bed waiting upstairs.”

“We’re in a crowded room!” I snapped, shocked, and realised too late that my shock was itself a confession. An innocent man would have taken Garnet’s word only as an invitation to get very drunk; the assurance one would not have to walk far to find a bed in which to sleep it off. I, who was not innocent, could no longer pretend not to catch his meaning. If I wished to break off this courtship before it started, I had now lost my chance to lie.

He understood this too. “You can’t tell me you are anything other than what I am, sir. You can’t say you didn’t feel what I felt; that day.”

I had no need to ask him which day, and that shook me. So he had experienced it too, had he? That revelation, utterly unlike the infatuations to which I had been subject in my youth—he had shared it. A kind of bitterness against destiny and the unfairness of the world, and the bloodymindedness of youth, which would not see or acknowledge the inconvenient impossibility of its desires, made me look away, his frankness unanswered.

But looking away was another mistake. A couple had begun to dance to the music; she in a white blouse and no stays, her great full skirt billowing about her like a wheel, he in a pair of white breeches and nothing more. I cannot attempt to describe how lascivious was the sight. They swayed together, their hips moving in the rhythm of the drums. Came together, he pressed tight to her back, their bodies moving as one, then swirled apart, catching one another by the throat for a kiss, breaking away and dancing alone, flaunting themselves, taunting one another with their beauty and their pride.

The breeches rode low on the man’s hips. Along the hollow of his flexing spine his sweat gleamed like amber, and his black skin bore a fine dew like the bloom on the skin of a plum. He drew himself up and clapped a staccato rhythm, making the music his own, making my heart drop and then soar. So beautiful! So masculine; so ready to lay claim to what he wanted. And she, so complicit, her eyes full of answering fire, challenge and amusement.

Garnet’s hand on my thigh was almost my undoing. I turned and surprised the same look on his face; a yearning, inward, sensual look—a defiance and an invitation. He wanted me to be that for him; to be a man, for him. “You can’t say you don’t want this as much as I do.”

His hand moved, sliding up to curve about my yard. The blood drained from my skin and my lips became cold. Oh yes, I wanted him with an intensity that crossed the line into pain. I shoved back the bench on which we sat and reeled away, spilling hat and coat and wig to the floor, my teeth chattering. “It ca—it can’t happen!”

“But why?” He pouted like a spoiled child, and I wished I didn’t find it so adorable.

“You need to ask?” They’ll pillory us and pelt us with excrement. They’ll mock and laugh and whisper. They’ll take away the twenty years of my life I spent working for this: my rank, my ship, my duty, my king and country. My pride.

Garnet drew himself up with a lithe and heartbreaking arrogance like that of the dancers. His unselfconscious smile was an anchor in a racing tide. “Am I not worth the gallows?”

I cut myself loose, stumbling out into the crowd, and thence to the door, pursued by his gaze as by a shark. I feared he might yet eat me if I stayed longer. “I am not afraid to die,” I said. “But the man is not yet born who could tempt me to endure the possibility of disgrace.”

[MarkRProbst]

Thank you Leslie for hosting the promotion on the Kindleboards. I hope I'm not viewed as the enemy because I don't own a Kindle device, or any eBook-reader for that matter.

If anyone here is interested in winning signed copies of the books, please enter. Your chances are quite good at this point as there have only been a couple of entries.

Thanks - The Kindle rocks!

Mark
Cheyenne Publishing

[Leslie]

Hey Mark, welcome...and congratulations on your first post! Glad to have you here.

Hmm...over on the Let's Talk Kindle board is an anniversary thread and the first prize is a new Kindle. You just have to write a little bit about a book you enjoy....One of these days I'll entice you over to the ereader side.  And believe me, this forum is full of enablers who really really want you to read Hidden Conflict on a Kindle. LOL

L

[Leslie]

Congratulations to the winners of the ebook and print books for Hidden Conflict and Speak Its Name!

Ebook winners:

Hidden Conflict - Kalita Kasar
Speak Its Name - Karen Oland

Print books:

Hidden Conflict - Cassie Stumborg
Speak Its Name - George Allwynn

Thanks for participating. I hope you enjoy the stories...something tells me that you will.

L

[Betsy the Quilter]

Thanks for making KindleBoards part of this contest, Leslie!

Betsy

[Leslie]

Thanks for making KindleBoards part of this contest, Leslie!

Betsy

Yes, it was fun. I hope folks enjoyed the excerpts and will consider buying the books. Both are available for the Kindle at Amazon.

L