Dragon Lady by Autumn Bardot - Extract and blog Tour

Dragon Lady by Autumn Bardot - Extract and blog Tour

Today I'd like to invite you along on the Historical Fiction virtual Blog Tour for the hot and exciting Dragon Lady by Autumn Bardot.

As I haven't yet managed to read this book I'm offering a free extract to tempt you to investigate further. I think you'll agree that Dragon Lady offers something sultry and exciting for readers of historical fiction set in exotic locations. Its a story based on a factual character, of a determined young woman and her struggle to succeed in a world where women are only valued for their bodies

EXTRACT

By the time the lookout sighted Donghai Island I was familiar with both Zheng Yi’s temperament and the ship’s layout.
Man and boat were much the same. The iron-like strength of the main mast matched Zheng Yi’s unyielding and strong will. The watertight camphor and pine bulkheads were as impenetrable as Zheng Yi’s command, his leadership sealed by experience as a former Tâyson rebel leader. The pirates’ tiny sleeping compartments on the lower deck corresponded to the size of Zheng Yi’s intolerance for laziness and disrespect. Like the giant retractable rudder that controlled the ship’s course, so too did Zheng Yi guide me towards a new direction. His squad boss face was as rough and crude as his ship’s exterior. His private face—expressive and handsome—much like the lavishly appointed saloon and cabin. His smile-sneer, I decided, was meant to confuse and intimidate.
Zheng Yi was the first man I respected. The first man who made my stomach flutter.
Like today, when he strode into the saloon where Golden Moon, the headman’s wife, taught me how to mend a broken teacup with rivets.
“Donghai Island is just ahead.” Zheng Yi examined the teacup’s seam. “Excellent. Do you enjoy this sort of work?”
“It’s a satisfying way to pass a few hours, although I much rather the helmsman teaches me how to steer.”
Golden Moon covered a giggle with her hand.
“That’s a man’s job.” Zheng Yi’s mouth scowled but his eyes flashed with pleasure. He set down the teacup, beckoned me to follow, strode out the door, and to the ship’s bow. “How long has it been since you set your feet on land?” His gestured to the strip of land in the distance.
“I went with Madam Xu into port to conduct business.”
“I’m not talking about the odor and noise of a thousand merchants. How long since you felt sand between your toes, smelled fresh flowers, rested against a tree, and slept on solid ground?” His brow lifted, expectant.
“I don’t remember.” Memories of fragrant orange blossoms, tall grass, bird songs, insect hums, and comforting stillness rushed into the locked-up place in my heart. I squeezed shut my eyes, willed myself not to cry.
Zheng Yi’s thick brows knotted with concern. “Do you miss the life stolen from you?”
My spine rippled with fear. Was Zheng Yi’s plan to sell me to someone on the island? I took a ragged breath and met his incomprehensible gaze. Perhaps this was his way of telling me he was getting rid of me. How foolish of me to think I had any value other than being his concubine. And although my flower girl skills included fawning over a man enough to make him a repeat customer, I knew this was no whore’s game.
My life rested in Zheng Yi’s hands. His rough pirate hands. He was nothing like the queue-wearing, soft-bodied, rich men I entertained with flattery and false sighs. If Zheng Yi had reason to believe I playacted, that my respect for him was false, he would kill me. My answer must be true, leave no room for misinterpretation, and yet excite and delight him.
“Do I miss my former life?” I twisted my lips.  “I don’t miss the poverty. If Father hadn’t sold me I would be married to another poor farmer and birthed nine children by now. I don’t miss the flower boat either, even if I did wear silk. The work was dull and too boring for my curious mind.” I touched his hand, which rested on the rail. “For ten years I have merely existed. All joy gone. Until you came. The sea. Your ship. You. I’m alive. You’ve made my soul sing.” I looked out at the sliver of land. “I don’t know your intentions. Whether you want to sell me or kill me, but it doesn’t matter. You and your ship, for some reason, make me happy. And a little bit of happiness is better than none at all. I thank you, Zheng Yi.”
Zheng Yi pushed me against the bulwark, his lust evident, and wrapped me in his arms. “I won’t sell you, Xianggu. You’re not mine to sell.”
My stomach lurched with fear. “What!? Am I the chieftain’s property? Your Uncle Qi?”
Zheng Yi’s mouth dropped open. “No. No. You’re mine. Not as a slave but…” He rubbed his grizzled cheek against mine, “you delight me in ways I can’t explain.”
My heart leapt. I delighted him! In unexplainable ways! Which meant he liked me, not just my flower girl skills. “Is your wife on Donghai?” I kept my voice light. How could he not have a wife? Or several?
Zheng Yi rubbed his chin. “Wives are expensive and dull.”
“Why do you think the flower boats are always so busy?” My mischievous grin made Zheng Yi laugh.


I hope you enjoyed reading that extract and if its whet your appetite you can buy Dragon Lady now.

Heres the blurb

The triumph of the notorious Zheng Yi Sao is the fierce and unflinching adventure of how a prostitute became the most powerful and successful pirate in the world.

Xianggu is sold into slavery to work on a floating brothel, her virginity bought by the highest bidder. Determined to rise above her poverty and lowly status, she learns the business from the madam. But a violent midnight pirate raid destroys her ambitions. Kidnapped by the powerful pirate boss, Xianggu embarks on a journey that demands beauty, brains, and brawn. Yet she must do more than learn to wield a sword, sail a ship, and swim across the bay if she hopes to survive. She must prove her worth to the Red Flag fleet.

The winds never blow in the same direction and tragedy forces Xianggu to make a risky decision that changes not only her life but the lives of thousands of pirates. Surrounded by jealous men, devious women, ancient prejudices, and the Qing navy, Xianggu battles to save her empire, her family, and her own heart.

In 18th century China, when men made and enforced the rules, the Dragon Lady lived by her own.

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Historical novel #TheRedPearl by Chloe Helton - guest post and excerpt

Today I have a wonderful guest to welcome to Beadyjans books - Chloe Helton author of several exciting historical novels and this post is about her latest book The Red Pearl.

The cover is just beautiful and the storyline sounds amazing, just my cup of tea, I'm sad I just haven't been able to fit it in to my reading schedule yet, but after having read this extract which the author has generously shared I'm even more keen to read it. I'll hand over to Chloe Now.....


Thank you, Janet, for allowing me to share The Red Pearl with your readers!

If you’re hoping to finish off your summer with a crackling, suspenseful read, take a peek at an excerpt of The Red Pearl. You’ll find a marriage on the rocks, a little bit of lost love, the trials of wartime, and the main event -- espionage.

During the American Revolution, a meek innkeeper’s wife becomes privy to some explosive secrets. Read more below! And if you want the rest of the book, you can visit my website or find it on Amazon.

 

Boston, 1778

For a moment, when I woke up, I was back at home. My mother had started to boil water for the porridge, and the faint smell of cinnamon shimmered near my nose. My father’s heavy boots sounded on the steps, and he hummed as he went down. My father was always humming, just as my mother was always praying. Between the two of them, his song and her prayer, there was never silence in the house.

But I wasn’t at my father’s home anymore, and it was silent now. I hadn’t lived with my parents in almost six years. When I married Jasper, I’d vowed never to speak to my father again, and although I had eventually broken that promise, I still kept my distance. When Ma got sick in ‘77, the bitterest winter I’d ever lived through, I stayed there awhile to help her. Not much since then.

No, I was not at home. Jasper’s arms were around me, his body the only warmth in our bed now that we were nearing winter, his face nuzzled in my hair. In the beginning, I told myself it was only for warmth that I let him wrap around me like a parasite, but now we did it every night, even during the summer. I’d begun to accept it, just like I now tolerated the rough taste of stone fence, a drink of hard cider and rum, now that I was a tavern-keeper’s wife.

When I started to move, Jasper mumbled something. He wasn’t much of an early riser, but the sun was splashing through the windows now and we couldn’t let the guests wake before us. It had become my responsibility to make sure of that. “Up,” I urged, nudging his shoulder. “Imagine if Robby gets in the kitchen before we do.”

Now he blinked. Robby, our hired boy, was an honest worker, but he was useless without direct and clear orders. If he tried fiddling with the pots and pans without my direction, they’d all be broken before we even made it downstairs. “Didn’t we just fall asleep?” he groaned.

“Oh, enough. You’re terrible in the morning.”

“Come back down,” he said, wrapping an arm around my waist to pull me. “Lay next to me just a minute longer.”

I couldn’t have resisted, really, even if I wanted to. He was too strong. I brushed a hand through his clipped black hair. There had been days when I yearned for another kind of man, shaggy blonde hair and sharp blue eyes, but although he crossed my mind every day, almost, he was now little more than a ghost swirling in the morning fog. I was here with Jasper, who was dark and quiet and excruciatingly clean-shaven. There was drink to brew and mouths to feed here and I wasn’t a girl anymore.

“Jasper,” I said. I hadn’t been planning to mention this, but he was the one who pulled me back down to bed. “Are you planning to let those Tory meetings go on long?”

“What d’you mean?” he mumbled, his eyes barely open. “If they pay for it, they can have their meetings. And you shouldn’t call them that.”

It had been a long while since the word “Tory” was something to gape at. A group of half-a-dozen men had been holding clandestine late-night meetings in our pub for the past few weeks, and you couldn’t tell by looking at them but the various chatter that caught my ears as I poured their drinks made things clear. Nobody who supported the revolution called the Continental army “rebels” and “hooligans”. It was unclear what they met about, but their leanings were no mystery, at least not to me.

“They might scare the others away, is all I mean. You know how our city is; think what would become of us if our neighbors discovered loyalists under our roof.” In Boston, of all places, it was no good to play both sides.

He rubbed his eyes, apparently realizing that he actually had to participate in this conversation. “We don’t know that for certain. All that matters is that they’re fine customers. Pay on time, leave coins on the bar for us when they leave, and they don’t shout and fight like the patriots do. It wouldn’t be so bad if we scared off a few radicals, now would it?”

He’d never listen. Jasper Finch refused to take a side in the war, and yet it was impossible not to. We had married while the harbor was closed after the Tea Party, and I’d watched him buy smuggled rum and sugar, because if the Crown had its way we would all have dry throats and empty bellies: fair retribution, in their eyes, for our act of rebellion. So the rum had to be snuck in bales of hay, among other methods, and Jasper struggled for months with the books in order to keep bringing those goods in. And yet, he claimed to be neutral, as if such a thing were possible in Boston, where the spark of revolution had first been lit, and where it still echoed through the streets even after every last redcoat had scampered away in terror behind General Howe.

To house Tories in our inn, even if he was doing naught more than accept their business, wouldn’t do him well. There was no city that hated the British more than ours. “I suppose not,” I lied. “I know it’s best to be neutral.”

“Neutral,” he repeated, satisfied. “That will get us through this.”

I remembered my father saying much the same. Jasper knows not to pick sides, he’d told me, unlike that boy of yours. And that was why I was in this soft bed in a tavern called The Red Pearl rather than with Sam on the battlefield, wiping sweat from my forehead as I threw pitchers of water on the cannons. My father had not wanted that life for me, so I was here.

“Well, I suppose it is time,” Jasper said finally, grunting as he pulled himself out of bed. “Sometimes I wish I could sleep all day.”

Funny, because in this place, where the dusty wooden walls closed us off from the war that raged outside, it seemed we were asleep all day. “Someday, when we’re very old and we have a son and a sweet daughter-in-law to take care of us, we’ll do just that. Sleep from dawn till dusk.”

“With you, I would,” he smiled.

My heart skittered, and he pecked me on the cheek. “I hope Robby hasn’t tried to make porridge already.”

“God’s bones,” Jasper cursed. “It would taste like pig slosh.”

With that, we hurried downstairs.

Hungry for the next chapter? Click here to get a new chapter in your inbox every week, or find it on Amazon!

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Storytellers by Bjorn Larssen - Blog Tour and Extract

Storytellers by Bjorn Larssen - Blog Tour and Extract

Today I join fellow bloggers Jera's Jamboree and The Divine Write on the Blog Tour for the new book by Bjorn Larssen - Storytellers which sounds so tempting I couldn't pass by the chance to share an extract even though I haven't yet got around to reading my much-anticipated copy.

The Blurb

In March 1920 Icelandic days are short and cold, but the nights are long. For most, on those nights, funny, sad, and dramatic stories are told around the fire. But there is nothing dramatic about Gunnar, a hermit blacksmith who barely manages to make ends meet. He knows nobody will remember him – they already don’t. All he wants is peace, the company of his animals, and a steady supply of his medication. Sometimes he wonders what it would feel like to have a story of his own. He’s about to find out.

Sigurd – a man with a plan, a broken ankle, and shocking amounts of money – won’t talk about himself, but is happy to tell a story that just might get Gunnar killed. The blacksmith's other “friends” are just as eager to write him into stories of their own – from Brynhildur who wants to fix Gunnar, then marry him, his doctor who is on the precipice of calling for an intervention, The Conservative Women of Iceland who want to rehabilitate Gunnar’s “heathen ways” – even the wretched elf has plans for the blacksmith.

As his defenses begin to crumble, Gunnar decides that perhaps his life is due for a change – on his own terms. But can he avoid the endings others have in mind for him, and forge his own?

A free Extract

For Icelanders, America was the New World, a place they barely dared to dream of. Bjarni had spent his youth trying and failing to go and build a new life there. Arnar, his brother, made it, but decided to return – why...?

When Arnar joined the other patrons, Niels was already finishing his second ale. “Why did you return from America?” he asked between quick swigs, as if worried Guðrún was going to change her mind and take his pitcher away.
“And a good evening to you,” answered Arnar, immediately irritated.
“Manners,” huffed Guðrún. “So, Arnar… would you like some brandy whilst you’re telling us about it? On the house.”
Arnar looked around, as if seeking escape, only to find five pairs of eyes glued curiously to his face. Bjarni’s stare was the most intense, the taste in his mouth bitter. He, too, was ready to hear why anybody would return from the New World to live in a fishing village without a name. A year before Arnar’s escapade Bjarni tried to join the others who went to America. He failed. When his brother’s attempt not only worked but turned out to be such an enormous success, Bjarni took it personally. As he was still putting together basic cabinets and digging shacks in the hills, Arnar was earning a lot of money and courting the most beautiful woman in the world. It would have been an easier pill to swallow if Arnar had stayed there and never returned.
“If only you knew,” sighed Arnar. “Thank you, Guðrún. America isn’t what people describe in their letters and articles. It’s an awful place to live. Aye, if you’re smart, strong and hard-working, like me, you can succeed. Just look at my wife and my house,” he said proudly, before returning to his gloomy tone. “But living there to stay? A whole different story. People who do not return are simply failures who can’t save enough money to make it back here. They have to lie to pretend they are better than they really are.”
Doubtful looks were exchanged.
“It’s nothing like here. Imagine that someone takes all this away,” Arnar waved his hand around. “All the farms, the valleys, the sheep, the huts, the skies, the coast…”
“I wouldn’t mind that at all if it got me rich,” said Valdimar.
“The weather is unbearable. In the summer it’s too hot to breathe. In the winter you get so much snow your door won’t open. But can you take a break from working? No. Do they have winter-gatherings? Maybe they do, but I wouldn’t know because Icelanders are not invited. Not unless they want to show off that they can afford one. Like a pet. Remember the powdered sugar, Bjarni?”
His brother muttered something and shifted uncomfortably on the bench.
“What about powdered sugar?” asked Niels immediately.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” said Bjarni quietly.
“Well, we want to know,” said Niels. It was easy to be brave around Bjarni. If he got upset the worst he would do was leave the inn in a huff.
“Someone get my brother another ale, he’ll need it,” laughed Arnar. “This was a year before I left. Hallgrímur, a friend of ours, came back to visit his family and Bjarni invited him over to listen to his stories. Hallgrímur told us that in America raisins grew in the earth like grass grows here in Iceland, so people did raisin-making like they would do hay-making at home. Then Hallgrímur said they would get blizzards in America, but it wouldn’t melt, because icing sugar fell from the sky instead of snow. So, when you had a wife – and it is very easy to marry in America, I can tell you that’s true – she would love sweeping the porch to save the icing sugar for later.”
Bjarni was staring at his pitcher, his face purple.
“So, this will come as a surprise to all of you, but it wasn’t true. There were no raisins and no powdered sugar waiting. Just a lot of work for people who made fun of you. Weird people you couldn’t even understand.” He wagged his finger threateningly. “That is what happens there. Your friends who went to America, why do you think so many of them never return? They are too ashamed. If you ever go there, do as I have: take the Americans’ money, take their women, and run…”
“Isn’t that illegal?” interrupted Niels. “How did you manage to get a permit?”
“You don’t need a permit there.”
“So you didn’t even ask her parents’ permission?” Magnus was dumbfounded.
“Of course not! We made a plan, took all we needed, then went straight to the boat and came here.”
“I don’t know if I believe you,” said Bjarni, his voice finally back and his face slowly returning to its normal colour. “So many people wrote letters, and I’ve read it in the papers as well. I don’t think you’re telling the truth.”
“I swear to God,” answered Arnar, then grinned at his brother. “If you don’t believe me, go and find out. Bring back some raisins and powdered sugar.” He got Bjarni another ale to soften the impact of the joke. “It’s not worth dreaming about,” he whispered into his brother’s reddened ear. “You’re doing just fine here. If you went there you’d be yet another pet Icelander working for somebody else. Here you’re an independent man who hires others. You have me working for you, that’s how well you are doing. Trust me, brother. There’s nothing for you in America. I swear to God,” Arnar repeated, then smiled. He had no intention to remain Bjarni’s employee for long.

Buy the book here

UK - https://www.amazon.co.uk/Storytellers-Bj%C3%B8rn-Larssen-ebook/dp/B07P8Z74CC

US  - https://www.amazon.com/Storytellers-Bj%C3%B8rn-Larssen-ebook/dp/B07P8Z74CC

About the author

Bjørn Larssen was made in Poland. He is mostly located in Amsterdam, the Netherlands, except for his heart which he lost in Iceland. Born in 1977, he self-published his first graphic novel at the age of seven in a limited edition of one. Since then his short stories and essays were published in Rita Baum Art Magazine, Writer Unboxed, Inaczej Magazine), Edurada.pl, Homiki.pl, and Holandia Expat Magazine. He is a member of Alliance of Independent Authors and Writer Unboxed.

Bjørn has a Master of Science degree in mathematics, worked as a graphic designer, a model, and a blacksmith. He used to speak eight languages (currently down to two and a half). His hobbies include sitting by open fires, dressing like an extra from Vikings, installing operating systems, and dreaming about living in a log cabin in the north of Iceland, even though he hates being cold. He has only met an elf once. So far.

Social Media Links –

www.twitter.com/bjornlarssen

www.facebook.com/bjornlarssenwriter

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The Catherine Howard Conspiracy by Alexandra Walsh Blog Tour extract

The Catherine Howard Conspiracy by Alexandra Walsh Blog Tour & extract

Please join me today on the Blog Tour for The Catherine Howard Conspiracy by Alexandra Walsh. Published by Sapere Books it is an exciting historical novel which is inspired by the Women of the Tudor Court and is part one of The Marquess House trilogy which sounds amazing and fab for anyone enthralled by Tudor history.

I have a free extract for you to read and enjoy before you rush out and buy the book. I'm not kidding it makes me want to read on and I just long to lounge around on a sunny beach reading this.

Extract

Chapter One

Catherine shivered as she waited. The corridor in Whitehall Palace was a thoroughfare bustling with people, but it was draughty and the icy wind cut across it like a shining blade. She hugged her new shawl more tightly around her, glad of its warmth. As she did, she admired the soft leather gloves her uncle had given her as a gift before she left home.

“Soft gloves to protect your soft hands,” he had murmured. He had always singled her out for attention, been kinder to her than any of the other Howard girls, and he had arranged for her to be a maid to the new queen, the Lady Anne of Cleves. It was an honour but now she was here, her excitement was turning to nervousness.

She had grown up in her step-grandmother’s house a few miles away in Lambeth. A ramshackle home full of orphans like her and other members of the hugely extended Howard clan. She had innocently thought that the court of King Henry VIII would be like that, only with more jewels. Now as she watched the parade of courtiers, she realised she could not have been more wrong. People hurried busily to and fro. Yeoman guards marched past in their daunting green and white Tudor uniforms, pikes aloft, metal-heeled boots ringing with a chilling authority. The women in their elaborate dresses, the men equally as ornate: it was an endless visual feast.

Court was more intense, more splendid and more glamorous than anything she had ever imagined and she was only on the edges; a mere nobody waiting with her trunk for her elder half-sister, Lady Isabel Baynton, to collect her. As she glanced up the corridor searching for a familiar face, a tall, good-looking man dressed in a sumptuous velvet cloak caught her eye and winked. Glancing over her shoulder to see if the true recipient of his intended favour was behind her, she heard the man laugh and blushed furiously as he walked by, still chuckling.
“Kitty!”

To her relief, she saw Isabel hurrying through the courtiers. Torches guttered casting shadowy light on her as she approached. It was early afternoon but the weather was cold and stormy and the sky had barely lightened all day. Taller than Catherine, with dark hair and dark eyes, Isabel was married to Sir Edward Baynton, who was to be vice-chamberlain to the new queen.

He was an important man, having worked for each of the king’s wives — including Catherine’s cousin, Anne Boleyn, Henry VIII’s second bride. Now Edward was once again to hold this important role in the new queen’s household and his stature was reflected in Isabel’s dress, demeanour and, to Catherine’s surprise, her spectacular jewels.

“Isabel!” exclaimed Catherine, curtseying to her half-sister as etiquette required, before being swept into a warm embrace. “Your diamonds! Did Edward give them to you?”
Isabel laughed and turned her head so the magnificent diamond drops in her ears shimmered with cold fire in the winter light.
“An early Christmas gift,” she smiled. “We have a present for you to welcome you to court but we’ll give it to you when you’re settled. Is that yours?” She pointed to the trunk.
Catherine nodded. “Although, there isn’t much in it,” she admitted.
“Never mind,” said Isabel. “We’ll organise a new wardrobe for you. We must maintain the Howard family name. Cox, take my sister’s trunk to the maids’ rooms,” she said to the servant standing respectfully behind her. Then, tucking her hand under Catherine’s arm, she led her along the busy corridor. “What do you think of court?”
“I’ve been here barely half an hour but it seems, well…”
“Daunting?”
“Yes,” agreed Catherine.
“Don’t worry, my dear, we’re all here to help you; myself and Edward, your Uncle Norfolk and, of course, our brother Charles. Although, he seems rather preoccupied at the moment.”
“Is he in love again?” asked Catherine, grinning.
“Yes, but this is a little different from his usual infatuations.”
“You mean the object of his affection isn’t married?”
“She isn’t but, well, there are other complications. However, it’s never wise to discuss such things in the open court, even in jest, remember that, Kitten,” said Isabel. “The court has ears everywhere and like the smiling serpent who was the undoing of Eve, there are endless charlatans lurking in unexpected places in this merry Eden.”

Catherine nodded, but she was disappointed. She always enjoyed hearing about her brother’s latest romantic escapades. The true chivalric and charmingly penniless knight, Charles Howard was always infatuated with someone, and Catherine suspected he was more in love with the idea of romance than the most recent recipient of his amour.

As they walked, she tried to memorise the winding route, wondering if this sprawling building would ever feel familiar. Eventually, they arrived in a quieter, but even more beautifully decorated section of the palace.

“These are the queen’s new rooms,” explained Isabel. “And along here are the maids’ rooms. I’ve arranged for you to share with our cousin, Kathryn Carey. She’s an old hand and will look out for you if neither Edward nor I are available to help.”
“And Uncle Norfolk?” Catherine asked.
“He’s a very busy man but I’m sure once he knows you’re here, he’ll invite you to his rooms to keep you up-to-date with family business.”
Catherine laughed but she was secretly delighted.
“Hardly, Issy,” she said. “I’m far too lowly for such important conversations.”
“Don’t underestimate your new status, Mistress Howard,” said Isabel. “The position of maid of honour is not one given lightly and there were many noblemen fighting for places for their daughters. Enjoy your rise in status and use it wisely. You’ll need a husband soon and being at court will improve your prospects of a lucrative match.”

Are you tempted? You can order this historical thriller now from Amazon

The Author

From tales spun for her teddies when she was a child (usually about mermaids) to film scripts, plays and novels, Alexandra Walsh has always been a storyteller. Words are her world. For over 25 years, she has been a journalist writing for a wide range of publications including national newspapers and glossy magazines. She spent some years working in the British film industry, as well as in television and radio: researching, advising, occasionally presenting and always writing.

Books dominate Alexandra’s life. She reads endlessly and tends to become a bit panicky if her next three books are not lined up and waiting. Characters, places, imagery all stay with her and even now she finds it difficult to pass an old wardrobe without checking it for a door to Narnia. As for her magical letter when she was 11, she can only assume her cat caught the owl!

Alexandra’s other passion is history, particularly the untold tales of women. Whether they were queens or paupers, their voices resonate with their stories, not only about their own lives but about ours, too. The women of the Tudor court have inspired her novels. Researching and writing The Marquess House Trilogy (Book One: The Catherine Howard Conspiracy) has brought together her love of history, mysteries and storytelling.

Find out more about the Author on her website  or find her on Twitter 

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