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Showing posts with label #Historical. Show all posts
Showing posts with label #Historical. Show all posts

Wednesday, July 9, 2025

Cover Reveal of Winter's Season by R.J. Koreto (#contests- Enter To Win an an Amazon Gift Card)

Winter's Season by R.J. Koreto Banner

WINTER'S SEASON

by R.J. Koreto

July 8, 2025 Cover Reveal

Synopsis:

Winter's Season by R.J. Koreto

In 1817 London, Before the Police, There Was Captain Winter.

London, 1817. A city teeming with life, yet lacking a professional police force. When a wealthy young woman is brutally murdered in an alley frequented by prostitutes, a shadowy government bureau in Whitehall dispatches its "special emissary"―Captain Winter. A veteran of the Napoleonic Wars and a gentleman forged by chance and conflict, Winter is uniquely equipped to navigate the treacherous currents of London society, from aristocratic drawing rooms to the city's grimmest taverns.

Without an army of officers or the aid of forensic science, Winter must rely on his wits and a network of unconventional allies. His childhood friend, a nobleman, opens doors in high society, while a wise Jewish physician uncovers secrets the dead cannot hide.

But Winter's most intriguing, and potentially dangerous, asset is Barbara Lightwood. Shrewd, beautiful, and operating as a discreet intermediary among the elite, Barbara shares a past with Winter from the war years. Their rekindled affair is fraught with wariness; she offers intimate information crucial to his investigation, but guards her own secrets fiercely. Like Winter, she is both cunning and capable of danger.

From grand houses to dimly lit streets, death stalks Captain Winter. He must tread carefully to unmask a killer, navigate a web of secrets and lies, and perhaps, in the process, save his own soul.

Book Details:

Genre: Historical Mystery
Published by: Histria Books
Planned Publication Date: January 20, 2026
Number of Pages: 300
ISBN: 978-1592116898
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads

 

Author Bio:

R.J. Koreto

R.J. Koreto is the author of the Historic Home mystery series, set in modern New York City; the Lady Frances Ffolkes mystery series, set in Edwardian England; and the Alice Roosevelt mystery series, set in turn-of-the-century New York. His short stories have been published in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine and Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, as well as various anthologies.

Most recently, he is the author of "Winter's Season," which takes place on the dark streets and glittering ballrooms of Regency-era London.

In his day job, he works as a business and financial journalist. Over the years, he’s been a magazine writer and editor, website manager, PR consultant, book author, and seaman in the U.S. Merchant Marine. Like his heroine, Lady Frances Ffolkes, he’s a graduate of Vassar College.

He and his wife have two grown daughters, and divide their time between Paris and Martha’s Vineyard.

Catch Up With R.J. Koreto:

www.RJKoreto.com
Amazon Author Profile
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Instagram - @rjkoreto
Threads - @rjkoreto
Facebook - @rjkoreto

 

 

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Friday, June 27, 2025

Review of Echoes on the Wind (Maggie O'Shea series) by Helaine Mario (#contests- Enter to win An Amazon Gift Card)

 

 

Echoes on the Wind by Helaine Mario Banner

I want to welcome Helaine Mario to Books R Us. Helaine is the author of the Maggie O'Shea Series. I had the opportunity to read book four in the series "Echoes On The Wind" A fantastic Novel. Check out my review below.

 

ECHOES ON THE WIND

by Helaine Mario

June 23 – August 1, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

THE MAGGIE O’SHEA SUSPENSE SERIES

 

TWO STRONG WOMEN, GENERATIONS APART, CONNECTED BY MUSIC…

Echoes on the Wind by Helaine Mario
In 1943 war-torn France, a young woman on the Night Train to Paris has a chance meeting with two very different men who will change her life, setting in motion a Dual Timeline story that will resonate like ripples on water for generations to come.

Many years later, classical pianist Maggie O’Shea is drawn to Brittany by a long-lost letter from her French grandmother and the stirring music of Chopin, whispering like echoes across the years. But as Maggie discovers the secrets of her past, her life spirals out of control, threatening her upcoming wedding and those she loves.

Set against the backdrop of World War II France, Maggie learns her grandmother’s story, chord by chord, through Chopin’s emotional Preludes. And, in one shocking moment, Maggie’s love story will take a heart-breaking turn that will change her life and echo into her future.

Past and present converge in this haunting tale of loss and sacrifice, friendship and family, courage and survival – and the transcendent power of hope, music and l

Book Details:

Genre: Romantic Suspense
Published by: Suncoast Publishing
Publication Date: June 18, 2024
Number of Pages: 364
ISBN: 9781735184975 (ISBN10: 1735184977)
Series: A Maggie O'Shea Romantic Suspense, Book 4
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads 

 My Thoughts:

Sometimes, I must force myself to finish a book, but "Echoes on the Wind" was quite different. The romantic thriller was full of adventure, secrets, love, hardship, suspense, and a memorable cast of characters that added to the storyline and kept me engaged. I finished the book in one day because it was fast-paced, intriguing, and unpredictable. "Echoes on the Wind" is the fourth installment in the Maggie O'Shea series but can be enjoyed as a standalone novel.
The author skillfully included a dual timeline, which added to the story's charm by exploring the life of Maggie's grandmother, Clair Rousseau, who lived during World War II. Clair faced many challenges, which she overcame through her love of music. Maggie discovers some of Clair's music and Chopin's emotional Preludes, using them to learn about her grandmother's history.
An exciting twist in the plot is that Maggie is stalked by a villain from the past, Dane, who is determined to kill her. While several subplots enhance the novel, I don't want to spoil them for potential readers. 

So go out and purchase a copy of Echoes on the Wind to immerse yourself in Maggie O'Shea's world. You won't be disappointed! And while you are there, pick up the other three books in the series, The Lost Concerto, Dark Rhapsody, and Shadow Music.



Read an excerpt:

OVERTURE

“Like so many things that matter, it began with an accident.”
David Ignatius, 12/28/98

NOVEMBER, 1943. THE NIGHT TRAIN TO PARIS

Light and dark.

The bleak November landscape rushed past the train’s window. Black tree branches against the dark night sky, then a sudden flash of light. Then blackness again.

The blackout had claimed the streetlamps and cottage windows. Clair Rousseau stared out the rain-streaked glass, waiting for the next glimpse of light. A lone lantern. Car headlights tilted down, a sliver of gold beyond a cracked curtain. Sheet lightning over distant hills, a glimmer of light on water. But all she saw was the blurred, pale oval of her reflection staring back at her. Dark hair scraped back, framing huge eyes beneath winged brows, sharp cheekbones, the too-wide mouth.

No hint of the emotions flowing through her, except for the deep purple shadows beneath her eyes.

The dim, four-person compartment was cold, and she pulled her coat more tightly around her body. The seat beside her was still empty, thank God. Across from her, two German officers. One asleep, snoring loudly, his hands slack between thick gray-green uniformed knees. The other awake, a Gauloises cigarette clamped between thin lips, a jagged line of white scars marring his left cheek. The narrow fox-like face stared at her through thick round glasses and wreathes of curling blue smoke. His jacket was heavy with insignia, oak leaves, medals. Military Intelligence, she thought with a sudden chill. A high rank, SD or Abwehr. What was he thinking?

The watchful, unblinking eyes made her afraid. Like a snake’s eyes, waiting to strike. She looked away, forcing herself not to reach for her satchel, touch her identity papers for reassurance.

The carriage’s glassed door slid back and forth with an unnerving rattle as the train rocked around a bend. From the hallway came the sharp scent of burning coal, wafting back from the old steam engine several cars ahead. A cloud of steam billowed past the window like sudden fog.

She could feel the vibration beneath her, hear the rumble of the train’s wheels speeding along the tracks. The lonely call of a train whistle, echoing in the night. A quick flare of light, illuminating the rain like silver threads streaming down the window.

Light and dark. Light and dark.

Movement at the edge of her vision. A tall figure appeared in the hallway, beyond the door. Her chest tightened. Would she ever feel safe again?

A sharp crack of thunder, a sudden bright flash lighting her face.

“Mademoiselle Clair?”

Startled, her head came up. The stranger had stopped, was staring into the compartment. Across from her, the watchful German stiffened and slid pale eyes toward the voice.

Be careful.

There was something familiar about the gaunt face, the faint, questioning smile just visible above a thick woolen scarf. She stood quickly, stepping between the German and the carriage door to block the officer’s view.

Oui,” she said softly, peering into the dim hallway. The man nodded and moved closer. Something about those gentle eyes, the arch of silver brows. Memory surged. Father Jean-Luc.

She flashed him a warning glance for silence and stepped into the train’s narrow corridor, closing the door firmly behind her. “Mon Père, is it really you?”

Oui, ma petite, c’est moi.” The priest pulled the scarf down to offer a glimpse of his white Roman collar, then lost his smile as he gazed over her shoulder and saw the Germans. “But we cannot talk here. Come with me.”

He slipped a hand beneath her elbow and guided her to the end of the dark passageway, where an open exit door led across shifting metal plates to the train’s next car. She felt the sudden bite of night wind on her face, cold and wet with mist. Here the clatter of the train wheels was loud enough to hide their conversation.

They sheltered just inside the doorway, in the shadows, away from the rain. Outside, the countryside of France rushed by, then disappeared in a billow of black smoke. In the dim corridor, the planes of the priest’s face were lit by a tiny, flickering overhead bulb.

Light and dark. Light and dark.

The priest looked down at her, shook his head. “Little Clair Rousseau,” he murmured. “Now such a beautiful young woman. It’s been – what? – four years since we met? You were just thirteen, I think. Playing the piano in your parents’ apartment. Bach, yes? It was so beautiful, so stirring. I hope you are still playing?”

She shook her head. “You need hope to create music, Père.” She looked back toward her carriage compartment. The hallway was empty. “But I remember that day. The war was coming. You asked us to help you remove the stained-glass windows from Sainte-Chapelle. To save them from the bombing.”

“You were fearless, Clair. I remember watching you, swaying at the top of that impossibly high ladder. The morning light was coming through the stained glass, spilling over you like shimmering jewels. I’ll never forget it. I told myself, Clair means light, she is perfectly named.”

He leaned down. “And I can still see your sister, Elle – too young to help us, bien sûr – dancing around the altar.”

Her expression softened. “Elle loved to dance. It was the last happy day I can remember.” She lifted her eyes to his, took a breath. “Paris was another lifetime, Père.”

“You cannot lose hope,” he told her. “The glass pieces are in a safe place. Beauty and goodness cannot be destroyed. You will see the stained-glass windows back in Sainte-Chapelle when the war is over. I know it.”

She shook her head. “I wish I had your faith.”

“God has his plans. There is a reason we’ve met by chance on the night train to Paris.” Concern flashed in his eyes. “But you’ve been in Brittany? Dangerous times for a young woman to be traveling alone, Clair.”

She looked out at the black trees rushing past the doorway, and felt the blackness deep in her heart. “I am alone now, Père.”

Mon Dieu. What happened?”

“My father knew that war was inevitable. Not long after we saved the glass my parents moved us from Paris to the coast near Saint-Malo to be safe. Such irony. They had no idea how dangerous Brittany would become. And then…”

She could not stop the sudden rush of tears that filled her eyes. “The Gestapo shot my father last year, in a retaliation roundup for an act of sabotage by the Resistance. He was with the Liberty Network, they had bombed a train track. He stepped forward, admitted it, hoping to save the others. But still they took thirty innocent people from our village, murdered them in the square.”

“Oh no, Clair.” The priest made a quick sign of the cross. “I am so sorry. And your mother, your sister?”

“I don’t know, Père. I was studying in Paris, I begged them to come stay with me. But Maman refused. When I returned last month to see them, the house was empty. They were just… gone. The neighbors said the Germans took them, in the night. The mayor was told they were being relocated to Poland.”

The priest paled. “Désolé. I will pray for their souls.”

Anger erupted, spilled out. “Prayers did not help my family! I have no time for prayer now. Or sorrow. Even avenging my father will have to wait. I need all my energy now to find my mother and my sister.”

He bent toward her. “I am afraid you are still too fearless for your own good. Tell me what you’re doing, little one.”

She turned once more to scan the dark hallway, then leaned closer. “I excelled in languages in my lycée studies these last years,” she whispered. “I am fluent in several languages, including German and English. I hope to find a new job, in the Hotel Majestic in Paris, where the German High Command is quartered. Then I will join the Resistance, find a way to get news of Maman and Elle. I must find them!”

He gazed down at her for a long moment, then put a hand on her shoulder.

“Perhaps I know of another way,” he murmured.

The sound of a door opening. Wavering shadows spilled into the train’s corridor. Then the red glow of a cigarette, a spiral of smoke. She froze as the German officer turned toward them.

“Find me at Èglise Saint-Gervais, in the Marais,” the priest whispered quickly. “I am with the Resistance there. You could work with me, we need someone like you to –”

A sudden terrifying screech of metal wheels. Clair felt herself thrown to the floor as the train braked, slammed to a shuddering stop. Stunned, Clair reached out, felt the still body of the priest beside her. “Mon Père…

Shouts in German in the darkness, the clatter of heavy boots. When she raised her head she saw flashing blue lights against the night sky.

Light and dark. Light and dark.

PART 1

“An echo of the past…”
Victor Hugo

CHAPTER 1

THE PRESENT
PERFORMING ARTS CENTER, MARTHA’S VINEYARD

Light and dark.

The stage was shadowed, lit only by a handful of overhead lights. One of the lights began to flicker, a bright flash illuminating Maggie O’Shea’s face for a brief moment, then casting her into darkness.

Maggie sat at the Bechstein grand piano, marveling at the power, the responsive touch, the unique tone of the beautiful instrument. Prokofiev deserves no less, she thought.

The score propped above the keyboard was marked by penciled notations, heavy lines, arrows and slashes. Prokofiev’s Piano Concerto No. 2 was the ultimate challenge for a pianist, but Maggie had chosen it because it was so emotional, so personal. So incredibly beautiful.

It has the most to say, she thought.

And, oh, she had so much she wanted to say. Always, since she’d been a young child whose bare feet did not yet reach the pedals, she had spoken through her music. Told the piano her secrets long before she told anyone else.

Her earliest memory was of being curled beneath the grand piano, listening to her mother play, surrounded – cradled – by music. Then later, sitting on the piano bench by her mother’s side. The smoothness of the keys beneath tiny fingers, the sound that seemed to magically flow from her shoulders to her fingertips. Seeing the colors, making the piano sing. Making the rest of the world disappear.

But this piece – face it, every piece lately – was giving her trouble. Something, some emotion, was just out of reach. Her mentor, the legendary pianist Gigi Donati, would say she was taking the easy way out by mastering technique but not the emotion. She could hear Gigi’s smoky, exasperated voice in the shadows. No, no, no! You are not growing, Maggie, your music is lifeless. Imagine you are kissing your lover goodbye for the last time. What do you feel? Now, again!

Maggie sighed. She had been playing the first movement for an hour, with nary a lover in sight. Without Espressivo, as Gigi would demand. She would say, You don’t know the music yet. Take the time. Grow with the music. Illuminate its secrets. Make it yours.

The light high above the stage flickered again, slipping her out of the light into darkness.

Light and dark, thought Maggie. The story of my music. The story of my life.

She closed her eyes, took a deep, shaky breath, and began to play the next phrase of music.

Look into the heart of the music, whispered Gigi from behind her. Find its light. Find its soul.

A few more chords, and suddenly Maggie’s fingers stiffened, locked, slipped off the keys. Shaking her head, she gathered the sheet music and dropped it to the bench.

I just can’t, Gigi. I know what’s wrong, why I can’t play. I just don’t know how to fix it.

But deep down, she did know. What she needed was to feel. But once again, part of her was frozen.

You will not give up, she told herself. You have so much joy waiting for you. Raising her left hand to stretch tensed tendons, the engagement ring on her finger flashed emerald in the theater lights.

The flash of emerald green in a shadowed cabin. The memory washed over her and once again she was back in the moment. She saw Michael’s face, as craggy and strong as the mountains he loved, his granite eyes locked on hers.

What are you doing, Michael?

It’s called offering you a ring, Maggie. The color of your eyes, the color of the mountains. It’s been hidden in my sock drawer for months.

I know it’s a ring. I mean… What are you doing?

Jumping off a cliff, it seems. Don’t make me get down on one knee, darlin’. I’ll never get back up.

Silver eyes blazing like a torch. Marry me, Maggie.

I… You… Oh, Love.

I’ll take that as a yes, ma’am.

She smiled. Colonel Michael Jefferson Beckett. A man who had fallen in love with her when he didn’t want to, a man she hadn’t wanted to love back.

And yet.

It just was. Like music. And right this minute he was back in those beloved mountains of his, at his cabin in Virginia’s Blue Ridge. Working on a secret project, he’d told her, with Dov, the Russian teenager in his care.

She pictured the battered, rugged face she knew so well. The quirk of his mouth, the spiky silver brows, eyes like river stones locked on her. His stillness, as if he was carved from the mountains he loved. The way he listened…

Michael, standing behind her, wrapping her naked body in a woven blanket.

Michael, beneath her in the shadowed bedroom, whispering her name against her lips while her hair fell like dark rain around his face.

She breathed out in a long sigh. It had been an emotional several months but now, finally, she was letting go of the past. Moving on. Ready to marry again. To spend the rest of her life with the Colonel, Dov and their rescue Golden, Shiloh. She had never expected this gift, this second chance at love.

She shook her head, barely recognizing the woman she’d become. For so long she’d thought of herself as a city-girl. But the small cabin in the Blue Ridge Mountains was becoming her center. Her home. She heard music differently in the quiet of the mountains. Listened better.

Suddenly wanting to hear Michael’s voice, she dialed his cell. Message.

“Hey you, it’s me,” she whispered. “Call me tonight, I’ll wait up. I have so much to tell you.”

If only…

If only she didn’t have to tell Michael the secret she’d been keeping from him these past few weeks. That once again, a vicious murderer was threatening all she held dear. Dane, with his scarred, wolf-like face and mirrored sunglasses hiding his eyes. The one nightmare she could not put behind her.

Because now Dane was back in her life.

+ + +

Over 4,500 miles to the East, the man who called himself Dane could not sleep. Still hours before dawn, shadows lay sharp across the tiles of the villa’s bedroom, angling from the terrace doors. Dane sat in a cushioned chair, crutches propped beside him, staring out the glass at the black Aegean far below – waiting for the sun’s light to spill over the horizon and fill the dark water with gold.

A sudden shift of the moon, and he caught his breath at his reflection in the window. All the mirrors in the villa had been shattered years ago, by his own hand. As shattered as his life. Now, caught off guard, he stared at the disfigured face of the stranger wavering in the glass.

Without warning his mind flung him back several years. He had been standing in the Kennedy Center’s Grand Foyer, his French knife secure under his tuxedo jacket, when he had caught a glimpse of himself in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Tall and god-like, he’d had muscles that rippled beneath the silk, a strong carved face, flowing hair the color of wheat, streaked by the Provençal sun. A diamond in his left ear, mirrored aviator glasses that hid tiger-colored eyes. His stride had been long, fast and as powerful as the Jaguar he drove.

And then he had crossed paths with Magdalena O’Shea.

First, the badly burned hand, thanks to an encounter with Magdalena’s Colonel at a Provençal abbey. He held up his right hand, now encased in a tight black glove. Then the botched plastic surgery in Italy after being forced into hiding. The scarred, distorted face, the loss of an eye. And then, months later… He looked down at his withered legs. The fall. The sickening feeling of spinning into the void. The excruciating pain that followed. The months of unbearable physical therapy.

All because of one woman. Magdalena O’Shea.

He glanced at his Rolex. Early evening in the states. Firas should have arrived in Martha’s Vineyard by now. He smiled. Until the time came, Firas would be his legs.

The image in the glass wavered, dissolved, and Dane turned away. “For death remembered should be like a mirror,” he whispered. “Who tells us life's but breath, to trust it error.”

***

Excerpt from Echoes on the Wind by Helaine Mario. Copyright 2020 by Helaine Mario. Reproduced with permission from Helaine Mario. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Helaine Mario

Best-selling author Helaine Mario grew up in NYC and is a graduate of Boston University. Now living in Arlington, VA, this mother of two, grandmother of five, and passionate advocate for women's and children's issues came to writing later in life. Her first novel, The Lost Concerto, won the Benjamin Franklin Award Silver Medal. Echoes on the Wind is her fifth novel and the fourth in her Maggie O'Shea Classical Music Suspense Series. Royalties from her books go to children's music and reading programs. Helaine recently lost her husband, Ron, after 57 years together. Her new book echoes with loss, grief, and, ultimately, the healing power of love.

Catch Up With Helaine Mario:

HelaineMario.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub - @helainemario
Instagram - @helainemario.author
Facebook - @helaine.mario

 

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 Disclaimer: I was given a free copy of the book by the author for an honest review and I was not compensated for my review.

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Wednesday, June 25, 2025

Book Blitz of Keeping the Countess by Lille Moore (#contests- Enter to win a $25 Amazon Gift Card.)

Keeping the Countess
Lille Moore
Publication date: June 24th 2025
Genres: Adult, Historical, Romance

In this first installation of the DAMSELS IN DISGUISE series, a passionate clergyman on a mission to steal an earl’s secrets finds himself captivated by a cunning and courageous countess.

Charismatic curate Jonah Sinclair survived the deadly streets of south London with two well-trained fists and divine intervention. He will let nothing—not his vocation, nor his yearning to find love—stop him from pursuing the criminals who killed his father. When he learns the notorious Earl of Rochford could hold the key to retribution for his family, he seizes on the chance to become tutor to the earl’s young ward. But the only trace of Rochford he discovers at the mysterious Ravenglass Hall is his abandoned countess, a woman whose fierce strength stirs a forbidden temptation.

Faith Trenton, Countess of Rochford, is on the brink of ruin. Betrayed and abandoned by her husband, she disguises herself as a man to defend her estate from an embezzling steward. Jonah’s arrival threatens her carefully constructed masquerade, and despite the irresistible spark between them, she must send him packing, or risk having him expose the dangerous secrets she keeps hidden. But when a succession of attacks threatens everything that Faith has fought to protect, she’s forced to place her trust in Jonah, and pray he won’t unravel the truth, or her heart.

Helping Faith could sabotage Jonah’s mission. Loving her might cost him everything.

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo

EXCERPT:

Jonah marched out of the tavern, his vexation blinding him to any semblance of the direction where he headed. It did not take long to realize he was absolutely stranded, alone in a country wilderness.

In the disorienting shadows of the soaking evening, a seed of regret at his impulsivity sprouted. As he contemplated swallowing his pride and turning back to the tavern, a preternatural cry sounded on the moor.

The ground shook, heralding a beast rising out of the fog.

Jonah wouldn’t have dared called the creature a horse; that was far too earthly a comparison. It sped toward him as if it had escaped straight from the ninth circle of hell.

Unholy thoughts clouded his brain. Unholier curses tumbled from his lips. He was pleased to discover the passage of time and years of service in Her Majesty’s Church had not scrubbed them from his memory.

The shriek of the wind rose over the roar of approaching hooves. This was the exact reason Jonah avoided Gothic novels like vermin; he preferred interacting with the supernatural in the controlled boundaries of the King James Bible.

Through the sheets of rain, he spotted a slight figure mounted on top of the enormous steed. Was the rider attempting to bring the monster under control? Or did he urge it on, hoping he might flatten a weary traveler to the ground?

A shrill cry sounded from the rider. Was it a warning? An apology? A prayer?

“MOVE OUT OF THE BLEEDING WAY, YOU DAFT FOOL!”

With a screeching whinny, the beast reared up before him, a black wall of menacing horseflesh. As lightning flashed around them, Jonah braced his arms over his head and curled himself into a protective crouch, precisely as the hell-beast tossed its rider from the saddle.

A moment of raw stillness followed.

The rain relented, revealing where the rider lay motionless on the path.

Jonah staggered across the short distance toward the body. With a deep breath and a short prayer, he kneeled down to examine the fallen man.

The crash of two thick skulls meeting each other upended his balance. He slipped on the drenched ground, falling on top of the rider, who protested wildly by snarling in a manner more feral than a quayside cat. The body entwined with his was as scrappy and slim as one. He had to be a young lad.

“Get off of me!”

“I’m trying!” Jonah protested as they tussled in the mud. Muck worked its way beneath the collar he’d starched himself, to make a good impression for the toffs who’d forgotten him. The potential embarrassment he’d face if he ever arrived at his destination burned energy into his limbs.

An instinct he thought he’d long retired kicked in and he rolled, quickly pinning the rider’s shoulders by pressing his own weight into the lad’s chest.

And therein, he discovered a very distinct set of curves that most decidedly did not belong to a young man.

The body beneath him hissed.

Jonah scrambled away and staggered to his feet. With his last remaining ounce of sense, he extended his hand to the rider.

The woman he’d just groped in the darkness.

Author Bio:

Lille Moore writes romance with a twist on time-honored tropes and tales. Her first career in public diplomacy and strategic communications took her across five continents and six of the Seven Seas and spurred a lifelong love affair with uncovering new worlds through storytelling. She lives with her spouse in Texas

 

 

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Saturday, May 24, 2025

Book Blitz of Sarah by Shanna Hatfield (#contests-Enter to win An Amazon Gift Card)

Sarah
Shanna Hatfield
Publication date: May 22nd 2025
Genres: Adult, Historical Romance

She desires his heart.
He longs for her love.
Can they find common ground when he returns forever altered by the war.

In a world turned upside down by World War I, all Sarah Richards desires is to love Brett Rawlings and build a future together. After graduating high school a year early, she’s ready to dive into her dreams of college and a home filled with laughter and love. But one impulsive decision threatens all her aspirations—as well as her relationship with Brett.

As the war rages on and men head off to fight, sixteen-year-old Brett reluctantly follows his twin brother, Ben, sneaking off to France to join the American Expeditionary Forces. As the months pass, Ben thrives amidst the chaos of battle, while Brett finds himself haunted by the girl he left behind and the uncertainty of his own heart. When Ben reveals a life-altering secret, the bond between the brothers is shattered, forcing Brett to grapple with betrayal as he faces the brutal realities of war.

Brett returns home a changed man, burdened with memories too heavy to bear, yet yearning to mend the fractures of the past. Will Sarah still be waiting for him, or have time and truth forged an unbridgeable chasm between them?

Find out in this heartfelt historical romance that weaves a tale of hope, grace, forgiveness, and sweet, enduring love.

Goodreads / Amazon

EXCERPT:

“You have feathers for brains,” Sarah berated herself as Brett closed the distance between them. She accepted the hug he gave her as the impact of how deeply Ben—and inadvertently she—had betrayed him abruptly hit her. The realization of what she’d done made her head begin to pound.

“I’m so glad you came, Sarah. I stopped by to see you earlier, but your mother said you were out, although she didn’t seem to know where. I looked around town and in our usual spots but couldn’t find you,” Brett said, pulling back and giving her a curious glance.

“I’m sorry. I had a busy day,” she said. It had been busy. Sneaking around, being deceived, and making the biggest mistake of her life had taken the entire day.

Brett offered her a smile of such tender warmth, she wanted to burst into tears and confess what had happened. Only she couldn’t. It would ruin the trip, if not cancel it, and Brett had been excited about spending the summer with his grandparents. There would be time enough to sort out all the complicated details when the twins returned in August.

Three months away from Ben might be long enough for her raging wrath to reach a simmering point instead of teetering on the edge of it boiling over at any second.

“I couldn’t let you leave without saying goodbye. I hope you,” she emphasized the word and cast a withering glare at Ben before looking back at Brett, “enjoy your time with your grandparents this summer.”

A shadow passed over Brett’s face, but it was there and gone so quickly, she began to wonder if she’d simply imagined it.

“I’m sure we will. I hope you have a wonderful summer, Sarah Beth.” Brett was the only one who called her that, and every time he said it, her insides felt warm. He leaned down and placed his lips close to Sarah’s ear, making her heart pound in her chest. “No matter what happens, don’t ever forget how much I love you.”

“I won’t. Remember I love you, Brett,” she said, speaking around the sudden tightness in her throat. How could she profess her love to him after what she’d done with Ben? If a bolt of lightning shot out of the sky to strike her down where she stood, she knew she deserved it.

Author Bio:

USA Today Bestselling Author Shanna Hatfield writes sweet romances rich with relatable characters, small town settings that feel like home, humor, and hope.

Her historical westerns have been described as “reminiscent of the era captured by Bonanza and The Virginian” while her contemporary works have been called “laugh-out-loud funny, and a little heart-pumping sexy without being explicit in any way.”

When this farm girl isn’t writing or indulging in rich, decadent chocolate, Shanna hangs out with her husband, lovingly known as Captain Cavedweller. She also experiments with recipes, snaps photos of her adorable nephew, and caters to the whims of a cranky cat named Drooley.

To learn more about Shanna or the books she writes, visit her website http://shannahatfield.com or find out more about her here: linktr.ee/ShannaHatfield

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Monday, May 12, 2025

Book Blitz of Her Darkest Hour by Suzy Henderson (#contests- Enter to win a $50 Amazon gift Card.

Her Darkest Hour
Suzy Henderson
Publication date: May 8th 2025
Genres: Adult, Fantasy, Historical

In the shadow of war, a young woman must choose: deny her magic or wield it to stop a traitor before Britain falls.

England, 1939. A young witch. A nation at war. A spy hiding in plain sight.

As war looms over Britain, Eliza MacLean wants nothing more than an ordinary life. Raised on the Isle of Mull, she’s spent years denying her gifts—just as her mother insisted. But her grandmother taught her differently, whispering ancient knowledge of herbs, charms, and spells.

When her grandmother dies, Eliza seeks refuge in Cambridge with her cousin and the women of the WVS. But beneath its spires and blacked-out streets, Cambridge hides more than just scholars and soldiers. A secret network of witches is working to protect Britain from an enemy who knows magic is real—and seeks to weaponise it.

Drawn into the fight, Eliza is thrust into a world of espionage, deception, and occult warfare. Her rare abilities catch the attention of MI5 agent Alex Fletcher, who needs her help to unmask a deadly spy before it’s too late.

As she learns to harness her power, Eliza finds herself torn between duty and love, risking everything for Jim, a fighter pilot whose fate seems written in the stars. But war is ruthless, and magic has a price.

With the spy closing in and the war reaching new heights of peril, Eliza’s only hope of saving those she loves is to embrace the very magic she’s spent a lifetime hiding—no matter the cost.

But some powers were never meant to be used.

Perfect for fans of A Discovery of Witches and The Rose Code, Her Darkest Hour blends historical fiction with supernatural intrigue in a gripping tale of war, witchcraft, and sacrifice.

Goodreads / Amazon

The Witches Who Went to War: The Real History Behind Her Darkest Hour

When I started writing Her Darkest Hour, I wasn’t just inspired by the idea of witches in wartime—I was captivated by the real, historical belief that magic could be used to defend Britain.

In researching the book, I discovered a lineage of magical resistance stretching back centuries. In 1588, when the Spanish Armada threatened England, tales emerged of magical circles cast to summon storms. During the Napoleonic Wars, rural communities quietly turned to cunning folk—herbalists, charmers, and wise women—to protect them from invasion.

But perhaps most fascinating of all is the rumour that during WWII, a group of witches gathered in the New Forest to perform a ritual known as the Cone of Power. Their aim? To stop Hitler from setting foot on British soil. It sounds like folklore—but it’s part of Britain’s strange, often forgotten magical undercurrent. The war wasn’t just fought on beaches and battlefields. It was fought, too, in glades and gardens, by those who believed the spiritual realm had a part to play.

That hidden history became the beating heart of Her Darkest Hour. Eliza Maclean, a young Scottish witch, is drawn from her quiet life on the Isle of Mull into a war she never expected to fight. Recruited by MI5, she finds herself hunting a German spy in Cambridge—but with magic, not guns.

I wanted to honour both the women who stepped into wartime roles and the lesser-known stories of those who used ancient knowledge to protect what they loved. Eliza’s magic is not flashy or cinematic—it’s rooted in emotion, empathy, and intuition. And that, perhaps, is what made it so powerful.

In the end, this book is a tribute to the quiet guardians of our past—those who lit candles, traced symbols, whispered prayers to old gods, and believed, fiercely, in their country’s protection.

What if those rituals worked?

Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy discovering Eliza’s journey in Her Darkest Hour.

Suzy Henderson
Author of Her Darkest Hour
#HerDarkestHour #HistoricalFantasy #WartimeWitches


Author Bio:

Suzy Henderson is the author of The Beauty Shop, Madame Fiocca, and SPITFIRE, novels which are set during the turbulent times of World War Two. She also writes romance and recently released a novella, Christmas in the Highlands, a best seller on Amazon UK.

Her debut novel, The Beauty Shop, was awarded the B.R.A.G. Medallion. It is based on the true story of pioneering plastic surgeon, Sir Archibald McIndoe, and the Guinea Pig Club – an exclusive club for RAF pilots and airmen who required plastic surgery as a result of their war injuries and were under the care of this enigmatic New Zealander.

Madame Fiocca is also based on a true story. This gripping adventure follows the tempestuous life of SOE heroine, Nancy Wake before and during the Second World War.

Suzy lives with her family on the edge of the Lake District, where she can be found rambling around lakes, country lanes or roaming the fells. Armed with a pen, a love of reading and a growing obsession with military and aviation history, she is often lost in the 1940s, writing historical fiction.

To receive all Suzy's latest book news, do join her reading group here & claim a free story: https://www.suzyhenderson.com

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Friday, April 18, 2025

Guest Post by Teresa Trent (Setting a Mystery in a Funeral Home) author of I Can't Get No Satisfaction (#contests, #guest Post- Enter to win An Amazon Gift Card.)

I Can't Get No Satisfaction by Teresa Trent Banner

I CAN'T GET NO SATISFACTION

by Teresa Trent

April 7 - May 2, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

The Swinging Sixties Mystery Series

 

After finding herself in the middle of murder investigation in her last two secretarial jobs, Dot finds the only place that will hire her is her local funeral home.

I Can't Get No Satisfaction by Teresa TrentWhy not? At least there all the clients are safe from what the town calls her murderous "Curse of Camden". It is 1965 and Dot is planning her wedding with a Twiggy like mini-bridal gown, but secretly she’s not so sure it’s a good idea. If she really is cursed, what might happen to the one she loves? Is she willing to put him in danger? She and Ben put wedding planning on the back burner when one of the town’s teenage girls gets hit by a drunk boater who gets away. The closer they get to the answers, the more Dot feels the curse is coming for Ben.

Book Details:

Genre: Cozy Historical Mystery
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: February 2025
Number of Pages: 215
ISBN: 978-1-68512-870-8
Series: The Swinging Sixties Mystery Series, Book 4 | Each is a Stand Alone Novel
Book Links: Amazon | Goodreads

GUEST POST: 

Setting a Mystery in a Funeral Home

By Teresa Trent, author of I Can’t Get No Satisfaction

My heroine in the Swinging Sixties Mystery Series can’t seem to keep a job. It isn’t because she is a poor employee. She was a star at her secretarial school when she graduated in 1963, but now it is 1965 and she’s in her third job. The problem? People keep getting murdered. Dot Morgan is a murder magnet.

Because of this, the only business that will hire her is the local funeral home. At least the clientele will be safe this time. Creating the setting of a funeral home was a learning experience for me. I had been in funeral homes, but only in the beautifully decorated rooms open to the public. To research this setting, I visited the National Museum of Funeral History in Houston, Texas. Yes, there is such a thing.

Upon entering the museum, we stepped into a hearse room with horse-drawn carriages up to the present day. The hearse from close to the time of my story was especially helpful in my research because it played an important role in the plot.

They had several rooms dedicated to historic funerals, including those of John F. Kennedy and Ronald Reagan. There was a wing dedicated to papal funerals. The museum had everything you needed to know about the history of taking care of the dead, from coffins to urns.

The cremation chamber, complete with a control panel, amazed me, but what floored me the most? There was a gift shop. I chose not to bring home a mug that said, “Any Day Above Ground is a Good One”.

Having been through the planning process of a few funerals, the museum gave me a completely different perspective on the funeral industry. It’s a business often run by families who are full of compassion for the people they work with, but all the same, it’s a business.

When I wrote the characters of Oliver and Henry Fielding, of Fielding Funeral Home, I focused on their father-son relationship. Where instead of Henry taking off with the family car for too long, he takes the hearse. Boys will be boys. Henry is a young man, and like the song says, he can’t get no satisfaction.

After finishing the book, I was happy to leave such a sad world. Dot couldn’t wait to get rid of her black wardrobe, and I felt the same about my setting. What setting did I use to replace it?

Crying in the Chapel is the title of the next book in the series. How about a little white satin?

 

Read an excerpt:

After leaving Oliver, I decided to speak to the marina owner one more time to try to figure out who took the boat used in Henry’s murder. Grabbing a sandwich at my apartment, I called Ben to see if he would like to go along with me. He was covering court this week for a reporter on vacation, so I was lucky to catch him at his desk.

“Yes, I’d love to go with you, and as luck would have it, the judge rescheduled the court case.”

Even though some people might think a reporter’s life is glamorous and full of intrigue, Ben was covering a case of stolen pigs for The Camden Courier. Shorty Wyckoff, a pig farmer, claimed Bill Wheeler, another pig farmer, snuck up in the cloak of darkness and loaded up an 1100-pound sow into the back of a pickup truck. What made her so valuable was her nickname, Fertile Myrtle. It was reported that she could get pregnant with only one try, and the results were dozens of little piggies. The newspaper had dubbed the case “Makin’ Bacon Caper.” It was a popular series of articles, considering it was one step up from the farm report and featured the sex lives of pigs.

“I’ll pick you up, but I have to warn you, ol’ Bernice isn’t doing too well. I think she’s on her last breath.”

“Ol’ Bernice, a 1955 Oldsmobile, had several dents, bald tires, and a constant wheezing coming out from under the rusty brown hood. “Should we take my car?”

“Nice of you to offer, but I want to take Bernice today. I have plans for her.”

Besides setting her on fire or pushing her off the nearest cliff, I wasn’t sure what he had in mind. I knew Ben had arrived when I heard the familiar wheezing and sputtering of Bernice in my driveway.

Ben and I returned to the marina, but this time the marina owner was nowhere to be found. The marina office and residence stood atop a small hill overlooking the glistening waters of the bay. Selma, the guard dog Shep had praised, did not bark or even growl, but playfully nudged her snout against my hand, her tail wagging vigorously in excitement. We knocked on the glass panes of the marina office, and after not getting an answer, I clasped my hands around my eyes and, leaning on the glass, looked inside. As I drew closer, I could hear the low rumble of jazz, heavy on the bass. It created a melodic backdrop with the gentle lapping of the waves. “I think he must be farther back in the house. I hear a stereo.”

Ben put his ear to the glass and then turned around to face the parking lot. “Hmmm. How many cars do you see parked here?”

I turned back and scanned the parking area. “Three.”

“Right. Ours, his, and whose is that?” He pointed at a wood-paneled station wagon. It was the kind of car a family with children would use.

“I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone else around here. Maybe someone has taken their boat out.”

“Maybe, but when we were here last, there were twelve boats in twelve boat slips. Today I only see eleven. Considering Bubba Jenkins’s boat - was just impounded for a murder investigation. I would say all the remaining boats are here.”

“Which means whoever is driving that station wagon is inside, listening to jazz with Shep. Let’s try knocking at the backdoor,” I said.

We made our way around, and as we did, the sound of the music grew louder, along with a few other sounds.

Ben smiled and blushed a little as we heard rhythmic moans coming from an open window. “They must be big music lovers.”

I giggled. “Regular jazz nuts.” There was no doubt about what they were doing, and from the sounds of it, things were going quite well.

Ben raised his hand to knock, but then stopped. “Not the best time.”

“Yeah. Maybe we can figure this out on our own. I don’t think I could erase a memory of hot and sweaty Shep, but I am curious about who he has in there with him.”

“Let’s go look at the boats.” We walked around the house to the parking lot. Selma followed along, her tail still wagging. As the jazz and the sound of other things faded in my ears, I asked Ben, “What exactly are we looking for?”

“I’m not sure, just something out of the ordinary. Maybe Henry’s killer left something important on the dock.”

“You mean like his I. D.? That would make things easier. Do you know a lot about boats? We didn’t do much boating at our house, although I have been waterskiing with friends.”

“A little.” He shrugged. “Not much. We need to concentrate, and hearing about you in a bathing suit is not making my thoughts flow.”

I giggled. “Billie Holiday will do that to a person.”

We walked on the wooden pier as the surrounding water was still. There was little call to take a boat out on a weekday. The boats were in a variety of sizes, but most were small speedboats, with a pontoon moored at the end. Inside a few boats, there were remnants of beer bottles and sandwich wrappers.

“Not very tidy, these boat people, and from the looks of the empty beer bottles, there are several drunk drivers out on the lake at the same time. No wonder Betty Weaver got hit,” I said, walking to the end of the pier. The pontoon was covered with a canvas drape. Looking underneath, the insides were as neat as a pin.

“Look at this,” Ben said, crouched down by the tip of a small speedboat. “It looks like they’ve sustained some damage here.”

On the side of the boat, a scrape had cut through the sleek paint, making a line through the boat name, Lucky Me. Not as lucky as the boat owner might have thought.

“So, somebody isn’t very good at putting the boat back into the dock. I hardly think that has anything to do with boat thefts.”

Ben nodded. “You’re probably right, but we know there has been a boat thief out here. What’s to say this person only used one boat?”

“You mean like a serial boat thief?” Could a person get away with stealing different boats periodically from the marina? Was starting one boat as easy as starting another?

“Think about it,” Ben said. “Just how many days a week are Romeo and Juliet in there playing Billie Holiday on the stereo?”

The boat dock was at least fifty yards from the combined house and office. Someone could be out here starting a boat, and if the marina owner was busy, he would hear nothing. “He wouldn’t hear it, and Selma, the guard dog, gets put outside on occasions, so happy for a visitor, she doesn’t even bark.”

Ben snapped his fingers. “Bubba Jenkins is Al’s friend, right? We need to talk to him. He might be sitting on information.”

“You know, Al has mentioned him, but I’m not sure what he does.”

“Then we’ll have to ask him.”

As we turned to head back to Ben’s car, the sound of a screen door opening peeled through the air. Shep, his cheeks rosy and his shirt half on, edged around from the back of the house and immediately spotted Ben’s car. His gaze shifted to the dock.

“Can I help you, folks? How long have you been standing out here?”

I walked forward. “We tried knocking, but there was no answer.”

“Yes, you must have been busy,” Ben said.

Shep lifted his chin slightly. “Working on the books. Guess I got involved. Numbers are not my thing.”

We knew just what his thing was.

Ben walked forward and extended his hand. “Ben Dalton, Camden Courier.”

Shep reached out with a measured amount of enthusiasm. “I remember you. What can I do for you this time?”

“We were wondering if you could provide a list of the boat owners here at the marina. I would also like to get in touch with Bubba Jenkins. Ben said this with such efficiency. Shep let go of his hand and stepped back.

“Why would I do that?”

Ben swept his hand back toward the boats. “In the interest of the investigation. Two deaths on the water don’t exactly put the security of your marina in a good light.”

Shep raised a single finger in the air and shook it at Ben’s face. “Lookie here, son. If I hand over a list like that, it will be to the police, and only the police will get it. Hear me? You and your lady friend need to quit nosin’ around here. If I see you again, I’ll call the cops on you for trespassing. Get me?”

“This is public property. There’s not much you can do.”

“Watch me.”

“You seemed more than willing to let people nose around and steal other people’s boats. I think you’re a little late with your righteous indignation,” I said.

“Yeah, well, a tiger can change its spots. I don’t need a lot of folks here getting into my business.” He glanced up at the house. “Talking to you has been a mistake, and now I’m fixing it. Out with you.”

As we made our way to the car, Ben turned and spoke. “We’re leaving, but remember, if you ever want to talk…”

“Out!”

***

Excerpt from I Can't Get No Satisfaction by Teresa Trent. Copyright 2025 by Teresa Trent. Reproduced with permission from Teresa Trent. All rights reserved.

 

Author Bio:
Teresa Trent

Teresa Trent started out teaching English in Colorado, but life and children intervened, and with all that new spare time, she began writing. Besides The Swinging Sixties Series, Teresa has penned the Pecan Bayou, Piney Woods and Henry Park Mystery Series and always has a little idea in the back of her mind for the next one. She is also the author of several short stories and is teaching writing at her local library encouraging new writers. Teresa lives in Houston, Texas with her husband and son. Her podcast, Books to the Ceiling, features authors with new mysteries on the market.

 

Catch Up With Teresa Trent:

TeresaTrent.com
Amazon Author Profile
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BookBub - @TeresaTrent
Instagram - @teresatrent_cozymys
Threads - @teresatrent_cozymys
X - @ttrent_cozymys
Facebook - @teresatrentmysterywriter

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