CELTICLADY'S REVIEWS: Her Own Legacy (Book 1) Her Own Revolution (Book 2) Book Tour! @debraborchert @cathiedunn @debraborchertauthor @thecoffeepotbookclub

Her Own Legacy, Book 1 of Château de Verzat

Her Own Legacy:

A Woman Fights for Her Legacy as the French Revolution Erupts

Determined to inherit her family’s vineyard, Countess Joliette de Verzat defies society’s rules, only to learn of her illegitimate half-brother, the rightful heir.

Her Own Revolution, Book 2 of Château de Verzat

Her Own Revolution:

A Woman Forges a Treacherous Path to Save Hundreds from the Guillotine

If Geneviève Fouquier-Tinville had the same rights as a man, she wouldn’t have to dress like one. A suspenseful page-turner led by a renegade heroine whose compassion for innocent people leads to both loss and love.

Universal Buy Links:

Her Own Legacy

https://books2read.com/u/bWYod1

Her Own Revolution

https://books2read.com/u/m0aJVl

Series Buy Links

US: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0B9KN1536

UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B0B9KN1536

Her Own Revolution, Paris, August 7, 1793

Geneviève visits Louis LaGarde in prison

I took a deep breath and stepped into the dark cell. Straw cracked beneath my boots. The door slammed shut. I jolted. The key grinded in the lock. The sour stink of an unemptied slop bucket made me want to cover my nose. LaGarde stood in the corner, his shoulders hunched, his blond hair hanging in greasy strands. The sound of the guard’s footsteps faded.

My legs trembled. I could be thrown into such a cell. “Do you remember me?” My voice was as weak as the light.

He peered at me and then a grin slowly emerged. “Who could forget your charms?”

My face warmed as the memory of his exposing my breasts rushed me.

“So, my execution has been delayed so you—Monsieur Fouquier—could gloat.”

I shook my head and held out the wine. He didn’t move, so I placed the bottle near his feet. “It’s not what you’re accustomed to, but the guard enjoyed some of it.” I pulled out bread, sausage, and cheese.

He rubbed his forehead. “Ah, a last meal.”

I ripped off a piece of bread and offered it. He snatched it and gnawed, catching the crumbs with his hand, and licking them from his palm.

I detested the pity I felt. I couldn’t be the only one who cared about him. “Has your family been to visit?” Withdrawing my dagger, I cut a hunk of sausage and tossed it to him.

He caught it and waved his fingers at the cheese, which I also tossed. “What family? My brother? Killed defending the King at the Tuileries. My parents? Murdered in the September Massacres.”

“I’m sorry.” His losses seemed not to affect his appetite in the least, but still, I would have to break down his defenses to save him. “Any friends visit?”

He bit into the cheese and closed his eyes as he chewed. “I have no friends.”

That, I believed.

He chomped at the bread. But as he turned his head away and stopped chewing, I knew it was not from lack of hunger. He was missing someone. “A lady?” I asked.

“Yeah.” He snorted. “My whore.” His low voice rumbled against the stone walls. “What about you, Fouquier? Got a whore of your own?”

“Wish I did.”

He laughed.

Had there been more time I’d have laughed, too. “Has your mistress been to see you?”

“Like I, she is a guest of Bicêtre prison.” He tilted his head back as if praying for patience.

“For prostitution?”

“For Royalist sympathies!” He swatted at a fly on his neck. “She despised the Queen.” He laughed. “Even a whore has more courage to be honest than I have.”

It was only a matter of time before her name would appear on another list. The binding around my chest tightened as sympathy filled me. “I can get a message to her.”

“Why would you give her a message from me? To taunt her?” He kicked a clump of straw. “Torture us both?”

“To let her know you’re alive.” The muscles in his face flinched. He resembled a beggar, a depth to which, I imagined, he had never dreamed of falling. “What should I tell her?”

“What else can a dead man say?” He cried a laugh. “Adieu!” He slid down against the wall until he sat in the straw with his legs stretched out.

I crouched down and whispered, “Did you tell anyone you’ve been sentenced?”

He shook his head.

“Guards? Prisoners?”

“No.”

“You must not tell anyone of your sentence. No one. Do you promise?”

He cocked his head and, for a moment, he was the old arrogant LaGarde. “Why?”

“Hush.” I listened for footsteps. “So long as they do not call your name, you live. Understand?”

“They will call. I have been condemned.”

“Your name will not be called. You will not go to the guillotine. Do you understand?” He sat lifeless. I pinched his arm.

“Ow!” He jerked his head and looked at me, his eyebrows peaked high above his dark eyes.

“Do you?”

The taut skin around his eyes began to relax as he stared at me. “Yes.” His voice was hesitant, like a child’s.

A feeling of wanting to take him out of this hell swept over me. I should have thought he deserved this punishment after exposing me as a woman at University, but now my compassion surprised me. I gripped his hand. Although filthy, it was still the soft hand of a person who ordered others to do his work. “What’s her name?”

“Magdeleine Corrié.” He winced, as if hearing her name pained his heart.

“The message?”

He stared at the ceiling.

I squeezed his hand. “We have but a few minutes more.”

He pressed his lips together, his nostrils widening as he sucked in the dank air.

I hated pushing him. I softened my voice. “Do you wish me to tell her of your love?”

He nodded, then pulled me close. “She is with child. Ask her…if she will marry me.”

“That is honorable.”

“It is not honor.” The muscles around his mouth quivered.

I patted his arm. “I will bring her food and your message.” I stood and prayed I would be the clerk to receive the list with her name. “Remember, say nothing. I do not wish to join you at the guillotine.”

He squinted. “You leave me to rot in this hell?”

His words hit me like a slap. Why wasn’t he grateful? I’d saved his life, and he was angry? “I’d think anyone would prefer to live, even if among rats.”

He lifted his chin. “You get me out of here, or you will go to the guillotine with me.”

I was a cowering bug beneath a rock, taunted by the snapping tongue of a warty toad dressed in a ruined golden silk waistcoat. If I could have felt one drop of sympathy for this arrogant bastard, I’d not feel so ashamed. He’d exposed me once, and he’d do it again.

Debra’s the author of the Château de Verzat series that follows headstrong and independent women and the four-hundred loyal families who protect a Loire Valley château and vineyard, and its legacy of producing the finest wines in France during the French Revolution. Her Own Legacy published 2022, Her Own Revolution published 2023, and Her Own War will be published in 2024. A passionate cook, she also wrote a companion cookbook to the series: Soups of Château de Verzat, A Culinary Tribute to the French Revolution, 2023.

A graduate of the Fashion Institute of Technology, she weaves her knowledge of textiles and clothing design throughout her historical fiction. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her family and standard poodle, named after a fine French Champagne.

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