Curve Ball by Teresa Michaels Cover Reveal and Giveaway!

Curveball

by Teresa Michaels

Genre: Romantic Suspense

Cover Designer: Mayhem Cover Creations

Synopsis

Breanne Sullivan’s world has been turned upside down. In the midst of an investigation surrounding her husband, Breanne returns to the corporate world she left years ago to raise her children. Now, a required business trip places her on Innovation Airways’ maiden flight sitting next to pitching sensation and self-proclaimed bachelor, Drew Scott.

Drew is charismatic, devastatingly handsome and has never encountered a woman he couldn’t have. 

That is, until he meets Breanne, whose attempts to deny the intense attraction they share only fuels Drew’s determination not to take no for an answer. But when the flight veers off-course and an unfathomable sequence of events forces them to rely on each other in a race for their lives, intentions quickly change. High-tech travel turns into a game of survival that invites temptation and threatens to push their desires over the edge. 

He’s a tempting distraction she has to resist. She’s an unexpected challenge he’s determined to have at least once. The question is, if she gives in will he be able to let her go?

Purchase Links

Amazon - http://tiny.cc/93aitx

Amazon UK - http://tiny.cc/m5aitx

Amazon CA - http://tiny.cc/76aitx

Meet the Author

Teresa Michaels lives in the New England area with her husband and children.  Curveball is her debut novel.

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Red Fury Revolt by J.F.Ridgley Spotlight with Giveaway!

Please join author J.F. Ridgley as her novel, Red Fury Revolt is featured around the blogosphere and enter to win a copy of the book plus a $25 Amazon Gift Card!

Publication Date: January 31, 2015
R Pride Publishing eBook; 412p
ASIN: B00QJJFCYK
Genre: Historical Fiction
Series: Book One, The Agricola Series

 
Something keeps drawing G. Julius Agricola to Britannia again and again… This is where it starts… book one, Red Fury…Revolt A.D. 60… Camulodunum! Londinium! Verulaneum! Three towns writhe under the Iceni queen’s wrath, as she leads her warriors intent on destroying all things Roman – be it Roman temples, Roman villas, or entire families sympathetic to Rome. At stake is Suetonius Paulinus’s reputation. With only 80,000 legionaries, will he destroy Boudica or will he endure the disgrace in Rome for losing–to a woman? Julius Agricola-Rome’s tribune, and Rhianna-Boudica’s youngest daughter, become ensnared in this horrific historical revolt against Roman injustice. Just as Julius and Rhianna reveal their love to each other, they are hurled back into the harsh reality of their differing worlds that are determined to destroy each other. Who will survive? Book two in the Agricola series, Red Fury Rebellion, coming 2016!

Praise for Red Fury Revolt

“…Ms. Ridgley has done very well at telling her story, while being respectful to the events that devastated Britannia, and even shook the Roman Empire itself, in 60 to 61 A.D.” - James Mace, Author of ‘Soldier of Rome – The Artorian Chronicles’

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About the Author

Ms Ridgley loves the ancient world. Even after years of researching and many trips to the sites of her stories, she is still fascinated by what she can use for her next story. One thing she does enjoy more is bringing this world to life in her award-winning stories of power, greed, violence, and love. Be sure to stop by her website to discover her books and novellas available on Amazon.com. Be sure to sign up for her newsletter to stay up with her next book or her next giveaway! You can also connect with JF Ridgley on Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, Pinterest, and Google+.

Book Blast Schedule

Saturday, January 31 - Release Day!
Back Porchervations
Flashlight Commentary
Sunday, February 1
Book Nerd 100 Pages a Day
Monday, February 2
A Literary Vacation With Her Nose Stuck In A Book
Tuesday, February 3
Passages to the Past
Wednesday, February 4
Let Them Read Books
Thursday, February 5
CelticLady's Reviews
A Virtual Hobby Store and Coffee Haus Red Fury Revolt Book Blast

Risky Undertaking by Mark DeCastrique on Tour February 1 - 28, 2015

Genre: Mystery

Published by: Poisoned Pen Press 

Publication Date: November 11, 2014 

Number of Pages: 251 

ISBN: 9781464203060 

Series: A Buryin' Barry Mystery 

Purchase Links:

Synopsis:
When Cherokee burial remains are unearthed on the site of a local cemetery’s expansion, Barry Clayton, part-time deputy and full-time undertaker, finds his dual occupations collide. Then, during the interment of the wife of one of Gainesboro’s most prominent citizens, Cherokee activist Jimmy Panther leads a protest. Words and fists fly.When Panther turns up executed on the grave of the deceased woman, Barry is forced to confront her family as the chief suspects. But the case lurches in a new direction with the arrival of Sheriff Tommy Lee Wadkins’ army pal, Boston detective Kevin Malone. Malone is on the trail of a Boston hit man who arrived at the Cherokee reservation only days before the murder. Malone is convinced his quarry is the man who pulled the trigger. But who paid him? And why?
The investigation draws Barry onto the reservation where Jimmy Panther’s efforts to preserve Cherokee traditions threatened the development of a new casino, a casino bringing millions of dollars of construction and substantial yearly payouts to every member of the tribe. With the unlikely team of his childhood nemesis Archie Donovan and his elderly Uncle Wayne, Barry goes undercover in an effort to draw out the truth. But the stakes are higher than he realized. And the life of a Cherokee boy becomes the wager. Barry must play his cards very carefully in his most risky undertaking yet.

Read an excerpt:

Chapter One
“Read them and weep, gentlemen. Read them and weep.” Archie Donovan, Jr. flipped over his cards and spread them with all the puffed pride of a peacock fanning his tail feathers.
Mayor Sammy Whitlock threw in his hand. “You drew that inside straight, didn’t you?”
“I’ll never tell.” Archie raked the pile of quarters, dimes, and nickels across the surface of the round oak table and dumped them into the purple Crown Royal cloth bag he used to transport his poker stake. “Let me just say you can’t be afraid of risk if you want reward.”
“My deal.” Luther Cransford motioned for the five of us to pass him our cards.
I glanced at my watch. Nearly eleven. “I’m afraid I have to bail out.”
“Funeral tomorrow?” Pete Peterson, the town’s barber, looked confused as if somehow a citizen of Gainesboro had died and the news had escaped him. P’s Barbershop was the nexus of Main Street communication for the local men just like the back booths of the Cardinal Café was gossip central among the women. Like his father before him, P.J., as everyone called him, was a central character in the day-to-day drama of small town life. If you wanted to know who was on the outs with whom, you only needed to get a haircut.
“No,” I said. “I’m on duty tomorrow. We’ve got the fall craft show out at the fairgrounds. Tommy Lee wants a couple of deputies on hand in case traffic backs up.”
Mayor Whitlock nodded with the exaggerated enthusiasm of a bobble-head doll. “And guess who’s giving the opening speech?”
“I have no idea,” Mack Collins said. “Any speech you give would automatically be the closing speech.”
Collins owned a construction company and was one of the wealthier residents of Gainesboro. He was also a North Carolina state senator and one of the mayor’s major campaign donors, and so the thin-skinned His Honor had to laugh along with the rest of us.
I stood from the table. “Thanks for the invitation. I enjoyed losing my money to Archie. But then I’ve been doing that for years.”
The group laughed louder. Archie had taken over his father’s insurance and investment business and knew no shame when it came to pushing his policies and annuities. He and I had a history going back to grade school, and Archie had been the wise-ass in junior high who called me “Buryin’ Barry,” a nickname that stuck to this son of a funeral director like white cat fur on a black sweater.
Archie and I were the youngest of the mayor’s Friday night poker gathering. The other men averaged a good twenty years older, each at least somewhere in his fifties or sixties. Archie must have inherited his father’s seat at the table. I was there for the first and probably only time, a last minute substitute when Taylor Hobbs, the president of my archery club, had to travel to Charlotte when his daughter delivered his new grandson prematurely.
“Tell Susan thanks for letting you out on a Friday night,” Archie said.
“Don’t tell us the romance of newlyweds has worn off already.” Mayor Whitlock winked at his cohorts.
I didn’t tell them my wife of six months had been the one who encouraged me to join them. As a surgeon, Susan had on-call duties this weekend in the ER and she thought a night with the boys would do me good. “Susan and I have an open and honest understanding. She tells me what to do and I do it.”
Luther Cransford laughed the loudest. “Sounds like our Eurleen, right, Sammy?” He slapped Whitlock on the back. “She’s the one in the family who should have gone into politics.” He elbowed Senator Collins. “She’d be governor by now, right, Mack?”
“No two ways about it,” Collins said. “I wouldn’t want to run against her.”
Luther was Whitlock’s brother-in-law and everyone in town agreed the mayor’s sister Eurleen got the brains in the family.
Mayor Whitlock forced a smile. “That’s why I always listen to her advice.” He returned the good-ole-boy backslap. “And you, Luther, are proof she doesn’t listen to my advice.”
For Mayor Whitlock, the retort was uncharacteristically glib. Luther looked dumbfounded as it took a second for the insult to sink in. “Just kidding, Luther.” The mayor stood. The game was over. “Thanks, boys. It was a fun evening.” He turned to me. “Barry, you think Susan would let you stay out a few minutes longer? I’ve got a little town business to discuss.”
“Sure.” I smiled, trying to disguise the dread of being trapped alone with someone who loves nothing better than the sound of his own voice. “Excellent.” Mayor Whitlock glanced over his shoulder at the men climbing the stairs. “Let me say good night to the others and I’ll be right back. Make yourself at home.”
I looked around the room, a loss at what I should do to make myself at home. The poker club met in what the mayor called his “man cave.” Actually, it was his basement and the unpartitioned room sported every decor cliché imaginable.
In addition to the poker table, the mayor had a widescreen TV mounted on the wall in front of an oversized leather sofa and two matching recliners, a well-stocked wet bar, a refrigerator, a pool table, four deer heads that he probably bought at a yard sale, and a NordicTrack treadmill that the mayor only set foot on when taking a shortcut from the refrigerator to the sofa. The treadmill also gave him an excuse to wear his favorite wardrobe item, a Clemson University warm-up suit that must have been altered to fit his rotund body. Its bright orange color turned His Honor into a pumpkin of planetary proportions.
I sat at the poker table, choosing a seat that would keep me closer to the stairs than the mayor.
Within a few minutes, I heard multiple footsteps descending. I turned around and was surprised to see Sammy Whitlock followed by Archie and Luther. One of them might have forgotten something, but not both of them. I realized I’d been ambushed.
The mayor waddled up to me and placed his pudgy hands on my shoulders. Pinned in my chair by a giant pumpkin.
“Barry, this community just doesn’t appreciate all you do for it. Archie, Luther, and I were talking about that earlier, right, boys?”
Luther nodded.
Archie took the seat next to me. “That’s right, Barry. You guard us while we’re alive and you bury us when we’re dead.”
I must confess I suddenly looked forward to providing Archie with the second service.
“And Archie’s insurance policies make sure I get paid,” I said, trying in vain not to be the center of their attention.
All three laughed too loudly.
“Why, we were even talking about having Gainesboro declare a Barry Clayton Day,” Whitlock effused, and gave my shoulders an extra squeeze before turning me loose.
I wondered how much this Barry Clayton Day was going to cost me — not to have it.
“We all do our part,” I said.
Mayor Whitlock’s head bobbled. “That we do. It’s about taking a village.”
He mangled the quote, but perhaps it more accurately reflected his take-what-I-can-get philosophy.
“And you’ve been a big help to the three of us,” Archie said. “Right, Luther?”
“Right,” Luther grunted. Luther stood six-foot-five, and even sitting down was as tall as the mayor.
“How?” I asked.
“Why, Heaven’s Gate Gardens,” Whitlock exclaimed. “You always recommend it to plotless families. And we appreciate it.”
I felt my stomach tighten. Heaven’s Gate Gardens was a cemetery atop Bell Ridge on the outskirts of town owned by the three men. We’d already run into a conflict a few years earlier when Archie pressed me to recommend the cemetery before adequate landscaping had been completed.
“You’ve done a nice job with it,” I said. “Fletcher and I are pleased to offer it as one of the options for the families we serve.” I brought in the name of my partner, Fletcher Shaw, to underscore I wasn’t making any under-the-table deals for pushing their plots.
“Yes,” the mayor agreed. “And we especially appreciate that you’ve never asked for any referral fees.”
The mayor’s selective memory seemed to have forgotten they had been the ones to make that unsolicited offer, an offer I’d vehemently declined. “That’s why we wanted you to be the first to know.”
“Know what?” I asked.
Whitlock nodded to Archie. “You tell him. He’s your best friend.”
Archie clutched my forearm like I was his only friend. “Great news, Barry. We’ve bought more of the ridge and we’re expanding Heaven’s Gate Gardens. Heaven’s Gate Gardens South. It’s doubling the size. If the whole town died tomorrow, we could bury everyone.”
“That’s comforting,” I said. “I guess Asheville could supply the gravediggers.”
“Great idea, Barry,” Whitlock said. “I’ll draft a memo for the town clerk’s emergency action file.” The man was serious. “And we’d be honored if you’d attend the ribbon cutting. We’re building an entrance to the new section. It overlooks I-26.”
“Ah, life passing by at sixty-five miles per hour,” I said.
“Exactly,” Whitlock agreed. “Mention that phrase when you’re consoling families.”
I stood. “Well, I’ll certainly be there if my schedule permits.”
Mayor Whitlock clapped his hands. “We thought you’d say that. So, I took the liberty of talking to Tommy Lee about your schedule. He said he’d be happy to free you up Monday afternoon.”
I made a mental note to pay Sheriff Tommy Lee Wadkins back for his kindness. Sugar in his gas tank seemed appropriate.
“Fine. Although we might have a funeral.”
The mayor beamed. “We’ve been over that with Fletcher. He said even if someone died tomorrow the earliest burial day would probably be Tuesday. But if they want to be buried Monday afternoon, hell, we’ll give ‘em a great deal. Fifty percent off for a plot in the new section.” The idea made him giddy. “A real funeral would be a nice backdrop for the ribbon cutting.”
The idea — and their audacity — took my breath away. In fact, the man cave seemed to close in on me. I was anxious to leave. “Okay. When on Monday?”
“Two o’clock,” Whitlock said. “We want the Gainesboro VISTA to have time to get an article and photographs in before deadline.”
I could see their ideal caption: “Funeral Director and Deputy Sheriff Barry Clayton Endorses Cemetery Expansion.”
“Wear your uniform,” Archie said.
“No. I’ll be off-duty. The mayor saw to that.”
Archie laughed. “I mean your other one. Your black suit. You’re the only guy I know with two jobs and two uniforms. An undertaker and a deputy. What’ll you be next, Barry? A bus driver?”
#
“Someone must have very incriminating photographs if they got you up here.” Melissa Bigham shook her head with exaggerated disappointment.
I’d just gotten out of my Jeep when the feisty reporter hustled over, her Nikon bouncing on the strap around her neck.
“And I see you’re covering another Pulitzer-Prize contender. Your editor must be holding the front page.”
“Jonah Tugman should be holding his nose, wasting resources on a cemetery opening.”
“Wouldn’t have anything to do with the Heaven’s Gate Gardens ad that runs on the obituary page, would it?”
Melissa laughed. “Of course not. Jonah’s journalistic standards are the best money can buy.”
We started walking down the newly graveled road. Melissa stood about a half-foot shorter, maybe five-two, and her brown hair was cut in a simple, no-nonsense style that said “shower and towel-dry.” She wore tan slacks and a light green windbreaker. Melissa was always neat, but never overdressed. She looked like a young elementary school teacher, which disguised the brain of a barracuda searching for prey. We’d broken several national stories together, and her greatest asset was that people underestimated her until they felt her teeth in their flesh. I knew she’d turned down numerous big-city job offers, and although journalism was her passion, it was trumped by her love of the western North Carolina mountains.
About twenty yards down the slope, a group of men milled around a stone wall. Archie, Mayor Whitlock, and Luther stood with their backs to us, engaged in conversation with two men wearing bib overhauls in stark contrast to the dark suits of the cemetery owners.
“At least it’s a pretty day,” Melissa said. “I could be in my cubicle writing obituaries.”
The September sunshine had warmed the afternoon air to the high fifties. A light but steady breeze blew across the ridge, or maybe it was the wind from the eighteen-wheelers rolling along I-26 on the valley floor.
“Life passing by,” I muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I looked ahead. “Are those the Tucker brothers?”
“Yeah. Barney. I forget the other one’s name.”
“Me too. Barney does all the talking anyway.”
The Tucker brothers owned a backhoe and worked as gravediggers and performed odd jobs around the county. They’d had the misfortune to uncover an unexpected skeleton when we were moving a grave several years ago, a skeleton that turned out to be an old boyfriend of my wife.
“Evidently they’re still building the entry sign,” Melissa said. “They aren’t ready for the ribbon cutting.”
“Are they postponing?”
“Hell, no, Barry. It’s just you and me. And the Tuckers. I can guarantee you Whitlock won’t want them in the shot.”
As we drew closer, I heard Barney say, “But the cement will need to set up before we put any weight on the post.” He pronounced the word, “SEE mint.”
“That’s right,” the nameless Tucker brother chimed in.
“Well, we can’t have a picture of Heaven’s Gate Gardens South without a god-damned gate.” The mayor jumped up and down with each word.
Now I understood the origin of the phrase, “hoppin’ mad.”
“What if we hold the gate up while you take your picture?” Barney asked. “People will just think we’re some of the dignitaries.”
Sputtering noises came from the mayor like he was being water-boarded.
The noise of our footsteps on the gravel filled the space between his gasps.
Archie turned around. “Hi, Barry. We’ve got ourselves a situation.”
Everyone faced me. I looked beyond them to a white wrought-iron gate on the road behind them. Two cherubs were fixed to the bars. White gate posts lay flat on the grass on either side. To my left I saw the rock wall with a bronze plaque embedded in the stonework. “HEAVEN’S GATE GARDENS SOUTH” were the words in relief.
“Everything’s ready but the posts?” I asked.
“Yes,” Barney said. “It rained Friday so we had to stop work on the wall. We come here early this morning and finished it less than thirty minutes ago. The gateposts got to have a solid anchor.”
I nodded like I planted posts every day. “I understand. How long would it take you to dig holes that you had no intention of filling with concrete but would temporarily keep the posts erect?”
Barney scratched his grizzled chin. “I see. Just something snug for the picture, and then we could widen the holes for the permanent placement.”
“Right.”
“I reckon about fifteen minutes a hole.”
I turned to Melissa. “You okay with that?”
“For a story of this magnitude? Sure.”
Only I appreciated her sarcasm.
“That’s great,” Mayor Whitlock said. “You got a good head on your shoulders, Barry.” He clapped his hands. “Well, let’s get to it, boys.”
For the next five minutes we watched the Tucker brothers swap off as they buried the manual posthole digger deeper into the ground with each thrust. It ranked up there with watching P.J. give haircuts.
Then a muffled clank rose from the hole as the blades bit into something harder than earth. Barney lifted up the dirt and when he dumped it to the side, we saw shards of pottery mixed with the soil.
“What’s that?” Archie asked.
I saw Melissa’s eyebrows arch as she studied the pieces.
Barney lifted the digger higher. “Probably some ol’ jug.” He brought the tool down like he was smashing through granite.
Another crunch. He extracted the digger and opened its jaws. More shards of pottery.
And I saw something else. Pieces of bones. What looked like human bones.
Barney stared at me, his grizzled face pale as chalk. “Oh, man. Not again.”
Melissa’s camera whirred like a machine gun.

Excerpt Courtesy of Poisoned Pen Press

Author Bio:

Mark de Castrique is the author of the critically acclaimed Barry Clayton and Sam Blackman mystery series, both set in his native North Carolina mountains. He is also the author of the D.C. political thriller, The 13th Target, as well as mysteries for Young Adults
 
 

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The Blood of the Fifth Knight by E.M.Powell Spotlight with Excerpt!

Publication Date: January 1, 2015
Thomas & Mercer
Formats: eBook, Paperback
Pages: 368p 
Genre: Historical Thriller

    

A triumphant sequel to Powell’s acclaimed historical thriller The Fifth Knight. A desperate king trusts a lone knight to unravel a web of murder. England, 1176. King Henry II has imprisoned his rebellious Queen for her failed attempt to overthrow him. But with her conspirators still at large and a failed assassination attempt on his beautiful mistress, Rosamund Clifford, the King must take action to preserve his reign. Desperate, Henry turns to the only man he trusts: a man whose skills have saved him once before. Sir Benedict Palmer answers the call, mistakenly believing that his family will remain safe while he attends to his King. As Palmer races to secure his King’s throne, neither man senses the hand of a brilliant schemer, a mystery figure loyal to Henry's traitorous Queen who will stop at nothing to see the King defeated. The Blood of the Fifth Knight is an intricate medieval murder mystery and worthy sequel to E.M. Powell's acclaimed historical thriller The Fifth Knight.

Review Praise for The Fifth Knight

"Powell does a masterful job. Highly recommended." Historical Novels Review

About the Author

E.M. Powell is the author of medieval thriller THE FIFTH KNIGHT which was a #1 Amazon Bestseller. Born and raised in the Republic of Ireland into the family of Michael Collins (the legendary revolutionary and founder of the Irish Free State) she now lives in the north west of England with her husband and daughter and a Facebook-friendly dog. She is a member of the Historical Novel Society, International Thriller Writers and Romance Writers of America. She is a reviewer of fiction and non-fiction for the HNS. Find out more by visiting www.empowell.com. You can also connect with her on Facebook, Twitter, and Goodreads.

Chapter 1

Canterbury, Kent, England, 12 July 1174

A king’s flesh tore like any man’s. Sir Benedict Palmer knew it would, but still it shocked him to see it.

He stood among the many hundreds of pilgrims and gawkers that crammed the winding streets of Canterbury, watching the penitent King Henry make his tortured way towards the cathedral. The shouting crowds stood ten deep, twenty in places, pushing for a better view.

‘Can you see him?’ came the close whisper from Palmer’s wife, Theodosia.

He met her fear-filled grey eyes. ‘He’s nearly here.’ Though Palmer could see with ease over the crowd, his small-boned Theodosia could not. Not yet, but very soon. And the sight would horrify her.

The broiling sun overhead lit the red that remained in Henry’s greying hair, and he wore the blackened ash mask of the sinner. The sweat on his face carried dark streaks of ash and a different red down his naked upper body. Blood stained the royal flesh, flesh white and soft as a turnip root. A line of sweating, black-robed monks followed him, scourges in hand, delivering this brutal public penance for the murder of the cathedral’s Archbishop, Thomas Becket.

Theodosia’s hand tightened on Palmer’s arm. He knew she had longed desperately for this day. Longed for it as much as she dreaded it.

Another crack echoed above the noisy mob, and the black coils of a scourge striped Henry’s bare chest and shoulders again. Folk gasped, women screamed. A group of white-robed monks raised their voices in a noisy hymn.

Theodosia gripped harder.

‘Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, istis Sanctis et omnibus Sanctis.’ Henry continued to recite his penance, his thin voice cutting through the horde’s buzz.

‘Beg for forgiveness!’ yelled an unseen man. ‘Saint Thomas Becket is all forgiving!’

A new din of yells, whistles, and cries broke out.

‘By the glorious Queen of Heaven and the angels, repent!’ A hatchet-faced man flung up his hands.

‘Beg for the mercy of the Almighty!’ wailed a pockmarked priest.

‘Repent!’ A woman held tight to the cloak of her witless, drooling son, a cross shorn into his hair. ‘Repent now!’

All in this mob blamed Henry—blamed him as surely as if he had held the sword that had smashed Archbishop Thomas Becket’s skull on that freezing December night three and a half years ago. The night that Palmer and Theodosia had both witnessed, that had near cost them their lives too. The night that the cathedral had become Becket’s tomb, where his lifeblood had been splashed across its stone floor.

But today, the huge grey cathedral towers stood against a searing sun in a blue sky, marking Becket’s triumph from Henry’s martyr to a holy saint. Today, Henry the sinner stumbled low on the hot, brutal streets of Canterbury, begging for forgiveness from the man he’d had cut down, his own flesh shredded and torn. Already he looked as if he might fall.

‘A godly dead man is worth more than a living knave!’

Another rage-filled scream.

Palmer licked the salt of sweat from his top lip and held his reactions in check. The King was no knave, yet the world had to think so.

Palmer glanced down at his silent wife, fearing her collapse more than the King’s. The high buildings trapped the stink from the near-solid run-offs from the privies, as well as the noise and heat. He hadn’t wanted to come to witness this ugly spectacle, but she’d insisted.

They’d travelled for weeks from their distant village of Cloughbrook in Staffordshire. Weeks without much food, as they walked in a praying, singing throng of every kind of pilgrim, which grew with each day they neared Canterbury. Now they stood here as the sun climbed, fiercer by the hour, without the relief of shade or water. Fiercer still, the mood of those watching Henry’s agony. The fierceness of the righteous. Palmer knew it well.

And Theodosia stood beside him, with her stomach big, the baby she carried expected by autumn. But he needn’t worry about her fainting. Despite her heat-cracked lips and freckled skin, he saw the clamp of her jaw, the firm set of her gaze. She wouldn’t yield: she waited for her King. Yet her gaze flicked to their small red-haired son, edging forward through the knot of legs and skirts, curious to gape too.

‘Tom.’ Her quick order brought him back to Palmer’s side.

Palmer laid a hand on the lad’s slender shoulder. ‘Stay with us, eh? Can’t have you getting lost.’ Not much chance of that. Becket himself could come down from the clouds, and Theodosia would still have an eye on the boy.

There was a crack as another scourge met the royal flesh. The crowd let out a fresh roar, drowning Henry’s cry of anguish.

Hands, fists and staves pressed at Palmer’s back, tried to force past him to gape closer. He swung his son off his feet and plunked him on his shoulders as he held Theodosia to him with his other arm.

He turned to those behind him. ‘Stop your shoving, you hear me?’

A fat pilgrim with an even fatter wife glared at him. ‘You ignorant farmer.’ With his breath a blast of tooth rot, the man’s face shone with rage and heat. ‘I can’t see past you and your—’ He caught the full force of Palmer’s look.

And shut his noise.

‘Benedict.’ Theodosia pulled at his arm. ‘Not here. We are on a holy pilgrimage.’

Palmer gave the silenced man a final glare and turned back to see the King’s approach along the street. ‘You ignorant farmer.’ Yes, he resembled one in his worn, patched clothes. He had to. If the pilgrim knew—knew who he really was, what he, Sir Benedict Palmer, had done: half those here would run screaming from him; the other half would tear him to pieces. No matter that King Henry knew the truth, that Henry would say Palmer’s actions had been justified. Henry himself was so close to losing his kingdom, losing his crown. Many said the King did this penance to make amends with God, before he lost power to Queen Eleanor and her ferocious sons, rising in rebellion against him. And all Palmer and Theodosia had been through would have been for nothing.

‘Make way for his Grace. Make way!’ Canterbury’s guards forced the watchers back with drawn swords.

Shoved aside too, Palmer took a half step to steady his stance.

Tom’s small hands clutched tightly at Palmer’s hair.

‘Alright, son?’

‘Yeh.’

His son’s high voice hardened his resolve. Forget knighthood, kingdoms, battles. The murder of Archbishop Thomas Becket in Canterbury Cathedral, the murder that Henry now did penance for. The murder that he, Sir Benedict Palmer, had been present at. What mattered now was to keep his family safe.

But if a king could fall, if a king could be swept aside, then where did that leave him?

The Blood of the Fifth Knight Blog Tour Schedule

Thursday, January 1
Review at Flashlight Commentary
Friday, January 2
Spotlight at With Her Nose Stuck in a Book
Monday, January 5
Review at Beth's Book Nook Blog
Thursday, January 8
Spotlight & Giveaway at Passages to the Past
Monday, January 12
Review & Giveaway at Broken Teepee
Character Interview at Boom Baby Reviews
Tuesday, January 13
Review at Oh, For the Hook of a Book
Wednesday, January 14
Interview at Oh, For the Hook of a Book
Spotlight at A Literary Vacation
Friday, January 16
Review at Historical Fiction Obsession
Saturday, January 17
Interview at Dianne Ascroft
Guest Post & Giveaway at Historical Fiction Obsession
Monday, January 19
Review at Ageless Pages Reviews
Tuesday, January 20
Review at Books and Benches
Spotlight & Giveaway at Teddy Rose Book Reviews Plus More Wednesday, January 21
Review at Just One More Chapter
Monday, January 26
Spotlight at Susan Heim on Writing
Wednesday, January 28
Review at Kinx's Book Nook
Friday, January 30
Review at Bookramblings
Saturday, January 31
Spotlight at Caroline Wilson Writes
Sunday, February 1
Review at Carole's Ramblings
Monday, February 2
Guest Post at The Lit Bitch
Tuesday, February 3
Review at Layered Pages
Spotlight at Let them Read Books
Wednesday, February 4
Spotlight at CelticLady's Reviews
Friday, February 6
Review at The Never-Ending Book

Pretty Reckless by Charity Ferrell Cover Unveil!

Pretty and Reckless

by Charity Ferrell

Publication Date: March 1, 2015

Genre: New Adult

Cover Designer: Mayhem Cover Creations

Synopsis

Pretty: pleasing or attractive to the eye. 

Reckless: utterly unconcerned about the consequences of actions; without caution. 

I know how people look at me. It's not with respect. It's not with morality. It's either with lust or disgust. 

I'm the prettiest damn wreck they've ever laid eyes on. I destroy everything in my path. I keep secrets like they're chained to my heart. I've been labeled a liar, a manipulator, and a slut. No one gets me. 

But him. 

And he's completely off limits. 

I'm Elise, and this is my story. 

Meet the Author

Charity resides in Indianapolis, Indiana. 

She grew up riding her bicycle to the town's public library, and reading anything she could get her hands on. 

When she's not writing, you can find her reading, spending time with her family, or caving into her online shopping addiction. 

Blogs Participating 

 Hosted by:

Dictating Death by Bonnie R. Paulson Blog Tour with GiveawaY!

This book is not light reading. There are graphic scenes and there is not HEA. NOT intended for teens or young adults. Again, this is not light reading. Violence and craziness. You've been warned.***Samantha wants to love him.Maria wants to kill him. Dr. Luke Lawson has no idea that the girl he’s dating has split personalities fighting to control her body. Samantha must keep Luke safe at all costs. If Samantha wins, Maria will die and disappear forever – taking Samantha with her. If Maria wins, Dr. Lawson will die and she and Samantha will move on to the next doctor – the next kill. But Luke is special. He could save Samantha from herself… but only if Samantha can save him.

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  Visit at www.BonnieRPaulson.net Join Bonnie R Paulson's Survivor Newsletter Enter to win a Lifeline 26-Piece Ultralight Survival Kit. Open to 18+ US addresses. Contest ends Feb 27 @ 11:59PM EST  
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A Soldier of Substance by D.W.Bradbridge Spotlight!

Publication Date: November 1, 2014 CreateSpace Formats: eBook, Paperback Pages: 470 Series: Daniel Cheswis Mystery Genre: Historical Mystery   1644. The smoke of parliamentary musket, cannon, and mortar fire is in the air around the royalist stronghold of Lathom House. Though guards still stand atop its walls, it is besieged on all sides, and it is only a matter of time until the house, along with its embittered and unwavering countess, Lady Charlotte de Tremouille, falls to Parliament’s might. Yet somehow, a royalist spy still creeps, unseen, through its gates, and brings the countess Parliament’s secrets. Barely recovered from the trials of the last few months, Daniel Cheswis is torn from his family and sent north, to uncover the identity of the traitor; though before he can even begin, Cheswis finds himself embroiled in a murder. A woman has been garrotted with cheese wire in her Chester home, suggesting there is more than just the usual hatreds of war at play. As lives are lost and coats are turned on both sides, Cheswis is tasked with finding the murderer, uncovering the traitor, and surviving his soldierly duty long enough to see Lathom House fall.

Buy the Book

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About the Author

D.W. Bradbridge was born in 1960 and grew up in Bolton. He has lived in Crewe, Cheshire since 2000, where he and his wife run a small magazine publishing business for the automotive industry. “The inspiration for The Winter Siege came from a long-standing interest in genealogy and local history. My research led me to the realisation that the experience endured by the people of Nantwich during December and January 1643-44 was a story worth telling. I also realised that the closed, tension-filled environment of the month-long siege provided the ideal setting for a crime novel. “History is a fascinating tool for the novelist. It consists only of what is remembered and written down, and contemporary accounts are often written by those who have their own stories to tell. But what about those stories which were forgotten and became lost in the mists of time? “In writing The Winter Siege, my aim was to take the framework of real history and fill in the gaps with a story of what could, or might have happened. Is it history or fiction? It’s for the reader to decide.” For more information please visit D.W. Bradbridge’s website. You can also find him on Facebook and follow him on Twitter.

A Soldier of Substance Blog Tour Schedule

Wednesday, January 7
Review at Flashlight Commentary
Saturday, January 10
Review at With Her Nose Stuck in a Book
Wednesday, January 14
Spotlight & Giveaway at Passages to the Past
Tuesday, January 20
Spotlight at A Literary Vacation
Tuesday, January 27
Review at Forever Ashley
Spotlight at Books and Benches
Tuesday, February 3
Spotlight at CelticLady's Reviews
Friday, February 6
Guest Post & Giveaway at Historical Fiction Obsession