He took a heavy breath. “Being a widow does not give you license to lure the unwary to lecherous thoughts and deeds. You should be filling your days with good works for the poor instead of ensnaring the minds of those susceptible to the Devil’s intentions.”
“I have done no such—”
“You will not run your mouth to me! You have been nothing but a thistle in my boot since your worthy husband left his earthly home, God rest his immortal soul. You have caused me no end of dishonor by your shameless behavior. Today’s blatant display of your…your bosoms did not go unmentioned by the proper ladies of the church.”
With all her fierce will she kept her voice from rising to a screech. “It was the Reverend who stripped me of my gown, the Reverend who flogged me so harshly that I twisted and curled to avoid his vindictive strokes. Do not make it appear as though I deliberately sought to expose myself.” Mercy could feel her face and throat heat as the lie threatened to ensnare her.
Her father shot off his chair and lunged for her. “The Almighty help me, but I cannot wait until I am free of this burden of your insolent tongue! Would that I had been gifted with all sons, for your brothers have never shamed me.” He gripped her shoulders and began shaking her. Mercy’s head bobbed back and forth.
“I will handle the she-cat.” Master Burroughs calmly stepped forward, towering over them to lay a restraining hand on her father’s shoulder. The old man, heaving a deep and relieved breath, released her and, with an oath on his lips, retreated to the table and poured himself another mug of rum.
“Mercy Walcott,” the blacksmith said, gripping her shoulders with a fearsome strength, “you may have been able to ignore your father’s strictures, but I assure you, you will be subservient to me in all things.”
His eyes penetrated deep into hers, making her limbs weak, as did his thumbs lightly caressing her shoulders under the linsey-woolsey of her robe. “Beginning this moment you will obey me in matters large and small. You will walk a step behind me. You will hasten to do my bidding whatsoever it shall be. And I will save you from your wicked ways and protect you from the meddlers and the whisperers and, yes, the weak men who lust after you. Once you have felt the touch of my…dominance, you will wish for no other. This I promise.”
Releasing her, he spun on the heel of his shined leather boot and pinned her father with his stare. “I expect to see her at tomorrow’s church service, Mr. Phips, ready and willing to be wed.” His glance raked her for an instant, scalding her. “And I expect her to be suitably and demurely attired. Henceforth no man shall see any hint of what is mine alone.”
Without another word or glance, Master Burroughs departed her father’s humble home, leaving Mercy speechless and her heart thudding.
For more information about Cris Anson and her books, go to her website: www.crisanson.com.
Beate Boeker
Around the World to Find Love
“I have to work as a trainee in an accounting department before I can enroll for the next level of my university course,” I told my father at breakfast one day. “Several weeks, in fact. Any idea how to make that bearable?”
“Sure,” my father spread a pound of butter onto his toast, as he did every morning. “Why don’t you go to Hong Kong?”
I blinked. Hong Kong? I knew nothing about Hong Kong. I had grown up in Germany and spent nine months in France, so I was seriously Europe-minded. Asia didn’t tempt me. Besides, I didn’t like big cities.
On the other hand, I needed all the help I could get to scrape through the weeks of accounting (you will have guessed by now that I’m not an enthusiastic number-cruncher.). “What do you have in mind?” I asked with caution.
“I know a guy there. He’s the managing director of our Hong Kong subsidiary, and I think he would take you on. Write an application and give it to me. I’ll pass it on.”
My father worked for a large chemical company in Duesseldorf, Germany, and had to travel a lot, so he knew people all over the world. Sweating over my application, I tried to make it sound as interesting as I could, but with my twenty-one years in life, I still felt I had too little to say.
When I was finally done, I gave the precious letter and my meager CV to my father and asked him every week for months if he had received an answer. Nothing. At some point, I decided to forget Hong Kong and to get on with my math exam preparation instead (a painful experience).
Two weeks before I was scheduled to go, he got a call. “Is your daughter still interested in coming to HK?” the CEO asked.
“I guess so,” my father said.
“Then tell her to come. But she has to stay at a hotel because my nephew is living with us at the moment.”
“Stupid nephew,” I said when I heard the news (that was after I had finished screaming with excitement.) “Why does he have to stay there right now?”
After days packed full with excitement and preparations and vaccinations, I curled up on my airplane going to Hong Kong and couldn’t believe my luck. I still remember the book I read - Daddy Longlegs by Jean Webster. To this day, it’s one of my favorites.
The wife of the CEO met me at the airport. I was wildly excited. Everything was so different. I’d never seen such high buildings, had never seen building constructions made of bamboo, had never seen so many people in one spot. And the smell - oh, the smell. So exotic, so un-German, so spicy . . . I was quivering with anticipation.
“We have to pick up Michi downtown, then we’ll go out for dinner,” she said.
Michi. Michi is a German nick-name for a small boy who’s real name is Michael. I pursed my lips. No doubt he’s sixteen and a computer nerd. (I’d learned already that he was working as a trainee at a large computer company).
But when I met “Michi” (I later learned that no-one but his aunt calls him like that), I realized that this guy was older than I am, with long, jeans-clad legs and the kindest brown eyes I had ever seen. That night, he drove me and another business acquaintance home from dinner.
The business acquaintance asked, “Why are you taking the long road to go downtown? The tunnel would be quicker.”
Michael replied. “It’s Beate’s first night in Hong Kong. She has to see the skyline.”
I knew then that the kind eyes had not been misleading.
In the next weeks, I fell in love with Hong Kong. With its busy people, with the amazing food (I could live on Dim Sum, morning, day, night), with the bar Ned Kelly’s, with that amazing mix of modern life and Chinese tradition . . . and I fell in love with Michael.
At the beginning of my stay, The CEO told Michael to keep an eye on “the kid”. After all, he had promised my father to keep me safe in the big city. But when my weeks in Hong Kong came to an end, he looked at us, shook his head at his nephew, and said. “I didn’t mean it quite like that when I said you should look after her.”
It is a bit strange that two Germans had to travel to the other end of the world to meet, but today - a good twenty years later - I still say it was right. It was meant to be.
About A New Life
Beate Boeker is a marketing manager by day and a writer by night. She has published several contemporary romances with Avalon Books and a range of e-books. Her latest e-novel is called A New Life, a mix of romance and mystery, set in Italy.
If you mix Latin and German, Beate Boeker literally translates as Happy Books, and with a name like that, what else can she do but find a happy ending for her novels?
Excerpt from A New Life
“No, I didn’t kill him.” Anne frowned at the sound of her voice. If only she knew how to say it in Italian.
Then again, no. Anne shook her head.
She didn’t have to know it.
Because nobody would ask.
She had to remember it was all in the past.
The loudspeaker spat out some Italian sentences. Anne tilted her head but didn’t understand a word. Thank God the stewardess continued in English. “Ladies and Gentlemen, we’re now approaching Florence
. Please fasten your seat belts, and put your seats in an upright position.”
Florence! Anne swallowed. How often had she dreamed of Florence. How often had she asked her mother to show her the pictures yet again, to speak of the light, of the beauty, of the Italian sun. Anne closed her eyes. She could hear her mother even now, her musical voice and her explosive laughter.
She would never have believed that one day, she would be reluctant to see Florence.
Anne clenched her teeth. She had to stop thinking about it. She had to concentrate on a dream come true, no matter the circumstances, no matter it felt like a nightmare.
She angled her head to get a better view of Florence through the window, but the plane was surrounded by clouds. It looked as if they were cutting through a thick layer of gray cotton wool.
Almost there. Anne’s eyes burned as she fought back a wave of fear. How she wished she could go back to Seattle. But that wasn’t an option.
You’ll be fine, she told herself and stared at the clouds. The red lights from the wings reflected in the towering gray masses before they cut into them. For an instant, Anne closed her eyes. Even if the whole of Europe should turn out to be gray, it had one big advantage.
Nobody knew her here.
That counted more than everything. She nodded to herself. Giorgio had promised she could avoid all Americans at the hotel. Maybe, for once, Giorgio had told the truth.
She sighed. How she wished she didn’t depend on their weak family connection.
The plane dipped lower, and they emerged from the gray cotton wool. Anne’s eyes widened. How close to the ground they were already! For an instant, she could make out a few scattered buildings before the rain streamed along the little oval window in horizontal lines and blurred her view. She might see more if she took off her huge sun-glasses, bought especially to hide as much of her face as possible, but she had kept them on all the way because they made her feel anonymous. She would soon have to face the world without them. All too soon.
Half an hour later, she stared at a huge sign on the wall while waiting for her giant suitcase to arrive on the belt.
Benvenuto da Firenze. Welcome to Florence. Willkommen in Florenz. Bienvenue à Florence. The words reverberated through her. Welcome. Would she be welcome? She doubted it. Anne grabbed her elephant suitcase, hefted it off the belt and dragged it to the exit. Her heart beat hard against her ribs.
The airport was so small, you could walk in ten minutes from one end to the other. It had just one floor and a flat roof, and if you wanted to get lost here, you had a job to do. Somehow, the small size made it sympathetic and manageable. Then again, you could be seen and recognized in no time at all. Anne swallowed, hurried through the glass doors, and took a deep breath. Italy smelled of rain and dust.
It wouldn’t take long to get to the ‘centro storico’, the old city center. Half an hour or so, the guy at the travel agency had said. Anne’s throat felt parched. She would have to face the manager of the Garibaldi Hotel soon. Peter Grant.
Giorgio had told her Mr. Grant would not be a problem. He’d promised to discuss everything with him. He’d promised Mr. Grant would welcome her with open arms. He’d also promised Mr. Grant would be discreet.
Anne bent her head to avoid the worst of the rain and turned to her left, following a sign that said ‘Taxi’. The rain dropped into the small of her neck and ran down her back with chilly fingers. Until yesterday, her long hair had kept her warm. How she missed its familiar weight; how vulnerable she felt. What a stupid idea to cut her long hair only because it would make her look different from the girl on trial. Anne huddled deeper into her coat, but the wind cut through it and made her shudder. She splashed into a puddle, and immediately, water seeped through the seams of her shoes. Darn. You’re so silly. Take off your sunglasses now. Do.
But no. Not yet.
Her thoughts turned back to Peter Grant. She wasn’t so sure about the open-armed-welcome. From all she’d learned the last months, few people welcomed you with open arms if you’ve just been released from custody, and on a murder charge at that.
She bit her lips and stopped next to the first taxi in line. With a forced smile, she bent forward and looked through a dirty window. The taxi driver opened it, his face impassive. Anne summoned up the sentence she had learned by heart. “Nel centro storico?”
The taxi driver nodded. He scowled at her huge suitcase, then at the pouring rain, grunted something she didn’t understand and heaved himself out of his Renault.
For an instant, Anne wanted to say she was sorry to be a bother, then she shook herself. She wasn’t responsible for the weather. Where had all her self esteem gone? Half a year ago, she would have made a joke about the rain. Now every little unpleasantness went straight to the core. She pressed her lips together and dived into the back of the taxi. It smelled of stale cigarettes.
When the Renault started to drive with a rattle that told her the exhaust tube wasn’t going to last much longer, she stared out of the window. Blinded by the rain and her sun-glasses, she didn’t see much. A few trees, thin, straggling. Some low houses, with the typical roofs made of four equal triangular pieces, slanted to meet at the tip. Shutters with peeling paint, closed to keep out the sun that was nowhere to be seen and hard to imagine. Where was the Florence her mother had loved?
Anne shook herself. She had to think positive. She had to take back her life, make it into something good, something clean. She sighed. Would it ever become possible to forget she’d been imprisoned on a murder charge? Would she be able to forget the accusing stare of Alec’s friends, and let’s face it, her own, who believed she had tampered with his car? Would life ever turn back into something sane, something to have confidence in?
She’d been innocent. It hadn’t helped.
The houses got higher, and the streets narrowed until Anne wondered if she could open the door of the taxi without hitting it against a wall. It got darker by the minute. The rain pelted onto the roof with angry blows, deafening her. She felt as if she was sitting inside a clammy tin box. Anne hunched up her shoulders and curled her cold toes.
When the taxi stopped, and her amiable driver indicated with a move of the head that she had reached her destiny, she fumbled out some unfamiliar Euro notes and pressed them into his hands. His fingers were red, like sausages. The sausages disappeared in a black zip-bag and reappeared with some change.
“Grazie.” Anne’s voice trembled.
With a sigh, the taxi driver heaved himself out and went to the back of the car.
Anne clutched her handbag hard. Now. Her new life was about to begin.
Get out, she told herself. Don’t be a coward.
But her legs were frozen stiff. She was unable to move.
Oh, it would be so nice if she could find a mouse hole somewhere. Just a little mouse hole, well hidden; that would do.
For more information about Beate and her books, go to her website: http://www.happybooks.de.
Victoria Roder
I wouldn’t Have Married You if I Didn’t Love You Kind of Guy
If you glanced at my husband, the stereo-typical label would be “Biker.” He rides a Harley, has tattoos and a goatee and I call him Big-Guy. He has never been a gusher. You know what I mean, that lovey dovey, Valentines Day every day kind of guy. He’s more of the, I wouldn’t have married you if I didn’t love you kind of guy.
For our seventeenth anniversary we celebrated at a special restaurant. I excused myself to use the ladies room and when I returned he opened a small velvet box and presented me with an anniversary ring. I was shocked and thrilled! My husband is a bit shy. He doesn’t like large groups of people and doesn’t like to be in the spotlight. So what truly surprised me, and was out of character for my husband, was what he had already planned before he presented me with the ring.
“Will you marry me, again? I called your Pastor and booked your church for next year on our anniversary to renew our vows.” He gave me his cocky smile and a tilt of
his head adding, “If you want to.”
Don’t tell my husband, but he could have put an onion ring on my finger and I wouldn’t have cared. What meant the world to me is that he would do something so out of his character, because he knew it would make me happy. That’s true love, putting someone else’s needs above our own. As the years have passed, my husband and I have learned to do that on a daily basis, even with the little things. For example, asking the other person if they need something while were up, calling each other everyday, and saying I love you everyday. It took us a little while to figure it out, but we treat each other according to the ‘golden rule’—treating each other as we want to be treated. What a great relationship the ‘golden rule’ nurtures.
We invest time in each other, camping with our dogs, motorcycle rides and visiting with friends, together. To nurture a relationship over the long haul, the special surprises and celebrations are memorable, but it is the little things that make the glue to hold a relationship together.
Victoria Roder lives in Central Wisconsin with her husband and house full of pets. She is the author of action thriller, Bolt Action, Champagne Books; paranormal romance, The Dream House Visions and Nightmares, Inspirational Devotional book; It’s Not You—It’s Them: Six Steps to Healing and Thriving after abuse, Dancing With Bear Publishing. Her short stories have appeared in Chicken Soup for the Soul, A Cup of Comfort, The Latke Hound a Christmas Anthology and One Red Rose Valentine Anthology from Dancing With Bear Publishing. She has three children’s books coming soon, and writes articles and creates puzzles for magazines and activity books.
About Bolt Action
How I Met My Husband: The Real-Life Love Stories of 25 Romance Authors Page 10