Category: Bookshelf

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Letters Snippet

This is another snippet of a Dear Sir, I’m Yours prequel. I’ll be writing out several scenes over the next few weeks, alternating with more letters, and when the whole thing is done, I’ll package it all together as a pdf on the Free Reads page. For now, I’m calling this prequel “Letters” since I haven’t come up with another title. I’ll accumulate the links here in reverse chronological order if you need to catch up!

Letter Two
Snippet One
Letter One

Snippet Two:  The first day of class
 

After preparing all weekend for the big introduction to the professor of her most erotic dreams ever, Rae wanted to scream and throw the ridiculously thick course book out the window.  She’d been a nervous wreck last night and couldn’t sleep, so of course, she’d overslept this morning.  Whose God-awful idea was it to schedule class at eight o’clock in the morning anyway?

So instead of looking gorgeously and studiously prepared in her coveted front-row seat as soon as Dr. Connagher walked in the door, she found herself hovering outside the door, frazzled, hair still damp in a frantic braid, and late enough that he’d already begun speaking.  The thought of walking into his class, late, with only enough prerequisites by the skin of her teeth–while he spoke in that rumbling purr–made her want to sink into the floor and disappear. 

At least there were only a handful of students to witness her shame.

Taking a deep breath, she quietly opened the door.  It creaked like a hundred-year-old rusted iron hinge on a haunted house, and every single eye focused on her.

Including two steely blue ones with a deep canyon deep between them.

Ducking her head before those fierce eyes could lock on hers, she mumbled an apology and rushed toward a seat.  Front row, but not center.  Heart pounding, she yanked out the poetry anthology and stared at it without blinking until her eyes burned.  She could feel his attention like a brand searing her flesh.

“Well,” he finally said.  “I suppose we beat the dean after all.  Miss Jackson, I presume?”

Peeking up at him through her lashes, she nodded.

“We’re very thankful for your late registration.  If you hadn’t joined us, I’m afraid this class would’ve been scratched off the schedule.  As it is, this is the last year I’ll be teaching the Romantic Period.”

His voice growled with suppressed frustration.  Now she knew why he’d been outside the dean’s office on Friday. 

“As with so many other niceties from an age gone by, I suppose it was only inevitable that this generation give up on poetry.  We’re too busy playing on the computer or watching television to sit down and read any book at all, let alone one that makes us think.”

His voice had gradually neared until she knew he must be standing right in front of her.  She could see the toes of his boots, a different, cleaner pair in black leather than the ones he’d worn on Friday, and although he still wore jeans, these were black too.  Imagining him topping it off with a black leather jacket made her shudder. 

“However, as grateful as I am for meeting the minimum quota of ten students to hold this class, I think it only fair that I warn you, Miss Jackson.”  He paused, waiting for her to meet his gaze. 

Heart pounding, she slipped her trembling hands beneath the desk and gripped them so hard she felt her nails digging into her palms.  This was it.  Would he feel anything at all when he looked at her?  Would he see the effect he had on her?  Or would he only see a silly college student drooling over her sexy professor?

Hoping she didn’t look like a crazed fangirl, she raised her gaze up to his. 

“This is not a class for the faint of heart.”

Beneath that steely blue intensity, her throat tightened but she managed to sound like a normal, intelligent student.  Mostly.  “I know this is a senior level class and no, I’m not an English major, I’m actually in Accounting, so I’m going to be behind, but I promise I’ll work very hard.”

She shut her mouth and swallowed hard to keep from saying, for you.

Long agonizing moments went by, each thud of her heart resounding in her head until it ached.  She couldn’t tell what he was thinking, let alone feeling.  His eyes had narrowed, deepening the groove between his eyes.  Frowning and silent, he stepped closer, forcing her to tilt her head back to keep her gaze on his face.

Sensing that strain on her neck, he bent down, keeping his attention locked on her.  He was close enough that she caught a faint scent of his cologne, something spicy and rich, with a hint of old, treasured leather books with gilded edges and swirling embossed titles.  He even smelled like libraries and knowledge.  She’d never been a fan of the library before, but damned if her mouth didn’t water at the thought of pressing her face against his neck and breathing in that scent hot off his skin.

“Why are you in my class, Miss Jackson?” 

Husky and low, he kept his voice soft, almost as if they were the only two people in the room.  Now she heard the hint of a southern drawl in his voice.  She knew from his biography on the campus website that he hailed from Texas.  He wasn’t married (or she wouldn’t be here).  He’d gotten his degree from Southern Methodist.  Or was that where he’d gotten his doctorate?

Her mind babbled the facts she’d dug up on him because she couldn’t think about his question.  She couldn’t answer him.  Literally, her mind blanked.  She couldn’t think of a single plausible excuse other than the truth, which would be too humiliating to admit to him, let alone in front of the rest of the class. 

His previous students had whispered wide-eyed about his stringent requirements.  He expected formality and immediate, well-thought-out answers, and if she didn’t answer, he’d kick her out of his class so fast her head would spin.  Or she could simply tell him the truth, and later, he’d be laughing while he told his friend all about the crazy student he’d had security escort off campus.

Silence weighed heavy in the room.  None of the other students made a peep, as if they dreaded drawing his formidable attention to them instead.  Her pulse was so fast and frantic that she could feel the side of her neck thumping away like a subwoofer.  She couldn’t sit here and not answer his question.  It was like he’d injected her with a truth serum or something, but the thought of blurting out the truth in front of everyone made him swim in her vision.

Your voice makes me hot and when I look at you, every bone in my body melts.

Horrified, she realized her eyes had filled with tears.

Abruptly, he returned to the table at the front of the room, picked up an Expo marker, and began writing on the whiteboard.  Dutifully, the other students flipped open their notebooks and the busy scratching of pens filled the silence.

Rae sagged in her seat like a piece of wilted lettuce, relieved that he’d relented before she’d done something stupid.  Damp and sweaty, her shirt stuck to her back.  Her hands shook, but she managed to shove the book back inside her backpack.  Now if she could only slink away quietly…

“Miss Jackson,” he said in that wicked voice without turning from the board, “I expect you to stop by my office immediately after class to discuss my concerns.”

Her heart soared at the thought of speaking to him in private, and then plummeted to the depths of hell.  She swallowed hard.  He wasn’t the sort of man that ever lost a battle, let alone surrendered.  In the privacy of his office–his personal domain–he’d want the truth. 

And he’d have it, because she was terribly afraid that there wasn’t anything she wouldn’t give him. 

Miserably, she whispered, “Yes, sir.”

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Letters Snippet

This is another snippet of a Dear Sir, I’m Yours prequel. I’ll be writing out several scenes over the next few weeks, alternating with more letters, and when the whole thing is done, I’ll package it all together as a pdf on the Free Reads page. For now, I’m calling this prequel “Letters” since I haven’t come up with another title. I’ll accumulate the links here in reverse chronological order if you need to catch up!

 
Snippet One
Letter One

Letter Two:
 

Dear Dr. Connagher:

 

So it should have been a clue that if you were quoting poetry…you were probably an English professor.  Which didn’t sound too bad, until I found out that your only open class is a senior-level class on the Romantic Period.  I admit, I was giddy and relieved, until I actually read the course description. 

 

Then to make matters worse, my suitemates knew somebody who took your class last year.  Thank you very much–now I’m terrified that I’ll fail my first class at Drury.  Why did your only open class have to be this one, your pet class, the one you use to “break” English majors too foolish to have changed their major to basket weaving already? 

 

What hope do I have of surviving your class?  Absolutely none whatsoever.  Yet the thought of dropping out before I even meet you makes me want to cry.

 

You can thank [name redacted to protect the innocent] for warning me that you require all students to contact you in formal letters, which is exactly why I’ve lost my mind enough to write not one but two letters to you already.  She also said that you despise the internet, and if anyone even brings up Google, e-mail, or Lord forgive us, cliffnotes.com, then we’d better get a head start for the Registrar’s Office for that withdrawal.

 

So while all my friends are out partying one last frantic weekend before having to drag themselves to class with a hangover, I’m settled into bed with a foot-thick tome of poetry, a dictionary, and every resource the librarian could suggest for a dolt who knows absolutely nothing about Shelley beyond Frankenstein.  Which I now know, thanks to you, wasn’t even written by the poet listed in the course description, but his wife.

 

I’m trying to concentrate on what I’m reading, but I keep picturing you in the hallway.  There were deep grooves about your mouth and your eyes were like dark storm clouds.  When I close my eyes, I can see your face, and I press kisses to each one of those lines until they fade away, and the only darkness that remains is in your eyes.  That darkness gives me cold chills and sends my heart pounding like a jackhammer, but I can’t look away. 

 

I want your eyes on me.  I want your darkness.  I want you.

 

Now, as I read this poem for the hundredth time, I hear your voice reading it, and I’ve never heard anything sexier in my entire life.  Just don’t ask me what the poem actually means, please, until I’ve had time to study a whole lot more.

 

Why isn’t it Monday yet?  This is so stupid.  I’ve done more work for your class than I’ve ever done in my entire life and the semester hasn’t even started!

 

Still yours,

 

~ Rae

 

P.S. Would it earn me any extra credit if you knew that I’d hunted down that snippet of poetry you quoted in the hall yesterday?

 

P.S.S. I guess not–I used Google to find out that you were quoting from Percy Bysshe Shelley’s “Ozymandias.”

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Letters Snippet

This is another snippet of a Dear Sir, I’m Yours prequel.  I’ll be writing out several scenes over the next few weeks, alternating with more letters, and when the whole thing is done, I’ll package it all together as a pdf on the Free Reads page.  For now, I’m calling this prequel “Letters” since I haven’t come up with another title. I’ll accumulate the links here in reverse chronological order if you need to catch up!

Aside:  the poetry quote opening this section has an interesting little story.  If you read Dear Sir, you’ll learn that “Ozymandias” has special meaning in the story.  As I sat down last night to write this scene, I knew I wanted to open with Conn quoting some poetry, but I didn’t know what it was.  He was unhappy, even angry, and the poem had to speak of some kind of despair.  Not wanting to sit for hours browsing Shelley and Byron — as enjoyable as that would be — I went through a mental check list of all the poems from which he’d already quoted.  I thought, hey, what the heck, let’s start with Ozymandias and see if there’s anything I can use.

Voila.  The piece is absolutely perfect, and in a subtle way, ties back full circle with the main story itself.  I swear, I broke out in goosebumps.  I love it when things I picked seemingly at random months ago suddenly end up having a deeper meaning that I hadn’t anticipated!

Letter One

Snippet One:

“’Round the decay/ Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,/ The lone and level sands stretch far away.’”

The masculine voice froze her in place.  Other students bumped into Rae, knocking her aside, impatient in their rush to purchase their books or line up for a coveted class before it filled, but she couldn’t move. 

That voice…

She turned and saw two men standing outside the dean’s office, obviously professors by their air of respectability, experience, and age.  The man quoting poetry in that incredibly sexy voice couldn’t be more than ten years older than her, but it wouldn’t have mattered if he was a doddering old man with a cane.  His voice would have affected her the same way.

He quoted those lovely, haunting words of poetry in a rough, deep rumble that seemed to vibrate on the air with power.  Her body thrummed in response, rippling with the subtle resonation. 

If that incredible voice wasn’t enough to send her body into overdrive, his dark good looks and rugged face only increased her attraction.  He wore faded, soft denim that hugged his thighs and ass, work boots that had definitely seen the outdoors, and a plain baby blue Oxford shirt.  He’d rolled the sleeves up to his elbows, and the sight of his corded forearms made her breath hitch in her throat.  His hands were large, his forearms lined with muscle and sinew as though he was used to hard physical labor.

What on earth had the professor been doing to earn the forearms of a warrior?  She couldn’t help but wonder if his hands would be rough and calloused to match, as powerful and commanding as his voice.

He laughed, but the lines remained on his face, deeply grooving his mouth and between his eyes.  He looked grim and fierce, his eyes as blue as his shirt but steely, as though a thunderstorm roiled inside him.  Staring at him, she ached to earn the right to smooth those grim lines from his face with her lips and tongue.

Heat seared her face and she jerked her gaze away.  She didn’t know this man.  If he was a professor, then he was certainly off limits. 

Her stupid body didn’t care.  Her mouth felt dry, her eyes hot, her muscles tense and eager.  Her instincts demanded that she either flee or rush over and fling herself at his feet, warring back and forth between fierce attraction and downright terror.  If a man could turn her on with his voice alone, what would it be like to kiss him?  To feel those big hands sliding over her skin?  Or better yet, to lie helpless beneath that power, bound for his every whim?

Get a grip, Rae. 

She’d never had pervy thoughts about a professor before, but once her mind wandered into that territory, she couldn’t seem to clear away the idea of the wicked professor tutoring his teacher’s pet.  Or punishing her.

“Enough, Mason,” he retorted in a low voice that made her shudder.  “You have no idea what I need.”

Her heart stuttered in her chest and she couldn’t catch her breath.  Oh, God, but she could all too easily imagine what he might need.  What was wrong with her?  Why would she suddenly have visions of walking up to this man and begging him to allow her to strip off her clothes for him?  She didn’t know anything about him except that voice, and the torturous images he inspired.  She didn’t even know–

“Dr. Connagher, the dean will see you now.”

He disappeared into the dean’s office.  The door shut and Rae felt as though a rubber band inside her had snapped.  She stumbled over to rest her shoulder against the cold concrete wall, closing her eyes and concentrating on breathing.

His friend might not know what he needed, but the darkness in his eyes and the elegant roughness in his voice spoke volumes to her.  As soon as she could walk without wavering like she’d just left a frat party, she headed for the Registrar’s Office.  She could only hope that Dr. Connagher taught something other than Calculus or Physics, because come Monday morning, she was going to be sitting in the front row of his class.

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Letters

If you’ve been reading here for long, you’ll remember me blogging about “Letters” or “Letters to an English Professor” for a year and more.  You’ll remember that we went through dozens of title possibilities.  We wanted something that said “romance” but also hinted at the core of the story, and when we finally settled on “Dear Sir, I’m Yours” it was like angels singing.  Why didn’t I have that as the title in the first place?  It’s PERFECT.

Since it’s June 1st and Dear Sir, I’m Yours will be released in a few short weeks, Conn and Rae have been on my mind quite a bit.  I suppose it’s no wonder, then, that Rae began writing more letters to her English professor.  I plan to share many of them here over the next few weeks to hopefully whet your appetite for more.

Five years ago, Rae was Dr. Connagher’s student in his senior-level Romantic Period poetry class.  It was a class that she never forgot for many reasons.  In one short semester, he not only managed to instill in her a love of poetry, but also a habit of letter writing.  In our modern age of e-mail, IM, and Twitter — a story in 140 chars? — a formal handwritten letter is a rarity, so it’s no surprise that Conn would treasure each and every one of these letters……if she ever sent them.

Dear Dr. Connagher:

 

You don’t know me.  To be honest, I didn’t know you before today.  I didn’t even know what classes you taught, but I ran down to the Registrar’s Office and enrolled in your only open class anyway.  Thank God you teach English instead of Calculus, but I’m afraid a senior-level poetry class may make as little sense to me.

 

It doesn’t matter.  I have to be in your class.  I want to be in the front row when you begin roll call on Monday.  I want you to know my name, and see me, and maybe, just maybe, you might feel it too.

 

I know this is crazy.  I’m crazy.  You don’t know me at all, and I’m just a student–an accounting student!  But I heard your voice, and I knew.  You weren’t even speaking to me, or I might have done something thoroughly embarrassing.  The thought of speaking to you, with your full attention focused on me, makes my tongue plaster to the roof of my mouth.  My stomach quivers, my hands tremble, and so help me God, every muscle in my body clamps down with longing.

 

I have to be in your class.

 

No, I’ll never send this to you.  I don’t want you to think I’m just another crazy stalker student offering sexual favors for a good grade, or screeching about improper behavior to blackmail you or get you fired.  On the first, I’m not that kind of girl; on the second, I’m ashamed to say that I’d never complain about your improper behavior. 

 

To be perfectly honest, I’d welcome your improper behavior.  Wholeheartedly.

 

I heard your voice, and I knew.  I knew I had to be in your class.

 

I knew I had to be…

 

Yours,

 

~ Rae Jackson

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The Road to Shanhasson – Review

Soleil of Beyond the Invisible has posted an incredible review of The Road to Shanhasson.  She says:

For a short snippet of what I said about Rose:

“The characters and their world will haunt me for the rest of my life.”

Yep. Still haunted.

and

This book literally tore my heart in two when I read it the first time. I had tears streaming down my face. But I love books that make me FEEL as opposed to leaving me lukewarm, so this was the perfect book for me. If you’re hopped up on Romancelandia’s supposed “rules”, this may not be the book for you. Me? I think some rules were meant to be broken and Joely breaks them superbly. I LOVE series books and I love THIS series. “Road” is a great sequel to Rose and has me pining for the third installment, tentatively titled Return to Shanhasson.  But seeing how busy poor Joely is and intends to be, I might have to wait awhile. (*off screen* *SOOOOOOOOOB* CRUEL FATES!!!)

Ok, ok. I’m composed. I can wait.

forliketenseconds.

Haha, not to worry, dear Soleil, but the first draft of Return to Shanhasson is indeed finished and only awaits Revision Hell.  The only problem will be deciding which Revision Hell to tackle first…

Thank you so much, Soleil! 

And yes, Gregar haunts me too.  He always will.

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The Road to Shanhasson: Gregar

Out of the cast of a hundred of so characters in the Shanhasson trilogy, I get the most comments about Gregar, the Shadowed Blood.  I even wrote a prequel short story from his point of view (available here as a free read), and I often joked about The Road to Shanhasson being “Gregar’s Book.”  He’s my Muse; when I think of the “still silent voice” that helps me write, it’s his voice I hear.  Even when I’m writing something different, he touches my writing. 

Let’s just say, he’s been a very, very bad influence on me, in a very good way.

What’s funny is that I created him and the rest of the Shanhasson cast long before I knew anything about “proper” character development.  Which is maybe why he’s so very, very wicked. 

So with small excerpts from The Shadowed Blood (pdf), The Rose of Shanhasson, and The Road to Shanhasson as appropriate for illustration:

Top Ten Reasons Why Gregar Isn’t a Proper Romancelandia Hero

(See explanation of proper at the bottom of this post.)

10. He has a terrible, ribald sense of humor. 

 

“Will you let me claim you here and now?” Rhaekhar asked.

From the heated thickness in his voice, she dreaded asking for an explanation.  “Claim?”

“Gregar, what is the proper word?” 

“Marry, wed, consummate, pleasure, mate, copulate, tup,” the dark-haired warrior replied with a wicked smile of delight.

 

9. Gregar is famous on the Plains for “arse competitions.” 

 

“Since you’re new to the Plains, you might not know that Gregar is actually very famous.” Watching the red-haired young man, she narrowed her gaze, wary of his wide-eyed innocence. “You could always ask them for an arse competition.”

She spluttered. “What?”

Dharman groaned. “That isn’t appropriate for Khul’lanna’s claiming.”

“Why not?” Sal winked at her and whispered conspiratorially. “You must like their arses rather well.”

Face hot, she started walking toward the center of Camp. Dharman still held her upper arm, walking slightly behind her and close enough he would trip over her feet if he wasn’t careful.

The lad with the wretched sense of humor walked alongside her. “Don’t you?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“At the Kae’Khul, he made quite an impression on everyone. Alea still remarks about it sometimes.”

“Only when you’re up to mischief yourself,” Dharman retorted. “Leave Khul’lanna alone, Sal. She obviously doesn’t want to talk about arses, Gregar’s, Khul’s, or yours for that matter.”

“But Alea often mutters that I could give Gregar a hard gallop for his rahke. When I’m older, of course.”

A surge of what Shannari could only call jealousy burned in her stomach at the thought of the tall sun-kissed woman getting an eyeful of Gregar’s ass, delightful or not as it might be. Through his bond, she felt only a smug silence, which actually made her madder. “Tell me about the Kae’Khul. Is that when Rhaekhar became Khul?”

“Oh, aye, it was a glorious event,” Sal replied. “Gregar and Varne were at it as usual …”

“Wait. I thought they were friends, like you and Dharman.”

“Nay, Khul’lanna,” Dharman said. “Friends, true, but there has always been an edge between them. They aren’t friends like Sal and I. We have an understanding.”

“An understanding?”

“What’s mine is his; what’s his is mine. I lead; he follows. There are no questions or doubts between us.”

“Unless it comes to mischief.” Sal leaned in close to whisper. “Then I lead Dharman where he’d hesitate to go.”

“Aye, and have led me into more trouble than I care to admit.” Although grumbling, Dharman smiled at his friend. “I shall lead you to yet greater trouble soon enough.”

“I cannot wait,” Sal breathed, his face softening with something rather like reverence.

“Me, either, my friend. Me either.”

They both looked at her with expectation, hope, and a sort of worshipful awe that embarrassed her. If they knew even half of the darkness that she carried inside … The Lady’s Lake within her resonated with a deep humming echo of power. Uneasy, she changed the subject. “So did Khul compete in this arse competition at the Kae’Khul?”

“Nay, the competition was between Gregar and Varne. It started as a friendly bet, but I believe they came close to formal challenge. I always thought they disagreed over which would lead as nearest Blood to Khul, but now …” Dharman glanced at her, his gaze considering. “Whatever the disagreement, Gregar lightened the argument with a joke, dared Varne to an arse competition—”

“Which he won, of course,” Sal added helpfully.

“Aye, and gained legendary status as a result. I’ve heard he’s even been known to flip up his memsha at kae’don to infuriate his opponents.”

She could absolutely picture it: the dark-haired Blood, laughing and winking as he flipped up the short cloth about his hips. He’d probably shout a few obscenities, too, all to better rile his opponent.

:Kiss my arse works rather well.:

 

8. He used to be a Death Rider, an assassin dedicated to the Great Wind Stallion.

  

She pointed her sword at Gregar.  “Back off.”

The Blood took a step closer, pressing the sword tip into his body.  Her jaw tightened with determination and she pushed a little harder, puncturing his chest.  Smiling with anticipation, Gregar pushed back.  A little closer, a little more steel pressing into his body.

She shifted her grip on the hilt, fully prepared to skewer him.  A coldness settled on her features that told Rhaekhar she’d killed before and often.  Very impressive.  He liked a hint of danger in a woman. 

Evidently, so did Gregar.  “Go ahead,” he taunted, his low voice echoing with amusement and his trademark wickedness.  Shannari shivered and her eyes widened.  “Run me through.  I shall greatly enjoy it.”

Her gaze flickered to the smaller wound she dealt to Rhaekhar’s neck earlier.  “Are you all crazy?”

“Gregar is… special.  He used to be a Death Rider.”  At the blank look on her face, Rhaekhar added, “An assassin.  Death Riders delight in sacrificing blood to the Great Wind Stallion.  Blood sacrifice is a very great honor among us.”

She jerked her sword away.  Gregar wiped his hand across his chest and licked the blood from his fingers.  “Would you like a taste?”

 

7. As a Death Rider, he can wrap himself in Shadows and disappear, lying in wait until his mark comes close enough to sacrifice. 

She stared at the feathered arrow sticking out of her shoulder. How could she have forgotten the archer? She fell to her knees and used the tall grass to shield herself, but it might not be enough.

“Khul’lanna!” Gregar roared with fury that another had hurt her. Only the Shadowed Blood was allowed that privilege. Shadow swallowed him, engulfing him whole, and Death came like a killing frost up the hill toward her.

 

 

6. He’s arguably one of the best rahke fighters on the Plains and is never without his ivory knife that he earned as a Death Rider.  Just don’t ask what the “ivory” hilt is made out of if you don’t really want to know.

“This one is Gregar, my shadowed Blood who used to be a Death Rider.”

So cold.  She opened her mouth to ask where he was, her teeth chattering harder.  A blade touched her neck and she froze.  Blessed Lady, the Blood was close enough to hold a knife to her throat while she sat here, oblivious until he touched her with steel.  As always when threatened from her blind spot, terror screamed through her body.  Muscles bunched, her fingers locking on the hilt, her heart thundering in her ribcage.  Her fear only intensified the sense of bone-chilling cold rolling off the Blood. 

Varne removed his hand from hers and stood at Rhaekhar’s side protectively.  Automatically, she started to draw the sword.  Helpless with a knife at her throat, she couldn’t just sit here and—

The wickedly sharp blade lifted her chin higher and the sudden press of bare flesh against her back scalded her.  The Blood whispered against her ear.  “Shall I draw a bit more of your sweet blood for Khul?”

 

#

 

Gregar hovered against her back, barely visible in thick, black shadows.  As a Death Rider, he could wrap the cold Shadow of Death about himself and disappear.  He could slit Shannari’s throat before she even knew he was there, and the knowledge shook her to the core.  Silently, Rhaekhar waited for her to look to him for assistance.

The Blood whispered something to her too low for him to hear.  Her jaw clenched and she stiffened, her fingers tight on the sword’s hilt.  Shadows draped across her shoulders, darkening her face.

Rhaekhar felt a sudden and irrational urge to drag her away from the Blood.  In his heart he knew the Blood would never hurt her, but he couldn’t ease the trepidation.  The shadows wanted to suck her down and drown her in a sea of blood and agony. 

Gregar raised his head, his dark eyes glittering like black ice in the shadows.  At his familiar smirk, Rhaekhar loosened the tension straining his shoulders. 

“Or perhaps I shall draw Khul’s blood for you.”

Her gaze leaped to Rhaekhar’s face, her eyes wide with fear and reluctant desire.  The surge of hunger through their na’lanna bond at the thought of tasting his blood very nearly sent him plunging over the cliff into raging, uncontrollable lust.  Why did she fear his disgust when he would like nothing better than to give his blood to her?

“Leave us,” he ordered, his voice thick and heavy to his own ears. 

Gregar drew his rahke up her neck, trailing the blade across her cheek in an odd, dangerous caress, but he stood and backed away.

 

5. Before Gregar became Blood, he very nearly assassinated the main hero of the Shanhasson trilogy.

Rhaekhar dropped his voice to a fervent whisper.  “The Rose will be mine, a love like no other.”

Those words rocked Gregar to his heels and the Shadowed Call thundered louder.

Kill him, kill him, KILL HIM!

This warrior would be Khul, any Death Rider’s greatest mark.  Nay, the woman, his woman, would be Khul’lanna, his greatest mark, his most secret heart’s desire, and Rhaekhar would take her as his own.

Gregar held himself very still, but inside, his heart raged, his stomach rebelled, and his very blood boiled in his veins in denial.  The ivory rahke came into his hand eagerly, hungry for this warrior’s blood.

 

4. He knows he’s going to die, and soon.  Surely that makes him poor romance hero material, right?

“While I live, no one will touch you with steel or blade again.  As long as you let me stay close, at your back, like this.”

“I can’t love again.”

“You already do.”

Gregar spoke so matter-of-factly, so calmly, while she wanted to hack and slash all about her with a sword.  “Even if I do, I can’t stay.  I know my destiny, Gregar.  I must return to the Green Lands.”

“Eventually.”  He rubbed his cheek against hers and then released her.  “I know my destiny, too, and Khul’s.  Your priest is not the only one who has premonitions.  I’ve seen the day of my death.  I’ve seen the years of happiness it will buy you with Khul.  And it’s worth the sacrifice.”

 

3. He loves Shannari, but she’s also his greatest mark as a Death Rider.  e.g. the temptation to kill her rides him hard.

 

Midnight eyes pooled with tears, she lay beneath him, trembling as his life’s blood poured out on her skin.  She had not come easily to his embrace.  She never did.  Fighting for her life, she’d enjoyed wounding him as much as he’d relished her pain.

 She fed his darkness like no other. 

“I love you.”

“Aye,” he whispered, smoothing his thumb over the pulse thumping frantically in her throat.  “My heart is yours, na’lanna.” 

My beloved.

And he buried the ivory rahke in her heart.

 

2. Pain and blood only turn him on.  

Shannari took a long, shuddering breath.  Her eyes flew open.  And with a low, vicious cry, she buried the rahke in Gregar’s chest. 

The dark-haired Blood with the wicked smile fell forward slowly, the knife in his chest still in her hand.  Horrified, Shannari tried to pull back, but his hands gripped hers in a vise, pressing the blade deeper.

He fell on her, staring into her eyes.  No surprise, no reprisals, no pain.  His gaze was heavy lidded, smoldering with desire, pleasure, raw hunger, death.  Blood gushed from the wound, searing her skin.

“Thank you,” Gregar whispered, his voice thick.  “You honor me.”

 

1. He has no limits. 

Her voice flat and cold, she admitted the atrocity of her Dream. “I let you hurt me, and I enjoyed it. I enjoyed hurting Khul by letting you hurt me. And then I killed you.”

“Shadow lies to you again, Shannari.” Gregar unsheathed the ivory rahke and laid it on the tent floor before him. “I’m tainted with Shadow, this we all know. However, my heart’s desire is not to die in your embrace.” He forced the words from his throat, and ice fisted Rhaekhar’s heart with each word. “My most secret heart’s desire is for you to die in my embrace. It’s what I dreamed for years before I became Blood. I killed you a thousand times before I ever knew your name.”

“You would enjoy hurting me,” she whispered, a question not an accusation. “You would enjoy killing me.”

“I have no limits,” Gregar replied, his voice cracking with strain. “I warned you, and I warned Khul. That’s why I refuse to participate in your claiming and why I didn’t push for you to admit your love for me. Aye, I would hurt you and enjoy it. I would kill you and enjoy it, even while I raged at myself for ending your life. I love you too much to risk you.”

 

Despite knowing he’ll die, that he will kill her if given half a chance, Shannari still loves him.  And yeah, so do I.

And here’s the explanation about why Gregar always puts special emphasis on proper.

“Are you up for a kae’rahke this night, Gregar?”

The two warriors rode ahead, leaving Shannari staring after them with dread pounding in her veins. A kae’rahke? Challenge? Sometimes they fought to the death.

“Aye, I’m up for many things, Khul.”

Rhaekhar laughed, a dark masculine sound of arrogance that made her grind her teeth together. “I bet you are. Good. I’ll declare you co-mate before the claiming. What do you want for terms?”

Groaning, Shannari tried to think of a way to distract them. Short of ripping her armor and clothes off, she didn’t think much would distract them from their goal of blood.

Gregar winked at her. “I would certainly enjoy another kiss. This time, I want a proper kiss.”

“Oh, aye,” Rhaekhar replied, giving her a smoldering look over his shoulder. “Do you want her tongue in your mouth, or yours in hers?”

“Preferably both.”

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Dear Sir I’m Yours Excerpt

Samhain Publishing, June 16, 2009

With the flashlight gripped in her fist, Rae pushed her shoulders through the crawlspace beneath Miss Belle’s back porch. Colonel Healy had designed the addition in honor of their daughter’s birth nearly sixty years ago. Rae cast the light up at the floor boards. Nice solid heavy beams. They didn’t build houses like this anymore. She checked the closest footing, digging dirt away from the concrete.

 

“The porch and addition are in good shape, Miss Belle. Let me check the foundation real quick, but I don’t think you’ve got any problems outside the house. It’s good, real good.”

 

“Aren’t you afraid of spiders?” Miss Belle demanded. “It’s not natural for a young lady to be crawling around in dark spaces like that. Who knows what kind of creepy-crawlies are in there.”

 

In Rae’s experience, the creepy-crawlies weren’t bugs under a porch at all but real live people. “I’m fine, Miss Belle.”

 

She wiggled her shoulders deeper beneath the house to get a better look. The dirt was dry but rich, good smelling, not dank with mold or slime. Good stuff. But it was the foundation of the original structure that she most wanted to see.

 

She cast the light over the tight stones. This old plantation house put brand new tract homes to shame. “Looks good, Miss Belle. I don’t think you’ll have any leaking problems into your basement for years yet. I—”

 

“Why didn’t you call me?” A male voice interrupted. “I want to meet your contractor before you sign anything.”

 

Rae’s heart slammed against her ribs. Every feminine instinct screamed a warning. She froze, glad she was mostly under the porch. Except for her lower body. Shit, shit, shit. On her knees, ass in the air, dirt in her hair… And that voice…

 

Oh, God. Not him, please. Anybody but him.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Verrill. I can take care of myself.”

 

Relief washed over her and she let her forehead rest against her forearm a minute. She didn’t know any Verrill. Deep breaths, calm—she had no reason to be worried, let alone hopeful, excited, terrified…

 

“If you call me that, then I get to call you Grandma.”

 

“Oh, Conn,” Miss Belle growled out a laugh. Rae heard the slap on his arm. “I want you to meet someone.”

 

Conn.

 

She couldn’t breathe. Five years might have passed, but he still possessed the ability to reduce her to a twenty-one-year-old English student again, drooling over her sexy professor. Betrayal choked her. The old lady had set her up. Had he been in on the joke? Furious tears burned her eyes.

Maybe the fantastic old house would suddenly break apart and bury her in rubble. She’d rather die than face him again.

 

He gave a low whistle. “Hello, gorgeous.”

 

Her brain skittered with panic, her sudden intake of breath echoing beneath the porch. Great, just great. He was staring at her ass. Heat flared beneath her jeans as if he’d smacked her. Again.

 

Maybe he won’t remember me.

 

Her heart clenched in agony.

 

“The Fix-It Lady has accepted my offer. Rae Lynn, come on out and meet my grandson.”

 

Wait a minute, meet? So maybe Miss Belle didn’t know the whole sordid truth.

 

“Rae?”

 

The sudden intensity of his voice rocked her with panic. She scrambled deeper beneath the porch. He caught her foot, his powerful hands shackling her leg. She kicked back with her other foot, catching him solidly with her boot. Hopefully in the head.

 

He grunted but didn’t let go. Weight trapped her lower body, his arms snaking around her legs, hauling her back. She grabbed at the footing, missed, dug in the soft soil for a root, anything to slow him.

 

Miss Belle shrieked. If she’d carried a parasol, the old lady would be beating him over the head with it. “What are you doing? Let go of her this minute, Verrill Connagher! Don’t you know how to treat a lady?”

 

Grappled inch by inch backwards into the open, Rae wanted to die.

 

He flipped her over, his hands locked on her waist. One more tug and—

 

“Rae!”

 

Blinded by the afternoon sun, she swung her fist at his head, grateful she couldn’t see. She didn’t want to see the face she’d daydreamed about all these years. Those incredible baby blues, changing with his mood from steel gray to brilliant sapphire. One look from those eyes and she’d be lost all over again.

 

Her heart pounded, her skull split open, her mouth dried like an old bone. She bucked and fought, trying to kick him again.

 

Don’t touch him. Don’t melt into his arms and burst into tears and wail that I wish—

 

Pinning her hands on either side of her head, he leaned down over her to block the sun. She squeezed her eyes shut and averted her face. She strained in vain, knowing he was too strong, always too strong, as strong as she remembered.

 

“Stop it,” he said gruffly, his voice tight. Anger? Or pain? Had he missed her? Why did the weight of his body against hers have to feel so damned good? “Are you hurt?”

 

She laughed, wincing at the ragged edge of pain and regret in her voice. “Get off me, Dr. Connagher.”

 

“I take it you two know each other?” Miss Belle sniffed loudly. “Honestly, Verrill, do as she says and get up. You can’t scare her off with your intimidation tactics—she’s the best contractor around!”

 

“Look at me,” he whispered fiercely, lowering his face within inches of hers. Steel-clad velvet, his voice reached into her chest and tugged on her heart.

 

His panting breath was hot and moist on her cheek, the leathered musk of his cologne achingly familiar. The heat of his body burned into hers, driving her into the ground, and she felt her muscles softening. She arched against him helplessly, but not to escape. Not this time.

 

So weak, so miserably weak. She braced herself to bear the intensity of his gaze, the force of his will. I can tell him no. I’ve learned that much in five years. Haven’t I?

 

Slowly, she turned her head and opened her eyes.

 

All hard angles and shadows, his face had aged, lined and worn but better for that aging. Like fine whiskey and Sean Connery, he merely got better, more distinctive and impressive over the years. His Oxford white shirt had a dirty boot print over his heart. Ironic, that.

 

Staring into his eyes, she felt her throat constrict with tears, her eyes filling. No, no, she wouldn’t cry. Not here. Not now.

 

The chips of ice glittering in his eyes thawed at whatever he saw in her gaze, but he held her pinned beneath him. “Don’t run out on me again.”

 

She nodded jerkily. He knew she wouldn’t refuse him. She couldn’t. That’s why she’d run the first time. Evidently she hadn’t learned a damned thing.

 

Immediately, he climbed to his feet and offered her a hand up. Belying the burning fierceness of his gaze, he said lightly, “Rae was a student of mine five years ago.”

 

“Oh!” Miss Belle clapped her hands, grinning ear to ear. “So you’re the one he spoke of so often. Fabulous. What a coincidence. I hope he gave you an A, Rae Lynn.”

 

Heat seared her face. Oh, he gave her an A all right.

 

Talking about coincidence… Suspicious, she glared at the innocent little old lady.

 

With a breezy smile, Miss Belle flounced back toward the rear of the house. “I’ll see you for dinner, dear.”

 

“Oh no you won’t,” Rae retorted, her stomach twisting into knots. “I’m not coming back.” Not if he’s here.

 

Turning slowly to look over her shoulder, Miss Belle arched a brow at her beneath the broad brim of her big straw hat. That look would have scared General Sherman away from Atlanta. “You gave your word, Rae Lynn. You accepted my offer, signed our contract, and I don’t tolerate fools or liars. Besides, remember your slogan.”

 

With that, Miss Belle disappeared down the trail skipping like a little girl.

 

Making It Right.

 

Clenching her teeth, Rae shook her head. It was too late to make it right with Conn.

 

Five years too late.