Replay Book 7: WING MEN


Replay Book 7: Wing Men

by Nia Farrell

Length: 20,312 words. Release date August 1, 2017.


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It’s World War I weekend at Replay resort, and vocalist Lara Eastman is one of the entertainers hired to help bring the past to life.  The offer comes at a time when she’s worried about how to pay her bills.  She accepts the job but declines getting vetted to play—something that she quickly regrets when she meets not one but two very attractive—and very Dominant—pilots.

Alexander Boulton is the resort owner’s cousin.  This weekend, the handsome Brit is flying a Sopwith Camel against his rival Dmitry Chezhekov, a Russian-born pilot who portrays a German flying ace.  On the ground, the red-haired singer comes under both men’s sights. 

Lara meets Alex first, but she’s equally attracted to Dmitry.  She rarely hooks up at events, but Alex and Dmitry will prove the exception to her rules.  The truth is, she wants them both.  Unwilling to settle for one when she can have it all, Lara proposes a threesome.

The men are fierce competitors.  Each is determined to bring her the ultimate in pleasure.  Only one thing is certain.  If they want her, they’ll have to learn to share.

Written for ages 18+.



An air raid signal sounded.  German soldiers grabbed their guns and took their places behind the sandbag barriers.  The planes came in low, strafing the field.  Bursts of blank rounds sounded from the German rifles.  Puffs of dirt flew into the air from charges that had been laid earlier.  The way that they detonated, it looked like bullets from the planes were hitting the ground.

Meanwhile, the German pilots were scrambling, climbing in their fighters, strapping on goggles, and preparing to start their engines.  Five ground crew members each took hold of a propeller and gave it a spin.  The radial engines roared to life.  Freed of their wheel chocks, the planes headed for the runway.

Dmitry was the last to take off, but his Fokker’s superb climbing ability allowed him to quickly join the others.  They flew only far enough to turn and meet the British head on.

From her vantage point, Dmitry and Alex’s planes seemed to be on a collision course.  She held her breath and fisted her gloved hands, watching, hoping, trusting that nothing went wrong.  At the last minute, the Sopwith Camel pulled up, barely missing the Fokker.

More passes were made.  Planes were “disabled.”  Billowing trails of blue smoke, the downed German planes landed here.  The “crippled” British planes returned to their imaginary base.

Finally, only three were left.  Dmitry, Alex, and another British pilot engaged in a stunning display of aerial combat, with all the climbs, rolls, and maneuvers that you’d expect in a big-budget motion picture.  Eventually, Dmitry simulated being shot, leaving a trail of smoke as he landed.  The two British planes flew off, victorious after their successful raid.

Cheers broke out from the crowd.  When the applause had quieted, Sir Piers addressed the spectators who’d come out for the morning battle.

“Thank you,” he said.  “What an amazing display!  The pilots shall all return shortly and will be joining us.  Lunch will be served at eleven thirty, to our reenactors, patrons, staff members, and guests.  The next reenactment, scheduled this afternoon at one, will be a German attack on a French airfield.  The final battle today at five pm will be a different version of this scenario.  Meanwhile, the bar will soon be open in the casino tent, where games of chance, music, and conversation may be found for those who wish to stay the day.”

While they had been watching the combat demonstration, a crew of workers had erected yet another tent, yellow striped with two massive center posts and a roof that would cover a one-ring circus.  She guessed that tables, chairs, and equipment were being carried in through a back opening.  The casino’s front door flaps were closed.

“I’m afraid that it is off limits to you, my dear,” Sir Piers said, “where you are not vetted.  Pity, but rules are rules where scenes are concerned.”

“I understand,” she assured him.  “But the day is lovely.  You’ve provided food, and shelter from the sun.  A place to sit and things to see.  I’m hoping to get a closer look at the planes, if they’ll let me.”

“I’m certain that can be arranged.”  He lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper.  “I know people.”

Lara laughed.  “I’m sure that you do.  Hopefully, he’ll be back soon.”

Sir Piers strained his ear, listening.  “I do believe that I hear a familiar stutter headed this way.  Alex should be here shortly.  I must leave soon to check on the situation at home.  With luck, I will not return alone.  We shall see.”

The German soldiers were already headed for the food tent.  The ground crews and pilots followed.  Lara sat in one of four folding chairs at a small round table in a shady corner of the space. With tea to drink and a scone to nibble on, she settled in to people watch.  It always fascinated her when costumed civilians and military reenactors intermingled.  And she loved listening to the reenactors who regaled each other with stories.  It truly was like stepping back in time.

Being a single female, sitting alone and therefore perceived as available, she halfway expected to be approached by the men, and possibly some of the women.  Introducing herself as a non-vetted performer worked like a charm.  Most of these people were here to play.

The only one who seemed to not mind that she couldn’t was Dmitry.  But then, she suspected that he looked upon her as a special challenge.  He took his time coming over, accepting accolades from the other reenactors and chatting with a few other guests.  Helping himself to a plate of late breakfast and a cup of coffee, he headed straight for her.

“I sit here, da?”

Lara managed to not smile.  “If that’s a question—May you sit here?—the answer is yes.  Yes, you may sit with me.”

Dmitry took the chair to her right.  His plate was heavy on protein and lower on carbs.  He spiked his coffee with a dash of whatever he was carrying in an antique silver flask.  Slipping it back inside his brown leather aviator’s jacket, he flashed an unrepentant grin.  “A touch,” he said.  “Safe to fly later.  Safe to sit now.  Tonight, I listen to you.  When done, maybe you listen to me.  We see.”


Alex’s voice dashed the flame that Dmitry’s smoldering delivery had ignited inside her, but only for a moment.  Alex and Dmitry were rivals in the air, but were they willing to share?  She didn’t want to choose between them.  She wanted them both, if only for the weekend.

Which brought her to all of the obstacles that must be overcome.  She wasn’t vetted.  If the men could be talked into a threesome, it would be vanilla sex in Dmitry’s room at the resort, quiet kink at her bed and breakfast, or permission to use the St. Leger’s Dungeon for a full-blown session of kinky fuckery.

She knew what she wanted.

Lara wanted it all.

“Alex,” Lara chirped, hoping that she managed to sound relatively innocent.  So many naughty thoughts were in her head right now, her mind was doing a spin that would have earned her a nine point five at the Winter Olympics.  “Won’t you join us?”

Dmitry bristled, but she ignored it.  Better to find out now if there was hope for both men tonight.  They would have to agree on a number of things—first and foremost, could they play with her together, or would she need to keep them apart?

Alex looked at his plate, at Dmitry, at her.  “I believe that I shall.  Thank you.”  He took the chair to her left, sandwiching her between them.


Alex’s plate was a balance of protein and carbs.  He and Dmitry had both taken sausage links and scrambled eggs, but Alex had added hash browns, a biscuit with butter and jelly, and several pieces of fresh fruit.  Dmitry had opted for half a biscuit smothered in sausage gravy and no potatoes.

Dmitry seemed to be enjoying the Russian equivalent of Irish coffee.  Alex drank milk and nodded approvingly at her tea.

“So, tell me,” she said, looking at Alex.  “This morning’s combat.  From down here, it looked like you two were going to take each other out.  When you’re sharing airspace, how close do you get before you pull away?”

He sliced an apologetic glance at Dmitry.  “Today, closer than I like.  The controls were slow to respond.  I’ll check it out before I take her up again.”

Lara took a breath and looked at Dmitry, too.  “You didn’t try to avoid him.  No evasive action that I saw, anyway.””

Dmitry shrugged as if it were no big deal.  “He was close.  I wait.  He move.”

“Well,” she said, glancing at each man, connecting them with her gaze, “I’ve seen you share airspace.  I was wondering if—hoping that?—I might tempt you to share more.  Just so you know, I’m not a trained submissive.  I’ve never done anything much beyond having my wrists tied, wearing a blindfold, and getting spanked.  Pretty vanilla, I know.  But I’m willing, if you are.  Except that not being vetted limits us to what we can do on Replay property.  I’m going to leave you two to figure it out.  Come tonight and hear me sing.  After the concert, you can tell me what you want to do.”

She left them sitting, speechless.  It was a temporary state, she was certain.  While she went to look at the airplanes, they were probably stabbing at their breakfasts and dueling with each other for supremacy.

There can be only one…


Maybe not.

Could two Doms be in control?  She thought so.  She hoped so.  One thing was certain.  If they wanted her, they’d have to learn to share.

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by Nia Farrell

Released December 27, 2016.  Buy the set and save!


Amazon buy link 


Make Replay your new fantasy vacation destination…

VIKING RAID: Gunnar Falk portrays a Viking leader at Replay, a BDSM theme resort where patrons role play in the past. He’s the Dom everyone wants but no one has had…until the resort’s musical director Breanna Campbell makes him an offer he can’t refuse.

Gunnar isn’t looking for a permanent sub, but he’ll take what Breanna is offering—only because he can’t stand the thought of another Dom claiming the beautiful blonde harpist. Her music enchants him. Her innocence beckons him. She’s agreed to give him everything, but will one night be enough?

TRIPLE PLAY  Rowena Campbell has always been the naughty twin.  After the Viking Raid and her worst walk of shame ever, she recognized that she was misusing sex.  In therapy for her sexual addiction, three months celibate, Rowena is better than fine, with a successful erotic blog and book deal by her alter ego, ginger-wigged Regina Wright.  When Scottish billionaire Micheil MacDonald wants Regina at his brother’s birthday party, she agrees to attend three scenes as an observer only.  A triple play in Imperial Rome, Prohibition Chicago, and Lewis Carroll’s Wonderland, no kink, no sex – and no lies, per his terms, with half a million dollars riding on the line.  Surely she can manage that?

Micheil MacDonald is a widower with a child recovering from the fatal accident that claimed his wife.  He sweeps into Rowena’s life like a force of nature, brushing aside her protests, determined to be the exception to her rules.  But Rowena has scars that no one can see.  Secrets that have never been shared – not even with her twin.  Telling the truth was never supposed to be this hard.

HONOUR BOUND  Replay owner Piers St. Leger isn’t looking for a sub when psychologist Eleanor Benoit comes into his office, beautiful, curious, eager and willing to learn.  Suddenly all he can think of is what he can show her.  What he can teach her.  What they can do together.  What they can be.

Intrigued by the psychology of BDSM, Elly has agreed to attend a scene at Replay as an observer, portraying the White Queen in Wonderland, with Sir Piers as the White King.  He’s incredibly handsome, dangerously charismatic, and a master of kinbaku, erotic Japanese rope bondage.  Can this vetted psychologist remain an observer, or will she yield to temptation and play?

Reviewers: “It’s BDSM, rope play, a Dom and a sub and all kinds of sexy!!”

“Piers and Eleanor, what a love story.  I loved this story of a damaged lady and the dominant Piers that helped her to heal and give into love and submission…Nia Farrell is a fantastic writer.  I’m a lifetime fan.”

Replay Set 1 – Viking Raid, Triple Play, Honour Bound $3.99

Replay Book 1: Viking Raid 99¢

Replay Book 2: Triple Play $1.99

Replay Book 3: Honour Bound $2.99

Replay Book 4: Hooked $2.99

Replay Book 5: Night Music $2.99

Replay Set 1 jpeg.jpg

Touch the Wind

Still Life With Scandinavian Sword On A Fur


by Nia Farrell writing as Erinn Ellender Quinn

Swashbuckling Historical Romance

Length 91,357 words

Release date December 1, 2016



Amazon e-book




Touch the Wind by Erinn Ellender Quinn is a swashbuckling historical set in 1727 Caribbean. Justin Vallé is a wanted man who demands the truth, and Christiana Delacorte has lived most of her life in deceit. But her father’s best friend is her best hope to save him. His price is her willing presence in his bed. Forbidden desires. Deadly secrets. A race against time, and a journey into dangerous waters. What happens if the man they hope to rescue is being used as bait?

#historicalromance #intrigue #swashbucklingpirates #oldermanyoungerwoman #decidedlydecadent #MRBRTG


Christiana Delacorte’s father is languishing in prison.  Accused of desertion and piracy, he’s being held without trial while the British and French fight over who will hang him.  Determined to rescue him, Christiana approaches the one man she knows who might help: her father’s old friend Justin Vallé, the object of her adolescent fantasies, her first, most terrible unrequited love, when he was a prize for any woman and she sailed disguised as a boy.  She can only pray that the French privateer doesn’t recognize her as the child who marked his face for life. 

Mistaking her for a prostitute, Vallé fulfills her heart’s desire but shatters the mood by offering payment, forcing her to reveal her identity as well as her purpose.  Vallé agrees to break her father out of prison, but his price is the gold she’s brought and her willing presence in his bed. 

Justin has suffered a woman’s betrayal, and Christiana has lived most of her life in deceit.  But there are forces at play beyond their reckoning, unseen enemies, and time is running out.  The success of their mission—and any chance of a future—depends on whether they can learn to trust each other…before it’s too late….

This book is the prequel to Ride the Wind.  Written for ages 18+


“Parlez-vous français?”

 The resonance of Vallé’s baritone voice was unbelievably enticing, unbearably seductive, a whisper of velvet on Christiana’s skin that made her pulse leap, her every instinct come fully alive.  She felt Vallé’s beckoning eyes on her but dared not meet them, lest he see the power he wielded over her with mere words.

“Oui, capitaine,” she murmured.  “Je parle un peu français.”  Actually, she spoke more than a little French, plus English, Gaelic, and a smattering of Dutch, Spanish, and German, but she hesitated to reveal too much of herself, not when so much depended on the outcome of this meeting.

Vallé blew out softly.  “Bien.”  Hearing the pleasure in his voice, she cleared her throat, intending to discuss O’Malley’s rescue, but at that moment a raucous shout rang out below.  A chorus of laughter drifted up the stairs, accompanying the announcement that filtered in the door, burning her ears and warming her cheeks.

The swallow-cock had surpassed her old record and was still going strong.

Flustered, Christiana tore her eyes from the door—and immediately wished she hadn’t when she saw Vallé’s intense blue gaze focused on her own mouth.  He lifted one hand.  Long, strong fingers, as elegant as a magician’s, motioned her to come closer.  She remained rooted, torn, knowing she should speak, should tell him what she’d come here for but frozen by hesitation.  Vallé tilted his head and smiled a little.  The curve of his mouth was both sensual and tender; the beckoning warmth in his eyes melted her resistance.  He’d always possessed infinite patience; now he exercised it, clearly wanting her but waiting for her to come to him.

As if she had a choice.  After all these years of wanting him, it seemed a shattering miracle that he should want her, too.

Replay Book 3: Honour Bound

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Replay Book 3: HONOUR BOUND by Nia Farrell

Length 19,947 words / 97 5×8 pages

Release Date November 1, 2016


Amazon e-book




BLURB  Replay owner Piers St. Leger isn’t looking for a sub.  When psychologist Eleanor Benoit comes into his office, beautiful, curious, eager and willing to learn, suddenly all he can think of is what he can show her.  What he can teach her.  What they can do together.  What they can be….

Intrigued by the psychology of BDSM, Elly has agreed to attend a scene at Replay as an observer, portraying the White Queen in Wonderland, with Sir Piers as the White King.  Incredibly handsome, dangerously charismatic, he understands that she has triggers and still manages to tempt her to do more.  By the evening’s end, it’s clear that one night won’t be enough, for either of them.

Listen to an audio teaser, narrated by La Petite Mort:


For a moment, Elly imagined lying naked in Piers St. Leger’s arms, still in a state of bliss after a session of kinky play.

The Dom Heathcliff angled his dark head, his blue steel gaze assessing.  With his dimpled chin, he looked like Timothy Dalton’s love child. “You stated that you do yoga,” he said, the deep rumbling baritone resonating in her core, traveling down to converge upon a single, needy point.  “I have seen devotees who practice advanced meditation achieve subspace very quickly, even though they are new to BDSM.”

The timbre of his voice birthed a flash of kinky fantasy.  She envisioned Sir Piers with a soft, suede flogger, administering lashes that raised her to the point of ecstasy and rendered her nearly unconscious, releasing her bonds and holding her against him, ear pressed against the carved width of his chest, soothed by his heartbeat, safe in the circle of his arms.

The thought made her mouth dry and her panties even wetter.

The Dom behind the desk inhaled slowly, deeply, as if he could smell her arousal.

She crossed her legs and told what was between them to behave.  She was here to watch, to take notes, she reminded herself.  Purely clinical.  When she saw those chiseled lips start to slide into a knowing smile, she knew it was time to make things perfectly clear.

She squared her shoulders and leveled her gaze at him.  “Mr. St. Leger,” she said crisply, noting his displeasure when she failed to address him as Sir.  “I confess, my past partners – with the exception of one – were about as vanilla as they get.  But I am also a psychologist.  I’m not coming to Replay to – ”

Thankfully, she caught the get corrupted before it tumbled off her tongue.

“To immerse myself in the lifestyle and personally experience whatever it is that you do here.  I am coming, at a friend’s request, to support her.  But while I am here, I plan to observe.  The better I understand the benefits and pitfalls of BDSM, the more I can help clients who are interested in the lifestyle.  Believe me when I say that, despite the White Queen costume, I’ll be studying the scene as intently as if I were wearing a lab coat.”

The look that he gave her made goose flesh cascade down her arms and alarm bells sound in her head.

“Vanilla.”  He tasted the word but refused to swallow it.  Why would he, when there were so many other flavors that he could choose from?

Elly felt as if she’d been judged and found wanting.  Oddly enough, that stung more deeply than it should.

“Should you ever wish to expand your horizons…”  He tapped the contract.  “We have several Dominants here who train submissives – collared, claimed, and unclaimed.  Compatibility, trust, mutual goals…there are any number of factors used to determine the best pairing, one that will protect and nurture a submissive’s growth.  As a bottom, you may view this document as… ephemeral, but I can assure you, I shall view it no differently than if you had come to me for training.  What we do here, I take very seriously.  Very seriously, indeed.”

“As am I, Sir,” she insisted.  “It’s just…it’s one night.”

“Yes.  One night.  And how many research projects have you completed in that time, hmm?”  His lips angled in a knowing half smile, like the great and powerful man behind the curtain enlightening the girl who’d landed in a strange and foreign place.  “If you wish to observe and ask questions, to learn and begin to understand…well, it will very likely take more than an evening in Wonderland.  In fact, I can almost guarantee that you’ll be left wanting.”

In more ways than one, she suspected.  If Piers St. Leger seated at a desk was enough to make her wet, how the hell was she going to survive an evening by his side, watching God knows what and depending on him to dissect it all in a play-by-play that might have her praying for overtime?

It wasn’t often that Elly was wrong, but she’d misjudged Piers St. Leger.  He might not like the idea of vanilla her, but there was no mistaking that he wanted a taste of it. She knew it the minute that she signed the contract, leaning on his desk, close enough to smell him.  Clean male and subtle musk, with a nuance of patchouli on his clothes and wintergreen mint on his breath.  She’d initialed all the pages, adding her signature to the last.  Catching her bottom lip between her teeth, she’d risked a glance up at him and was stunned by the sudden heat that flared in his eyes – eyes that seemed alive with possibilities.

“Sir Josef will take you to your wardrobe appointment,” he said, keeping his gaze on her, a dark promise in his eyes, in his voice, that made her shiver.  “I shall see you soon, princess.”

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As Wicked as You Want (Forever Ours Book 1) by Nia Farrell


Still Life With Scandinavian Sword On A Fur


Length: 155,467 words / 609 pages

Release date August 1, 2016

Voted #1 Erotica and #10 Overall, The 50 Best Indie Books of 2016

Amazon e-book




AS WICKED AS YOU WANT (Forever Ours Book 1) by Nia Farrell is a BDSM MMF ménage Victorian erotic romance, set in 1868 Chicago and London.  Inspired by the Three Graces’ Grace, Nico, and J.T., the Forever Ours series follows three soulmates through their many incarnations.  Length 155,227 words / 609 pages.  Release date August 1, 2016.

Blurb: Elena “Lane” Davenport is a struggling artist who’s been living as a man since the Civil War.  Suffering from “soldier’s heart” (PTSD), facing arrest for failing to officially muster out, Lane is about to lose everything when an offer of help comes from the most unexpected of places.

Edward Wainwright is a British history professor—and Lane/Elena’s stepbrother.  A dominant man with forbidden passions, he comes to America with news of their mother’s death and finds himself twice tempted.  There’s instant attraction between Lane and Edward.  Reclaiming her true gender to slip past the Pinkertons should make things easier…except Edward wants both Elena and her studio assistant Daniel O’Flaherty.  He hopes that Daniel will eventually submit to him, but they’ll need to learn—when it comes to Elena—just how much Daniel is willing to share.

Three soulmates are destined to find each other.  Chance brings them together.  Will Fate tear them apart?

Written for ages 18+.

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“What was that?” I rasped, my voice an octave lower than normal. I’d been a vocal partner, urging him on, begging him to finish, yelping when he accidentally hit a sore spot, crying his name into the mattress when his curled fingers hit another, sweeter place.

“The French call it la petite morte,” he said“‘The little death.’”

I arched a brow.  “Then they have misnamed it,” I muttered in the same language, earning a smile from the good professor.  “Pardon me if I don’t reserve judgment, but there was nothing little about that.”

Edward smiled, indulging me.  “You are correct.  There was nothing little about that.  You were magnificent, my dear.  Responsive beyond my expectations.”

I rolled on my side to face him.  “Beyond your expectations?  You mean to say, it’s not like that every time?”

He arched a curious brow.  “Hardly.  I take it your other partners have pleased you equally well.”

“Edward,” I said solemnly, “I’ve had no other partners.  Remember, I asked you to teach me?”

He stared at me in disbelief, as if I were some strange creature, never before catalogued, that had wandered into his camp and made myself at home by his fire.

I attempted to lighten the mood.  “If you’re going to make free with my body, then I reserve the right to ask questions.  It’s only fair.”

He rolled onto his back and buried his face in his hands.  “My God.  What have I done?”

“Nothing that I did not want, or refuse to stop,” I told him.  “I wanted to know what pleased you, and it was my choice to submit.  Come, I’m not a child.  Disregarding when your fingers fucked me senseless, of course, my eyes have been wide open.”

“That’s no excuse,” he grated.  “You…you’re a virgin.  You couldn’t know.”

“Edward.  Edward.  May I remind you that I had a brother with friends until the war divided them?  And that I served three years in the company of men who loved to brag of their conquests and adventures?  Admittedly, I can still be shocked—I mean, what the New Moneys want still boggles my imagination—but surely by now you’ve realized that I am no fragile Miss.  Granted, I shall strive to be proper in company, but when it’s the two of us alone, in private, behind closed doors, well, eventually I hope to be as wicked as you want.”

Ride the Wind by Nia Farrell writing as Erinn Ellender Quinn

Pageflex Persona [document: PRS0000038_00071]

RIDE THE WIND by Nia Farrell writing her debut novel as Erinn Ellender Quinn.

A paranormal historical romance ~ length 70,033 words / 244  pages

Release date October 1, 2016


Amazon e-book


ASIN B01LX6ZVBS / ISBN 10: 1537491148/ ISBN 13:  978-1537491141

Captain Ian O’Manion is a man with three names and a perilous past….

As Ian O’Malley, he’s wanted by the English.  He’s wanted by the French as Jean Delacorte. When he wins The Oaks, a Maryland horse farm, he takes a new name for his new life…until the past catches up to him, with a vengeance.

Ian returns to The Oaks with a festering gunshot wound, fractured bones, and a broken spirit.  Haunted by abuses suffered in a Jamaican prison, devoid of hope after his botched escape, he believes that he’s come home to die.

Elsbeth Gordon is an indentured servant with dangerous secrets of her own ….

A young woman of power, Beth talks to trees, communicates with animals, and practices magick alone. When healing the Captain means sharing her secrets, Beth has no choice but to risk being burned as a witch. The psychically gifted beekeeper sees the promise of their future in his eyes…if they can survive an old enemy and an ancient evil that threaten to destroy them both.

Written for ages 18+.

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Ian frowned to think that she was still reading his mind.  Jaysus, Joseph and Mary, would he never have any privacy with her? he wondered.  The idea was damned disconcerting.

“I expect we’ll be able tae move ye tae the big house in a day or two,” she promised, scooting off the counterpane and letting the insect netting close behind her.  “It’s just tha’ here, ye’re closer at hand.”

“Wouldn’t want to inconvenience you,” he mumbled.  He knew it was rather childlike but he was unable to help it.  Months of torture and a botched prison escape had a way of making a man not quite himself, but he couldn’t tell her that, any more than he could tell her his real name, not until it was cleared.

“Please, call me Beth,” she offered, tossing another bone.  “And ‘tis a matter of degrees,” she said.  “Ye’re gang tae be a bother, regardless.  I thought tae make it easy on me mam.  She’s no’ getting any younger, ye ken.”

Thrilled to realize that his fevered brain could actually follow her reasoning despite the brogue, Ian waved his hand, bestowing absolution.  The Widow Gordon was, what, in her mid-fifties?  Staid, steady, and still able to tend the plantation’s medicinal herb garden when she wasn’t busy birthing babies or ministering to the sick.  She had a passion for fishing and he wondered if she used the quiet time it afforded to pray the rosary for her heathen daughter or her late husband, whom he’d brought over to manage his stables.  All three had been indentured for seven years.  Fever had carried off the one, but the two females were left, his fisher midwife and his busy, busy beekeeper, together with a small village of other indentures who tilled the soil and reaped the harvest and mucked stalls and sheared sheep and spun and wove, while a pair of hired brothers bred his horses, whose lines had been vastly improved by the blood of Spanish Barbs and Narragansett Pacers.

Even before the late Philip Rhys Davies had raced off on and toppled with the promising Zeus, the prize of The Oaks plantation was a stallion named Zephyr, fifteen-and-a-half hands high and black as midnight, save for a brilliant white blaze that flashed like lightning on the track.  Zephyr was a racer that sired other racers, but the pretty pacers he had thus fathered would be in demand with the fox hunting and pleasure riding denizens of the surrounding counties, once word spread.  Right now his men were working to recover from the loss of Zeus, and Philip.  They managed the breeding, kept Zephyr busy mounting brood mares, and cared for those expecting the next go-round.  They evaluated the one-year-olds and trained the two- and three-year-olds deemed worth the investment, breaking and selling the rest as opportunities arose.

One of the hired brothers, the farrier Thomas, had let it slip that Elsbeth—Beth—Gordon had the real talent for culling goats from sheep.

Beth Gordon, who slept with foxes and talked to bees and communed with horses.  Who worked magick at midnight and refused to let him die whilst she was doing it.  Who’d fought with him and for him and climbed into bed with him when the only way to keep him here was the promise of soft pink lips and delicious pomegranate breasts and those pretty, pretty feet.  Whose naked body could have been his for the taking, except…except…

Dear God.

 Nothing.  Nothing.  Jaysus, don’t tell me it’s come to this.

 In prison, he’d had time for reflection between the day’s beatings and the night’s violations, and during one of his bargaining sessions with God, should He deem him worth saving, Ian had offered to leave his sailing and smuggling days behind him and retire to The Oaks as just another gentleman farmer, above reproach of the law.  His daughter’s marriage had started him thinking, had turned his thoughts to the future and whether it might hold someone to share it with.

Good luck with that, when Beth Gordon in her birthday suit couldn’t get a rise out of him.

Maybe it was the laudanum.

God, let it be the laudanum.


Excerpt 2:

“There came a point, we jumped ship, the three of us, Justin and Christiana and me.  Our next berth was with a Welsh smuggler who plied his trade…here…and there.  Then came the king’s pardon, that I couldn’t take under my own name, there likely being a desertion charged against it, so I took the name of Jean Delacorte, got pardoned, and found us—Christiana and me—a berth on a Dutch square rigger that plied the Atlantic trade.  Back and forth we go.  When I got to be captain, I did take us to Italy once.  I’d promised meself to see Michelangelo’s chapel before I died, and I’m happy to say, I took it off the list.”

He paused, remembering the soaring ceilings, God’s outstretched finger imparting life to Adam.  Adam, in his full glory, with the tiniest penis imaginable.  If there’d been any competition, Eve wouldn’t have given him a second look.

“We saw the Sistine Chapel, and the Pope, and the Coliseum and other antiquities, but the city was pure filth, so we saw what we came to see and hied ourselves back to the Caribbean.  There we sailed, all about the West India Isles, until Christiana was old enough, she needed to be in school, needed to learn to be a lady, which was nothing to be done aboard ship, so I took her to Havre.”

The Captain’s finger made a sad, slow line to France.  “I left her with the Ursulines.  She did fine,” he told himself.   “She’s bright, and bold, and now she lives here.”

He pointed to the south side of Saint-Domingue.  “Justin’s own island.  Calls it Valhalla, a nod to him being part Viking and all.  You’ll know it, soon as you see that white-blond hair.  It’ll be worth laying odds to see what comes out on top, with the mix between the two of them.  Christiana’s hair is dark, but her mother was a red head, and Christiana’s got the highlights.”

He angled a glance at her and pretended he was changing the subject.  “You didn’t happen to see any red-headed grandbabies?”

“Aye,” she admitted, though they didn’t come from Christiana.  It was too soon, and the future was not set.  He still had healing to do.


 She spoke to herself, but the laudanum seemed to let him hear it.  Maybe it was just as well he thought it was about his other grandbabies rather than about her.  About them.

He angled his head.  When she ignored the question in his eyes, he shrugged a shoulder and turned his attention back to the map.

“All right, then.  While Christiana’s in Havre, I’m…here, when I win The Oaks in a card game that lasted three days and nearly put me under the table, but I came out on top with the biggest purse I’d yet taken and still have yet to match.  I’m…here,” he said, “when I win the Deirdre and get a second ship.  I’m…here, at Mrs. Smith’s House of Entertainment in Road House, on Tortola, when I win the purse that lands me in prison…here.”


And there he was, back in the space of a heartbeat.  Port Royal prison.  A mute roommate who painted with piss.  One guard who enjoyed torture, and another who enjoyed making men cry.

Beth’s heart hurt for him, for what he’d had to live through.  Picking up a piece knocked loose, she tucked it away and anchored it with light and love and a wishful bit of pixie dust.

“You’re here, now,” she said softly, taking his hand and bringing him back to her.  You’re here.  You’re safe.  I won’t judge you.  I promise.

 Suddenly, he stopped breathing.  For a moment suspended in time, she did not move.  Then, she rubbed slow circles on the back of his large hand, over the dark hair that dusted his knuckles and the scar where he’d startled his dog and it bit him.  Her bottom hand was eclipsed by the width of his calloused palm, a captain come from the sea, bearing such terrible wounds.

“Aye, here,” he said, pulling free, breaking apart.

Feeling less than a man.

How could she tell him how special he was?  He’d rescued his Marie from the uncle who’d have raped her.  He’d saved his “niece” any number of times.  Didn’t he know he was a man worth the wait?

She willed him to listen to her; the laudanum should let him.  But she wasn’t certain he’d heard until he raised his head, and she looked in his beautiful green glass eyes and saw it for herself.

Ian blew out softly, frustrated beyond bearing, recognizing that lambent look in her eyes and knew that her interest in him had gone beyond tending his wounds.  He might be better than he was, but he was still a broken man.  He wanted her too, but wishes alone wouldn’t make that happen.

He wanted to feel her lying naked against him, with her wild red curls and eyes the color of Aruba and her pomegranate breasts and those pretty feet of hers.  But she’d tended him enough, she’d seen his lifeless member when he should have been standing at attention and giving her a salute.

Adam might have had a tiny penis, but at least it worked.  His hadn’t since Jamaica.

“Give it time,” she said.

As if she thought that’s all it took.  But how could she know?

Eavesdropper.  She gave him a smile, soft and sweet and full of hope.  “Can ye nae feel the truth of it?”

“Aye,” he said, surprised.  The first time she’d asked him that, he hadn’t been able to fathom it.  But now….

Now he’d eaten a man’s breakfast.  He’d eaten electrick strawberries.  He’d put Jamaica behind him again, and told himself that would get easier with time.  Time, the healer of most wounds, even if the scars remained.

For now, she was willing to wait, willing to give him however long he needed to be able to come to her and take what she would share.  Their time had not yet arrived, but when it did, he was sure it would feel like heaven, and he would not be remiss if electrick strawberries were involved.

Excerpt 3:

At the stables, they found that the Marshall men and O’Flaherty boys and Theo had everything under control.  Ian still didn’t know why Red Beth had to drag him from his sickbed and make him walk all the way down here, feeling uncomfortably weak as a kitten, when she could just as easily have told him a bedtime story about it.  But she’d insisted.  Mindful of his indebtedness, he had humored her, and so it was that they had come to this, poised in the role of passive observers in an empty stall, until the mare was brought in.  Red Beth excused herself and went over to talk to the chestnut, rubbing her head and whispering in her ear and adjusting the leather cover that would protect her neck from an overzealous stallion’s bites.

Zephyr smelled the mare, even before Thomas brought him into the stable.  Outside, he whinnied his pleasure, and he came in dancing with an erection that hung to his hocks.  Ian almost called out to beg her not to when Beth dared to approach his horse.

Zephyr reared up, and Ian swore that his heart stopped.  It would have been too late; there was no way he would have reached her in time to save her, but the prancing, padded hooves miraculously cleared Beth as they came down.  Ian exhaled sharply and released the breath that he’d been holding.

Thomas had his hands full, controlling the stallion and keeping an eye on Beth, who was talking to the beast, no doubt sharing a bit of breeding etiquette, warning him not to play too roughly.  Zephyr whinnied, and Thomas waited until Beth was free and clear.  She rejoined Ian in the empty stall, closing the short door behind her.  Zephyr pranced up to the pretty chestnut mare, who had twitched her tail to the side to ease his way.  She was good enough to welcome the stallion’s weight as he reared up and covered her, shoving his massive member inside her and thrusting home like the magnificent stud that he was.

And all the while, Beth stood, almost breathless, watching spellbound, wincing when Zephyr bit at the leather-covered neck.  She gripped the door of the empty stall that was their viewing room, and Ian knew she was not unaffected.  Forget Zephyr.  He watched Beth watching the horses.  He listened to her telling breath, and felt the hum in her body that sang to him as surely as the fiddle’s phantom tune.

And because they were in a place where they could see without being seen, Ian stepped behind her and slipped his hands around her waist and pulled her back against him.  She shivered, and inhaled sharply, then forgot to breathe altogether.  He leaned down, bending until his teeth found the base of her neck.  “Red,” he whispered against her petal-soft skin just before he tasted it, tasted her, and asked her to take him home.

“Please,” the Captain begged when she stayed rooted, transfixed, watching his stallion cover the chestnut mare as he wanted to cover her.  “Have mercy.  Don’t do this to me.  You don’t know what it’s been like.”

But she did.  She did.  She knew exactly what he’d felt.  It was her gift.  Her curse.  Like now, feeling the blood pump in old haunts, the word made flesh, the promise of resurrection fulfilled.  The Captain wanted her, and she wanted him to want her, and Herne would just have to understand.

The stallion finished and disengaged, dropping onto all four feet, with his penis tamed and near normal size already, while the Captain’s was just coming to life.  She wished he could have taken her right then and there, amidst the sharp scents of the stable as they tumbled in the straw and hay.

They headed for the house, each one priding themselves on moving at a reasonable pace, when every step brought them closer to the bedroom upstairs, with its urn full of dead honeybees and a plate of herbs and sliced ginger root and an odd number of pinch-necked glass cups.  Back in the day, Ian could have swept her into his arms and carried her up the stairs.  Now it was all he could do to navigate under his own power and pray the feeling wouldn’t go away once they’d gotten to where he could do something about it.

When they reached the front door, he took her hand and pulled her through the house he’d won on a turn of the cards, gotten by chance and kept by pretense, until he could clear his real name.  At least his Christian name was the same, and the subtle change from O’Malley to O’Manion was still a damn sight better than the years he’d played Jean Delacorte.

He counted the steps on the sweeping entrance stairs, marked the feet from the landing to his bedroom door, and numbered the eyelets on the back of her bodice as he put his fingers to the task of unlacing them.  While he was busy in the back, she unpinned her apron front, reaching around and pulling one tie so that the thing fell free, landing in a puddle on the wide board floor.  He opened his mouth on the back of her neck, and he knew she remembered his stallion, covering the chestnut mare, giving her that enormous member of his in a mating that was as intense as it was brief.  A stallion did his business in a minute; it took three hundred forty days, give or take, for a mare to finish hers.

Beth felt the Captain’s breath on her skin, like dragon’s fire.  No sooner did she wonder if he intended to consume her than he put an arm around her waist, pulled her back against him, and opened his mouth on the base of her neck.  He scored it with his teeth, not quite biting, and then he did bite her, inhaling sharply with his mouth fastened on a spot that made her knees go weak.  His hands skimmed up her sides and pulled down her bodice; he splayed his calloused fingers and lay claim to her breasts.

Ian wanted it to be good for her.  He wanted it to last, but he couldn’t wait for layers of clothes and shoes and stockings, no matter how much he enjoyed a leisurely disrobing.  For the first time in months, there was life in every part of him.

“Red,” he whispered against her hair.  “I’m sorry, I can’t wait.  Forgive me.”