Author: Lou Sylvre and Anne Barwell
Publisher: NineStar Press
Release Date: July 27, 2020
Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex
Pairing: Male/Male
Length: 84200
Genre: Historical Fantasy, LGBTQIA+, historical fiction, fantasy, fated love, Scottish Isles, Jacobite revolt, Highlanders, action-adventure, magic, magical items, witch, curse, music, war/battles
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Synopsis
In 1605, Robbie Elliot—a Reiver and
musician from the Scottish borders—nearly went to the gallows. The Witch of the
Hermitage saved him with a ruse, but weeks later, she cursed him to an ethereal
existence in the sea. He has seven chances to come alive, come ashore, and find
true love. For over a century, Robbie’s been lost to that magic; six times love
has failed. When he washes ashore on the Isle of Skye in 1745, he’s arrived at
his last chance at love, his last chance at life.
Highland warrior Ian MacDonald came to
Skye for loyalty and rebellion. He’s lost once at love, and stands as an
outsider in his own clan. When Ian’s uncle and laird sends him to lonely Skye
to hide and protect treasure meant for Bonnie Prince Charlie’s coffers, he
resigns himself to a solitary life—his only companion the eternal sea. Lonely
doldrums transform into romance and mystery when the tide brings beautiful
Robbie Elliot and his broken harp ashore.
A curse dogs them, enemies hunt them,
and war looms over their lives. Robbie and Ian will fight with love, will, and
the sword. But without the help of magic and ancient gods, will it be enough to
win them a future together?
Excerpt
The Harp and the Sea
Lou Sylvre and Anne Barwell © 2020
All Rights Reserved
1605 the Scottish Border Marches
Robert Ker of Cessford, Lord Roxburgh
wielded nearly autonomous power at the turn of the 17th century as Warden of
the Scottish Middle March. Often called the Debatable Lands, the Border Marches
had rough and fluid application of law. A violent nature and loyalty to kin and
ally were all the tools Cessford needed to enforce his judgements. His position
made him a powerful man, and though he owed allegiance to Scott of Buccleuch,
he marched mostly to his own drummer.
But in the year of Our Lord 1603, King
James VI of Scotland became also James I of England, and set about unifying the
two countries into Great Britain. His “pacification” of the Border Marches in
truth meant abolishing the office of Warden, renaming all the Marches the
Middle Shires, and killing enough Borderers to make the rest bend the knee.
Having lost autonomy, Ker wormed and weaselled his way into the king’s courts
at Whitehall and Edinburgh and commenced warring on the people of the March
without mercy as a way to impress the monarch.
*
On a rain-soaked day in autumn, 1605,
the rough men who served Ker of Cessford and King James Stuart shoved Robbie
Elliot into a damp prison cell beneath Hermitage—a stark and haunted castle
located almost dead centre in the Middle March, a place Robbie had once called
home. When he heard the heavy oaken door thunk shut behind him, rattling the rusty
iron chains and window bars, he fell to his knees in the filthy straw that lay
scattered over the stone floor. He and a half-dozen others had been
force-marched sixteen miles from Hawick, bound, handled rough, and prodded with
sticks. Now Robbie tried in vain to find a few square inches of his body that
didn’t cry out in pain.
“There’s water, Robbie.” The weak,
high-pitched male voice came from the darkest corner of the cell, and it gave
Robbie a start for he’d thought himself alone. “In the barrel there,” the man
continued. “It’s clean enough.”
Robbie’s legs obeyed him after only a
brief argument, and he stood and walked to the barrel. Dust and chaff floated
on the top, but when he dipped the single iron ladle and brought the water to
his lips, it had no foul smell. “I’ve had far worse,” Robbie said, and then
drank.
When he’d slaked his thirst enough, he
turned to his cellmate, who’d stepped out of the shadows. “How’d you come to be
here, Keithen?”
“Same as you, I’d wager. I’d heard the
warden’s men were on the march, and I meant to hide at my old da’s holding,
east of Kelso. But I was caught no more than ten miles from Hermitage castle
and strung along with five others—including your stepbrother Jem. We’d thought
we’d go no further than the gallows on the hill, but they brought us here.”
“Jem? He’s here?”
“Alas, Robbie, he was a lucky one, for
he’ll never see these cells. He fell on the trail, and the warden’s man kicked
his head a mite hard. Snapped his neck.”
Robbie piled up some straw and sat,
slumping back against the wall, his own head pounding as if he’d been the one
kicked. Keithen, who tended to prattle on most of the time, stayed blessedly
silent until Robbie spoke up a few minutes later. “Yes, probably lucky to die
then, quick like that. Do you ken why they brought us here? What they’re
planning for us?”
A sudden rattle of heavy keys beyond the
door interrupted the prisoners’ conversation, and a single, crusted pot was
pushed inside, its contents warm enough to steam in the perpetual cold of the
below-ground keep.
Keithen said, “Porridge, or what passes
for it,” and then got up and lumbered stiffly to fetch the pot.
Robbie realised all at once that his
insides had gone so hollow he’d be happy to fill them with a brick if it was
all he had, and he wasted no time. Given no utensils, the two men scooped the
thick, sticky oatmeal with their hands, minding neither the slight burn nor
extra flavour of the dirt and blood on their own skin. By the time they
finished, Robbie had forgotten his last question entirely until Keithen
answered it.
“I heard a couple English talking
yesterday—their voices come down clearly through the shaft, just there.” He
pointed at a corner of the ceiling, a black, empty rectangle amid the grey
stone. “They said we’ll be marched to Carlisle, and wicked James himself, the
king, travels there too. They’ll hang us all at once—for his entertainment.”
Robbie said nothing for a long while,
his mind focused instead on whether he could find a way to die sooner rather
than give the king his satisfaction. He could think of nothing short of
refusing water or smashing his head against the stones, and he knew he wouldn’t
do either. Although small in stature, he’d proven himself brave in battle when
he was no more than fourteen, and he’d borne his wounds as well as any man. But
courage has its limits, he thought, and the pain of drying to dust from the
inside out or smashing my own skull is beyond mine.
At last he said, “Well, Keithen, some
comfort. At least we’ll die among our own, and not alone.”
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Meet the Author
Anne Barwell lives in Wellington, New
Zealand. She shares her home with a cat with “tortitude” who is convinced that
the house is run to suit her; this is an ongoing “discussion,” and to date, it
appears as though Kaylee may be winning.
In 2008, Anne completed her conjoint BA
in English Literature and Music/Bachelor of Teaching. She has worked as a music
teacher, a primary school teacher, and now works in a library. She is a member
of the Upper Hutt Science Fiction Club and plays violin for Hutt Valley
Orchestra.
She is an avid reader across a wide
range of genres and a watcher of far too many TV series and movies, although it
can be argued that there is no such thing as “too many.” These, of course, are
best enjoyed with a decent cup of tea and further the continuing argument that
the concept of “spare time” is really just a myth. She also hosts and reviews
for other authors, and writes monthly blog posts for Love Bytes. She is the
co-founder of the New Zealand Rainbow Romance writers, and a member of RWNZ.
Anne’s books have received honorable
mentions five times, reached the finals four times—one of which was for best
gay book—and been a runner up in the Rainbow Awards. She has also been
nominated twice in the Goodreads M/M Romance Reader’s Choice Awards—once for Best
Fantasy and once for Best Historical.
~
Lou Sylvre loves romance with all its
ups and downs, and likes to conjure it into books. The sweethearts on her pages
are men who end up loving each other—and usually saving each other from
unspeakable danger. It’s all pretty crazy and very, very sexy. As if you’d want
to know more, she’ll happily tell you that she is a proudly bisexual woman—a
mother, grandmother, lover of languages, and cat-herder—of mixed cultural
heritage. She works closely with lead cat and writing assistant, the (male)
Queen of Budapest, Boudreau St. Clair. She lives in the rainy part of the
Pacific Northwest, and hearing from a reader unfailingly brightens the dreary
weather. Find her through her links listed here, or drop her a line at lou.sylvre@gmail.com.
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