Hero's POV

In romance and erotic romance, it's a given that the tale will be told mostly from the heroine's POV. After all, most of the folks reading this genre are female and--if I've done my job properly--readers will most strongly identify with the heroine. While it's always nice to get a peek inside the hero's head from time to time, it's rare to find a tale told mostly or entirely from the hero's POV. Lately, I'm wondering why.

Yes, in reality, we rarely get to know exactly what is going on in the mind of our leading man and maybe that's a good thing, lol. I suspect we would find it uninteresting at best and terribly alarming at worst. But fiction by definition is not reality. Wouldn't it add to the experience to know all the hero's thoughts, intentions, insecurities and desires? If indeed readers do identify with the heroine, wouldn't it heighten the fantasy to project yourself as the object of the hero's affections?

I'm testing that theory with my latest WIP, titled If You Were Mine. This work of short erotic fiction is told entirely from the hero's POV from the moment he spies the heroine to him working up the courage to talk to her, his internal dialogue as they flirt and finally, and, finally, her seduction and submission. I do realize I'm imposing my own wants and desires on this whole process, but isn't that ultimately what fantasy is all about? This is how I would want to be seduced were I to be seduced *grin*.

Never having done so before, I'm struggling a bit to narrate an entire story as a man would speak--I mean, we all know men think and communicate differently, but trying to keep the masculine voice is part of the fun. I enjoy challenging myself as a writer and I'm hoping readers will enjoy something that's a little bit different. I'll keep you all updated on the progress.

So here's my question: Would you like to read an erotic romance told entirely from the male POV? Why or why not?

Cheers,
Cindy
http://www.amazon.com/Cindy-Jacks/e/B003XRMLLS/

#SixSentenceSunday--Peek at Beautiful Monster

It's Six Sentence Sunday! Here's a peek at my updated Frankenstein story from one of my #NaNoWriMo projects (I'm at 10K, woot!), Beautiful Monster. Dr. Francine Stine tries to recreate her deceased husband using her cyborgnetic research lab. It's my first attempt at erotic horror, finger's crossed I can pull it off.

Let's see if these six sentences pique your curiosity:

The face before her bore no tiny scar over his left eyebrow from a baseball to the temple at nine years old. There was no little mole on his right cheek. No laugh lines around his eyes…and yet there was something about his eyes. They were the wrong color of course, but the glint of mischief, the almost imperceptible squint, in fact his whole expression and posture screamed Adam.

“Why are you crying, honey?” he asked, folding her into his arms.

Though the Fleshlite hadn’t quite warmed from the coolness of the chamber, a familiar scent surrounded her―her husband’s scent.

WIP Wednesday--Silk and Steel Part 5

Mouth suddenly dry, Ahron tried to swallow, but found he couldn’t. He peeled his tongue off the roof of his mouth and dragged it across his bottom lip. Reaching out, he put a tentative hand on her shoulder. “Please don’t cry, milady.”

Bradley James as King Arthur from BBC TV show Merlin

“I’m not crying.” She huffed, blinking rapidly.

“That is to say it’s fine if you are.”

“I’m not.”

“Good.” He rose, walking to the window. What was he doing, harboring an exiled courtesan in his private chambers? Were anyone to call on him, he’d share Merewyn’s fate, assuming he’d be allowed to keep his head attached to his neck. Risking exile and death to help a woman he barely knew. When she’d lived at court she’d barely spoken two words to him.

Still, all the battles he’d fought, the men he’d slain, all the criminals he’d personally delivered to the executioner, he never felt so guilty as the day he’d put her and her children out. No matter how many times he told himself that it was his duty to do as his queen commanded, he knew he’d done wrong.

“Will you be safe with your friend until Owain comes of age?” he asked.

“From what you’ve told me, I’ll never be safe in my own country again.”

Placing a hand to over hers, he murmured, “You’re safe here. With me.”

He noticed her skin damp and hot. “Are you unwell, milady?”

She untied her cloak and let it fall around her porcelain shoulders. Though he knew it was wrong to do so, he peeked at the cleavage revealed by the slit in her coarse peasant shirt. Again desire stirred between his legs. An automatic response. A simple reflex, nothing more, he told himself.

“I’m fine.” She fanned herself. “It’s a little warm in here.”

He placed his hand against the cool stone wall. It was not warm in the slightest in his apartments.

“What will you do?” he asked. In response, she rolled her eyes back in her head and slumped to the floor.

“Milady?” He rushed to her side. Reaching beneath her shirt, he freed her from her corset while checking her pulse and breathing. Her skin burned. A fiery rash peppered her torso. Boatman’s Fever. She must’ve picked it up crossing the swamps of Koburgh. His own bout with the disease flashed through his mind. It’d consisted of miserable weeks in bed, sweating and coughing up blood. Judging from the scabs on the rash, she’d been sick for a week or more. What was she doing up and about when she was seriously ill?

“Foolish woman.”

Tucked into the waistband of her skirt, he found a vial. Uncorking it, he took a sniff. The scent of rotten eggs invaded his nostrils. A sulfur preparation. No wonder she’d seemed fine less than half an hour ago. Though it was touted as a cure by charlatans, it only masked the symptoms. It cured nothing.

She needed rest. She needed herbal tisane to control the fever and enriched broth to build up her strength, a milk and bread poultice for the rash. None of which he could provide her with here. Certainly not here.

Swearing under his breath, he cursed himself for his impulsive rescue. What had he been thinking? And now, he harbored a fugitive in his private chambers. A passed out and gravely ill fugitive.

A cold sweat dotted his brow as he left his quarters and hurried to the marketplace. Calling over a boy, 

Ahron fished a gold Behrin from his coin purse.

“Young man, can you make it to Halsburgh Castle before nightfall?” Ahron asked.

“Yes, Lord High Constable.”

“Good, fetch my maid. Tell her to give you supper and then bring you back in the carriage. Tell her to bring supplies to treat Boatman’s Fever.”

The boy clapped three times ostensibly to ward of evil spirits.

Ahron gave him the coin and a small folded piece of paper. “Don’t lose my official seal or Triska won’t believe I sent you. I’ll give you another Behrin upon your swift return. There’s no time to waste. And speak to no one about this errand.”

“Yes, sire.” The boy tucked his payment and the seal into his leather belt and began to run in the direction of the road to Halsburgh.

WIP Wednesday--Silk and Steel Part 4

A flash of defiance crossed the thief's face, but she sighed and acquiesced. With casual, but quick strides, he escorted her out of the marketplace and across the drawbridge to his quarters in the castle fortifications.

“Sit.” He gently nudged her into a oaken chair and dug the apples in question out of a pocket in the lining of her cloak. “Queen Cillan will have your head if she finds you. If I recognized you, it’s only a matter of time before someone else does.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Lady Merewyn…enough. You’re presence here is risky, but thievery in the marketplace is plain lunacy. What if a different guard had intercepted you?”

She set her jaw. “My children must eat.”

“It is my understanding that you have been well provided for in The Outlands.”

“I left The Outlands a year ago. She cannot keep me from my son. Neither can you.”

“The queen was clear—you were never to come back to Lambir.”

“How can I not?”

“You would be wise to find a way.” Though he guarded his expression, he found himself amused by her stubbornness, her tenacity. How had a woman with two children traveled the treacherous back roads from The Outlands to Cherte proper and then made it all the way back to the capital duchy?

“How did you get here?” he asked.

“Does it matter? I’m here now.”

“I’d ask why but I know the answer to that question.”

She smoothed the crumpled fabric of her patched cloak, her gaze cast downward. “How is he?”

Ahron nodded. “He’s well. Owain is strong, like his father…and his mother.”

“He’s only a boy.”

“At twelve he’s nearly a man.”

Tears filled her velvety brown eyes. “What will she do with him once he’s of age?”

With a sigh, Ahron took a seat. “It’s a complex situation. She knows she cannot hold favor if she snatches the throne, but there are whispers that once king, Owain’s rule will not last long. Particularly not if he names her as his successor until he produces an heir.”

“Then you must make sure he does not do so.”

“There are limits to my power, milady.”

“You promised me—”

“I promised I would protect him as best I could. Unless a decision affects the army or the royal guard, the queen does not keep my counsel. Nor does your son.”

“Whose do they keep?”

“Cillan trusts few and of those few, there is only one who holds any sway with your son—the magus, Laentus.”

“She trusted you once, when you convinced her not to put me and my children to death.”

“Do not give me too much credit. I played upon lust for power and it didn’t hurt that Laentus told her a curse would fall upon her if she caused you harm. Above all else she is superstitious. If I may offer you a piece of advice, let well enough alone and take your leave while it is still yours to take.”

“I won’t.”

“Then it is my duty to arrest you. You know that.”

A faint smile played on her lips that resembled a ripe berry. “But you won’t.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

“You would’ve done it by now.”

Ahron raked a hand through his hair. “Where are Eadric and Bertana?”

“With an old friend on the outskirts of town.”

Rubbing one scruffy cheek, he shook his head. “It is not only you who faces death upon return. Your children are in danger as well.”

Merewyn blanched at his words. She clearly knew them to be true.

“Why come back? Why now?” he asked. “Was your gilded prison really all that bad?”

“He is my son. He is Eadric and Bertana’s brother. I am tired of feeling like part of me is missing. I am tired of endless mourning. And when he is king, he can make whatever decision he chooses regarding his family.”

“His birthday is almost three months away during which time you are in grave peril. And what makes you so sure he’ll welcome you with open arms?”

Her eyebrows drew together, surprise registering on her beautiful albeit dirty face. “Why wouldn’t he?”

“A child is easily misled. His memories of the day he was taken from you have been altered so that he believes you abandoned him.

“But I did not. You know I did not.”

“Again this is not a topic on which my views have been solicited. Cillan has convinced the boy she is his savior and he appears to be her loyal servant.”

Merewyn put a hand to her mouth, her fingers folded into a fist. Her other hand clutched her cloak. Shaking her head, she squeezed her eyes shut.

“I’m too late.” She hiccuped out a sob. “I’ve failed him.”
____________________________________
Read parts 1-3 http://cindyjacks.blogspot.com/search/label/Silk%20and%20Steel
Check out my other books! http://www.jasminejade.com/m-683-cindy-jacks.aspx

WIP Wednesday--SILK AND STEEL part 3

My tale of love and passion in a fictional medieval setting continues. Hope you enjoy today's excerpt. I'm having a lot of fun playing with the fashion and social attitudes of the time and at the same time building a world of my very own.

Today's hunky knight is Gerard Butler from TIMELINE. *drool*

Chapter One

Two years later

Struggling against the smile that tugged at his lips, Ahron watched the lady-thief mill about amongst the commoners. Her burlap robe with hood up, unwashed hair and face devoid of makeup helped with her charade, but the shoes were a dead giveaway. Her cloak was long enough that her satin and wooden chopines barely peeked out from underneath and no one else had seemed to notice, but little escaped Ahron’s watchful eye.

He came most mornings to the marketplace to observe the guards who worked for him, but also to catch the latest gossip from the townsfolk. They were more valuable than gold when it came to information gathering. Three mornings ago, he’d noticed the thief. Not only because she wasn’t terribly skilled at her new trade, but also because—despite her best efforts—he recognized her. Most thieves he would throw in the castle dungeon without a second thought, but he knew why she was stealing and his heart went out to her. Now he came each day to keep an eye on her. Inevitably, a vendor or guard would catch her.

Shout from the owner of a fruit cart proved him right. One of his men trotted toward the unrest, hand on sword, but Ahron intercepted him, stepping out of the shadow of an awning.

“Allow me, Pelot,” said Ahron.

Surprise registered on the man’s face. “Yes, sire. I had no idea you were here.”

“You’ve reacted swiftly to the crisis. I shall make note your fine performance.”

“I am most grateful.” The young knight dropped Ahron’s gaze and backed away.

Sauntering over to the site of the quarrel, Ahron shook his head. The thief wore an expression of utter indignation, declaring her innocence.

“Unhand me!” she insisted, twisting in the wiry merchant’s grasp.

“Not until you unhand my apples.” The man with a pockmarked face tried to reach beneath her robes. The thief squealed like a trapped animal.

“What’s all this about?” Ahron demanded.

“Lord High Constable.” The man released the thief and dropped to one knee. “This girl stole from me. I want to search her robes and skirts, if it pleases ye.”

“Is what this man says true?” Ahron walked around the young woman.

“I have no idea what he’s talking about and I’ll die before I let him use this false accusation as an excuse to violate me.”

“Your speech is much finer than your clothing,” replied Ahron. “Are you of nobility?”

“No.” The woman hesitated, seeming to choose her words carefully. “But I was educated in the castle.”

“My apples, sire?” asked the man.

“Yes, of course.” Ahron noticed the vendor still genuflect and added hastily, “You may rise.”

The man struggled to his feet.

Ahron let his gaze wander over the woman’s form. “I shall search the lady in question.”

“I must object—” she started to complain, but Ahron silenced her with a look.

Turning her away from the merchant, Ahron instructed her to open her robes, then ran his hands over her skirts. Though he struggled to keep base impulses under control at all times, he couldn’t help but notice the swell of her hips and breasts. She jiggled ever so slightly as he put on a show of frisking her.

“Alas, there is no fruit in her dress. At least none that shouldn’t be there.” Ahron winked at the man who gave a forced laugh. Fishing two copper cugats from his money pouch, he tossed them to the vendor. 

“Someone else must have absconded with them. Here’s recompense for your loss.”

“Th-thank you, sire.” The vendor dropped to his knees and snatched the coins from the dirt.

The woman, face scarlet with either embarrassment or ire, began to storm away, but Ahron caught her by her arm. “Walk with me.”

“I’d rather not.”

Dropping his voice, he spoke through clenched teeth, his lips a hairsbreadth away from her ear. “It was not a request.”

WIP Wednesday - SILK AND STEEL part 2

Hope you enjoy the second installment of SILK AND STEEL, my medieval erotic romance that is still in progress. I've written 10,000 words and I'm still going strong!

This week's inspiration? Clive Owen from the movie KING ARTHUR. Yowza!


Prologue - Scene 2

The guards stormed the courtesan’s suite of rooms. Merewyn shrieked at the sudden intrusion.

“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded, struggling against the men restraining her. Her black hair hung loose around her porcelain shoulders, a dressing gown barely covering her curvaceous form. Ahron felt a twinge of shame at catching the lady in such an informal state.

“That won’t be necessary,” Ahron told his men who promptly released her.

“Mistress Merewyn, I regret to inform you that you have fifteen minutes to gather your belongings and then we shall escort you from the castle grounds.”

“On whose authority?” She pulled her frightened children closer to her—a boy of six-years old and a girl of eight. The eldest boy stepped between Ahron and his mother, the chiseled features of the boy’s father evident even in his pre-pubescent face. He displayed the same bravery as well.

“Don’t touch her.” Anger flashed in his ice blue eyes—the one feature he inherited from his mother.

Ahron lay a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You show valor beyond your years, but this is not a fight you can win, son. The queen herself has ordered the exile of your mother and siblings.”

“Exile? That can’t be. The castle is our home.” Merewyn spoke to Ahron, but nudged her son, Owain, to join the others. Two guards caught the boy by his wrists.

“Owain is to stay here,” Ahron met Merewyn’s gaze. Her eyes widened as his full meaning dawned on her.

“No,” she pleaded, clutching at his hand. “No, you can’t take my son.”

“Milady, I have no choice.”

Two more guards restrained her as Owain was escorted from the room. The boy put up a fight, as did his mother, but the efforts proved futile. Merewyn collapsed to the floor, screaming and sobbing. “She can’t do this.”

Ahron knelt down and stroked the woman’s perfumed hair. “She can do anything she likes. She’s the monarch de facto until the king’s will is unsealed. Most likely she will be named to act as regent until Owain comes of age.”

Wild-eyed and shaking, she looked up at her oldest boy. “What will be his fate?”

“I cannot speak to that.” Ahron nudged her to her feet. “But I swear you this—I will protect him as much as I can.”

Merewyn shook her head. “I will not accept this.”

“You must.” Ahron gripped her arm, leading her toward the door. “We must go.”

Dragging the boy from the room, the guards disappeared down the hall, Owain’s objections echoing for all to hear.

Tears streamed down his mother’s face and the other children hid sobbing in her skirts.

Ahron produced a handkerchief from his sleeve and handed it to Merewyn. “I’ll give you a moment to collect yourself and then, milady, we really must go.”

As he led the shattered family from their suites, he hardened his heart against the woman’s pleas. The cries of the children were slightly harder to ignore.

_____________________

Tune in next Wednesday for the first scene from chapter one!

WIP Wednesday - SILK AND STEEL

I've been watching and reading a lot that revolves around the Arthurian legend which has inspired me to try my hand at an erotic romance with a medieval flavor. It's set in a fictional realm called Cherte in the capital city of Lambir. I'm having a great deal of fun letting this story unfold (That's right! I'm pants-ing a bit!). Hope you enjoy the sneak peeks to come over the next several weeks. Tune in every Wednesday for some juicy snippets!

Part of my inspiration was taken from Leontes in the Starz original series CAMELOT. Phillip Winchester is so damn yummy!


SILK AND STEEL
© Cindy Jacks, 2012
All rights reserved

Prologue

Steel gray clouds roiled in the sky above Lambir castle. Cherry trees laden with blossoms shook violently in the wind, petals scattering across the manicured grounds. A few drops of rain began to fall on the knight’s stone windowsill. Duke Ahron of Halsburgh raked a hand through his golden hair, green eyes fixed on the gathering storm, a prayer on his lips that this would be nothing more than a passing thunderhead. The smoke from the still burning funeral pyre that swirled upward to the center of the clouds told him otherwise. Dark days would return to the kingdom of Cherte, he could feel it. Drawing his sword from its sheath on his back, he pressed his lips to the trusted blade as he said a silent prayer for their fallen leader. A knock at his door interrupted his rare moment of piety.

“Enter.” He sheathed his sword.

A courier from court handed him a shallow bow. “Sire, her majesty Queen Cillan commands your presence.

With a terse nod, Ahron followed the servant through the maze of hallways and stairwells that led to the queen’s apartments.

A lady-in-waiting offered Ahron a seat in her majesty’s receiving room. The oaken chair creaked under his weight. Reticent to place his muddy boots on the velvet foot stool, he stood again, pretending to study the woolen tapestry on the wall. It depicted a forest scene, a unicorn kneeling at the center. Torches flickered in the dimming evening light. The scent of the smoldering hickory from the massive fireplace filled his nostils.

Several minutes later another lady announced the queen’s arrival. Ahron fell to his knees, pressing his forehead to the floor.

“Rise, Lord High Constable.” The queen’s voice was thick—perhaps with drink or emotion. Not that he blamed her. She’d laid her husband to rest today. The court magus, Laentus, aided her royal highness’ unsteady gait.

“Your majesty,” he avoided eye contact, “how may I serve?”

“You are aware of the interloper?” she asked.

“I am.” His throat grew tight at the awkwardness of the topic.

“We want her and her unholy offspring put to death, except for the eldest boy. Bring him to us,” Queen Cillan utilized the pluralis majestatis.

Ahron guarded his reaction to the outrageous request. “Your majesty, with all due respect, I have no legal grounds to execute the lady or her children.”

“You call the interloper a lady? Indeed not.” The queen wrinkled her nose, her lips curled in disgust. “If you will not carry out my wishes, we are sure we can find a constable who will.”

“If my queen orders me to carry out her wishes, I will of course comply. But I am concerned for your public image at this…” he considered his words, “uncertain time.”

Laentus held up a spindly finger, his strange silver skin sparkling in the dim sunlight in stark contrast to his midnight blue robes. “It is true, your majesty, that the portents do not bode well for your desired course of action.”

“And you advise us against righteous vengeance as well, Lord High Constable?” Her majesty took a seat in an ornate gilded chair, a hand to her forehead, her eyes shut tightly as if the idea of clemency for her husband’s mistress was too painful to bear.

“Perhaps her majesty might consider banishing her—the interloper. It would be seen as an act of mercy, garner you more support from the public. It would at least avoid outrage.”

“We know they love her.” The queen nearly spat as spoke. “Heathens and simpletons.”

“She was once one of them.”

A pinched expression on her gaunt face, Queen Cillan waved a hand as if to dismiss not only Ahron’s words, but their sentiment as well. “Fine. Exile it is.”

“Yes, your majesty.” Ahron bowed.

“But don’t forget to bring us the oldest of the brats.”

“It shall be done, my queen.”

“Dismissed.”

The diminutive lady didn’t wait for Ahron to make his exit before she swept from the room, her elaborate dress brushing along the doorjamb.

Exile. A tragic assignment to be sure, but at least he’d helped to spare the lives two small children. Ahron thanked the Gods for small favors.

_________________________________

More to come next Wednesday!

'Just Dance' Sneaky Peeky

Just to show y'all I have been hard at work, here's a sneak peek at my WIP Just Dance.

Blurb:

Gillian Rutherford was married to her work, but when her employer went bankrupt, she landed at her parents' house to regroup for a while. 'A while' turns into several months and Gilly's self-esteem takes the brunt of the prolonged unemployment, until Nana Rutherford declares enough is enough. True, Gilly needs to get out of the house, but really, Nana? Ballroom dancing classes? There's something about the idea that seems to Gillian a little ridiculous. That is until she meets instructor Dominik Svoboda. Graceful, handsome, and an expert on the dance floor, he just might be the man to sweep Gilly off her feet...literally, but only if she can allow herself to follow his lead.

Excerpt:

As the diners finished up their meals, the musicians took a break. Upon their return, a stunning woman dressed in a high-slit, black sequined gown took the mike.

“Buenas noches à todos ustedes. My name is Isabella and I'd like to welcome everyone to the April Moonlight Milonga,” she said.

The crowd clapped and cheered.

“Now usually I ask for a volunteer from the crowd for the demonstration portion of the evening, but tonight, I understand we have a Dancesport Pro with us. Dominik, honey, where are you?” She shaded her eyes and looked around.

Niko's eyes popped open wide and he looked as if he wanted to crawl under the table. But he didn't. Gilly watched as he put on a mask of composure and stood, waving to the woman on stage.

“There you are. Ladies and gentleman, this is Dominik Svoboda, US Open Professional Champion, 1989. Maybe we can convince him to join me on the dance floor?”

Again, the crowd erupted in applause.

Niko looked at Gilly who gave him a thumbs up gesture. In fact, she was eager to see what Niko was capable of on the dance floor. Watching him work with students was a bit like watching an Olympic sprinter walk hand-in-hand with a toddler. The power and grace were there, but mostly held at bay.

“If you're sure you don't mind,” he said.

“Really. I'm fine.”

He smoothed his suit jacket and straightened his tie. Trotting to the center of the dance floor, he met up with Isabella and extended his right hand at about shoulder height. After securing a headphone microphone, she took his hand and thanked him for helping her.

Without accompaniment, they demonstrated the basic Tango and Argentine Tango steps. They also showed a few rocking breaks, lunges and other ways for the men to mix things up, the Tango in any form being a dance driven by male aggression.

The lesson concluded, she signaled for the band to play. The drummer tapped out a driving beat, the violinist and pianist came in with several sharp bursts of chords. Excitement moved Gillian to the edge of her seat though she had no idea what to expect.

Dominik swept the woman into his arms. She rested her forehead against his cheek and his face hardened in a way Gillian had never seen. He looked fierce, angry...rapacious.

The dancers stood still, their ribcages rising and falling in time with the music. Once the intro repeated itself, Dominik stepped back and the woman stepped toward him. They began to circle each other in time with the music, their expressions that of hungry sharks. The hunt gave way to a flurry of complex footwork. Niko glided across the dance floor, his feet never seeming to alight for very long.

The story between the two unfolded further. Isabella clearly in pursuit of Niko's affections which he cruelly withheld. The more coquettish her movements became, the more he pushed her away. She swiveled her hips against him and he grabbed her arms, spun her around and cast her to the floor. But just as she appeared broken and cast off, he dropped down to her, one knee bent, his other leg stretched out behind him. He drew her into a passionate embrace. His expression turned to one of desire, enchantment. Bending her backward over his knee, he slid his hand from her ankle, inch by inch up to her hip.

Niko pulled her up, scooped her into his arms. She clung to him as he spun her around and set her onto her feet. The dancers worked their way around the floor, again displaying expert kicks and flicks. They twirled, lunged, and rocked against each other, but now the fight for supremacy had been won. Niko appeared to control not only Isabella's dance movements, but her entire body. He owned her and she longed for nothing more than to be owned by him. Wild violin riffs underscored this emotion.

The song crashed to a triumphant close and Niko tossed Isabella backward over his left arm and dipped her low. The two came to rest with his lips a mere inch from hers.

Once the lights rose, Niko and Isabella laughed and hugged. The crowd jumped to their feet and applauded them. Gillian had never felt so aroused but terrified at the same time. There was no way she could keep up with this man on the dance floor. No way in hell.

Niko and Isabella took their bows, hugged and then Niko made his way back to Gilly. He took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and patted at his brow.

“Are you all right?” he asked, still working to catch his breath.

“I—I--” Gillian shook her head. “I can't do this. Can we call it a night, please?”

“What's wrong? It's not about Isabella is it? We're just old friends. We used to train together, that's all.”

“No, that's not it. I just...I can't dance like that.”

“Oh, Gilly.” He took a drink of wine. “No one expects anyone here to dance like that. This is for fun. Please, let's stay.”

She chewed at her lip and studied the tablecloth. “I don't know.”

Gently, he tilted her chin up so she had to look at him. “I promise, I'll go slow and we'll have fun. Do remember what I said in class. What's the leader's number one job?”

Gilly gave a sheepish grin. “To present his lady, to support her.”

“Exactly. So you've got to trust that I would never let you look foolish. Do you trust me?”

She sighed. “Yes.”

“Then let's go.” He offered his arm and nodded toward the doors opening at the back of the club.

She took his arm and turned to face the crowd of people exiting. “What's going on?”

“Moonlight Milonga.”

They walked outside into a large courtyard where a DJ had already begun spinning records. Gillian recognized the song, “Santa Maria (Del Buen Ayre)” by The Gotan Project. She'd heard it in some movie, sometime ago.

Niko picked a spot where they had room to move and drew her into a proper Tango hold, which was much closer than she was used to dancing with him. Their torsos pressed together, his arm wrapped around her very much like an embrace. His breath brushed past her cheek and she was very much aware of his body heat.

“Just relax,” he whispered. “Just dance.”

And The Plot...er Pants Thicken

Okay, so it's day three of my pantsing experiment and I have to admit, the urge to map out the whole story is getting harder to resist. Doing do my best to let it develop organically! Must resist. Must. Resist. LOL.

To my surprise, the story is knitting up as quickly as a plotted book would for me. In fact, it's getting longer than I ever intended it to be! This fun experiment may result in a finished novella ms. BUT I'm not thinking about the end goal with this one--the journey is the destination, right?

Here's a peek at how things are coming along:

Along the two mile walk, Kathryn met up with other neighbors headed in the same direction. At the junction of three small farming communities, the marketplace—more of a happening than a locale—was the place to be on the second and fourth Saturday of each month. She waved hello to Jolisa, from two plots over; Susannah, the local apothecary and hostess to male travelers; old Sampson, who sold cotton yarn and thread; and of course Roy.

He walked next to his mule with a plodding gate until he caught site of Kathryn. Jogging up beside her, he took the cart handle from her. “Allow me, Miss Kate.”

“Oh, you don't have to,” she said, but didn't object too strenuously. She took the mule's lead from her neighbor and handed it to Marcus. What harm was there in letting Roy play the gentleman? Peeking under the tarp, she saw his cart brimmed with contraband. Oil and firearms from the nation of Texas and coal, spices, and tequila from Mexico.

“You been mingling with privateers again?” she asked.

“Me?” He gave her an oily grin. “Never. I found this stuff by the side of the road.”
Of course he had. Roy was the kind of man who knew how to get things. Anything...for the right price.

“Marcus,” the man barked, “you're getting bigger every day.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your birthday's next month, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And yours,” he said to Kathryn, “is next week if I'm not mistaken.” Pulling from
his pocket a package wrapped in cloth and fastened with string, he presented it to her on his outstretched palm.

“You shouldn't have.” She covered her mouth with one hand. The other hesitated, then reached for the present. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

“May I open it now?”

“I insist.”

Her fingers worked the crude knots to reveal a carved wooden comb, a sewing needle, a small glass bottle, and a pot of balm. She uncorked the bottle and inhaled. Coconut oil. “Oh, Roy, thank you, but this is too much. How can I ever return such a favor?”

A nervous laugh shook his thin frame. “Don't think nothin' of it. I found those by the side of the road, too.”

“Well, it's a beautiful gift. Thank you.”

“You can use the wrapping as a scarf. The coconut stuff's for your hair and the other's made from honey and beeswax. I think it's for your lips.”

“And who told you that? The bush by the side of the road?” she teased.
He twittered again. “Right.”

Though he didn't want to take it, she slipped him a pint of whiskey to show her gratitude.

She found a place near the pond to set up her cart so she could keep an eye on Marcus while he fished and swam. The other children, ones with horses or mules to draw their family carts, had beaten him there and were taking flying leaps from the rope swing into the tepid water.

A pop of gunfire caught her attention. She scanned the woods for Reformer troops or guerrilla soldiers, but found only a thirteen year-old boy, all knees and elbows, taking pot shots at an old sign post. Kathryn marched over to him, her brow furrowed, jaw set.

“Daniel Mabry, give me that pistol,” she said. “You scared the dickens out of everyone and I don't think your daddy would appreciate you wasting his ammo.”

“But—” he began to object, but she quieted him with a smack to the back of the head. The crestfallen boy handed over the gun.
****

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