📖 Extract Review ~ Boudicca’s Daughter by Elodie Harper

Head of Zeus
28 August 2025

Boudicca. Infamous warrior, queen of the British Iceni tribe and mastermind of one of history’s greatest revolts. Her defeat spelled ruin for her people, yet still her name is enough to strike fear into Roman hearts.

But what of the woman who grew up in her shadow?

The woman who has her mother’s looks and cunning but a spirit all of her own?

The woman whose desperate bid for survival will take her from Britain’s sacred marshlands to the glittering façades of Nero’s Roman Empire…

Born to a legend. Forced to fight. Determined to succeed.

Meet Solina.

Boudicca’s Daughter.

📖 My Review..

Having read, and enjoyed, this author’s previous books which were set in Pompeii and Ancient Rome I was thrilled to be given the opportunity to read an extract from Boudicca’s Daughter which is expected to be published in August 2025.  There’s a definite fascination to be had in learning more about the woman who was able to call Boudicca mother and this short extract from chapter thirteen of the book introduces us to Boudicca’s daughter, Solina.

I liked what I read, it’s descriptive, atmospheric and I’m sure if the rest of the story is as good then Elodie Harper will have another best selling historical novel to her credit. This is definitely a book to look forward to reading over summer.

About the author

Elodie Harper is the award-winning author of the bestselling Wolf Den trilogy, set in ancient Pompeii. The first book in the series, The Wolf Den, was a Waterstones Book of the Month, and the second, The House with the Golden Door, was a Sunday Times bestseller. Her next novel, Boudicca’s Daughter,is out in August 2025. Alongside her career as a writer, Elodie has worked as a reporter at ITV News and producer at Channel 4.

📖 Blog Tour ~ The Last Girl to Die by Helen Fields

 

Avon
1 September 2022

My thanks to the publishers for my copy of this book
and also to Midas pr for the invitation to the blog tour

In search of a new life, sixteen-year-old Adriana Clark’s American family moves to the ancient, ocean-battered Isle of Mull, far off the coast of Scotland. Then she goes missing. Faced with hostile locals and indifferent police, her desperate parents turn to private investigator Sadie Levesque.

Sadie is the best at what she does. But when she finds Adriana’s body in a cliff side cave, a seaweed crown carefully arranged on her head, she knows she’s dealing with something she’s never encountered before.

The deeper she digs into the island’s secrets, the closer danger creeps – and the more urgent her quest to find the killer grows. Because what if Adriana is not the last girl to die?

I am delighted to be able to share an extract from The Last Girl To Die (p.62-64) 

An emerald mist was blowing off the sea at 5 a.m. It infiltrated the gaps in my ancient window and brought the scents of seaweed and salt. The curtains were damp as I pulled them back, and there was no chance I would fall back to sleep. Knowing that no one else in my corridor wanted to be woken at that time, I left my room and the hotel quietly, made for the hills behind the town and headed south. The drop away from the land to the sea was timeless. Beyond the town, the remoteness hit me. I saw only a handful of houses as I walked. Trees that had stood for generations lined my path and the heather underfoot added a scratchy cushioned layer to the earth. Seagulls eyed me suspiciously from the air, but it was the fishing boats and lobster pots they wanted. The island was a place removed from the world, and although Tobermory was a slice of civilisation, it hadn’t made a dent in the wildness of the scenery. The sea breathed in and out with me as I walked. Finally, back at The Last Bay Hotel, I showered, dressed, put on my best attitude and went to explore what the Mull Historical Emporium had to offer.

The once dark-green sign was weather faded to something less bold and more mossy, which was how the inside felt too. The dust was what I noticed first. Overhead lighting filtered into glass cabinets that should have sparkled, lighting up the debris of ages. Guidebooks and maps alongside history books with transparent plastic covers gave the Emporium the air of a dying library. Bric-a-brac sporting various clan motifs with fading price tags lined the walls and lay unloved on shelves. Portraits, landscapes, a few animal heads that made me queasy. A lock of hair in a pearl inlay box. Many of the displays offered minute handwritten information cards next to them. A ship’s manifest in a language I couldn’t make out. Half the items for sale, the remainder there to encourage tourists through the doors. Not quite a museum; not quite a shop. There were several areas to wander through, each tiny and featuring a different period in Mull’s history. Low oak beams, exposed inner walls and three small but beautiful open fireplaces. ‘Can I h-help?’ The stutter on the ‘h’ told me immediately who was standing behind me. He was close enough that I could feel the heat of his body against my back.

I turned my head to reply, but kept my body facing the fireplace I was admiring. ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘I was looking for a guidebook about the island.’ ‘I know who you are,’ he said. The sentence took time to get through, each word a trial. I waited for him to finish. Damp with sweat, his clothes needed more care, as did his hair and nails. ‘I love this building. How old is it?’ ‘1820,’ he said. I could smell sour fruit acid on his breath and his fingers flexed and twitched as he spoke to me. ‘What’s your name?’ ‘Sadie,’ I replied. ‘Sadie,’ he repeated back to me slowly.

‘They call you Skittles, right?’ He gave a broad grin revealing teeth that confirmed what Rachel had told me about his diet. ‘Did you ever talk to Adriana? Did she ever come in here?’ His smile melted. ‘She’s d-d-dead,’ he said, the stutter worsening as his face reddened. I watched, recognising his limited abilities as we talked. At some point a diagnosis would surely have been made, but I was no psychologist. It seemed to me that Skittles was functioning only at a basic level. He could answer direct questions, repeat facts, ring purchases up on a till, but beyond that I had doubts. ‘Do you know Mackinnon’s Cave where she was found?’ I asked. ‘It’s d-dark there at night,’ was his reply. ‘Don’t l-like it.’ ‘Really?’ I said. ‘I thought I saw you going out late last night. You got in your car and drove somewhere.’ His eyes slid from my gaze. ‘Get you a g-guidebook,’ he muttered, walking off. I followed, disliking the fact that I was leaping to conclusions, but the seeds were planted in my mind and already sprouting. ‘Do you live here too or just work here?’ I asked as he reached up to a shelf behind the counter and took down a book. ‘Live,’ he said. ‘Nine ninety-nine.’ I handed over a ten-pound note and watched as his fingers took their time punching each button on the old-fashioned till. I picked up my purchase and left to check out Adriana’s regular haunts and retrace the steps of her final day.

Tobermory
Photo by kind permission of the author

📖 My Review..

Sadie Levesque is a Canadian private investigator who has been employed by an American family living on the Isle of Mull who are desperate to find their missing teenage daughter. The disappearance of sixteen year-old Adriana Clark has left the small Scottish town of Tobermory bewildered but when Sadie discovers a body in an isolated cave, it would seem that the townsfolk start to close ranks and with a less than helpful local police force, Sadie soon finds that she is battling against prejudice, local indifference and long buried superstition.

Sadie Levesque is an interesting protagonist, she's not afraid to challenge the local police team, ruffling feathers and upsetting male egos in her quest to uncover the dark and deadly secrets of Tobermory and the reasons why young girls in the town are being targeted in such a terrifying way. As always this talented author get right into the heart of the action, weaving complex strands of the story with precision and with interesting dialogue from the island itself which gives an extra insight into its dark and mysterious past. The story moves along quickly as there is much to discover and many twists, turns and red herrings before the final sad denouement, which doesn't disappoint.

Mysterious, addictive and compulsive reading, The Last Girl to Die is an atmospheric standalone thriller which uses local myth, pagan legends and eerie superstition to bring this thrilling story to life.

📖 Best read with..a comforting glass of single malt whisky

About the Author

Photo by kind permission of the author

A former criminal and family law barrister, Helen Fields has the expertise and experience to make the characters and plots scorch with authenticity. With a background as both a prosecutor and defence counsel, Helen Fields has a depth of knowledge about crime that lends a fierceness to her writing. From Court Martials to care proceedings, the Coroner Courts to the Crown Court, Fields draws on her professional years for the extraordinary colour and texture that makes her writing jump off the page.

Twice long-listed for the McIllvanney Scottish Crime Book of the Year, and a multi-bestselling author whose books have been translated across the globe, Fields consistently produces high impact, compelling novels that readers love.

Now translated into 22 languages, and also selling in the USA, Canada & Australasia, Helen's books have won global recognition. In 2020 Helen’s novel, 'Perfect Kill' was longlisted for the Crime Writers Association Ian Fleming Steel Dagger. In 2020 Perfect Remains was shortlisted for the Bronze Bat, Dutch debut crime novel of the year. Helen also writes as HS Chandler, and has released legal thriller 'Degrees of Guilt'. Her audio book 'Perfect Crime' knocked Michelle Obama off the #1 spot.

Twitter @Helen_Fields #TheLastGirlToDie

@AvonBooksUK 

@midaspr

Photo by kind permission of the author

Blog Tour ~The Englishman by David Gilman ☼

Delighted to be part of this Blog Tour today 

and to be sharing a tantalising extract from the book 

Head of Zeus
9 July 2020
Raglan#1

My thanks to the publishers for permission to use this extract today
and Midas PR for the invitation to be part of the blog tour

Prologue

Russian Federation

October 2020

The road was long and straight, and the dark forest pressed on to the verge on both sides. Heaped snow, ploughed from the previous winter, was still frozen and had become an even higher bank from the fresh snowfall. He lengthened his stride and ran faster towards the rising sun.

He dared not stop.

The sun had reached the top of the trees either side of the chill, sunless gulley of a road. His laboured breathing muted the sound of the first vehicle. Instinct made him turn. Another vehicle was travelling behind that, its headlights weaving. There were probably twenty men in pursuit.

He leapt over the snow ledge on the side of the road and ducked beneath the overhanging branches. A slender track channelled between the accumulated snow and ice on the side of the road and where the tree trunks barred his way into the forest. He heard the engines change pitch.

They were slowing. He ran; branches caught his face and he raised an arm. A rattle of gunfire cut the air above his head.

He cursed his own stupidity. By brushing the branches away from his face he had disturbed the snow lying on them and the fine powder left low on the tree had been seen. He kept running, ducking lower, avoiding the branches. The thwack of bullets hit the trees where he had been moments before. They were shooting wildly. Ripping through the air. A storm of tree bark and snow.

His breath came hard. The cold air raw in his lungs And then he ran out of track. He plunged into the low branches. Felt them them whip his face. Searing pain scorched his thigh. He stumbled as another bullet tore into his side. Ignoring the pain he ran on. He was leaking blood. Leaving a trail. The distant sound of dogs echoing through the forest. His foot caught a root, tumbling him into deep snow. He slammed into a tree, the wind knocked out of him. He needed a moment to draw breath. He shook the pain and the sweat from his eyes. He could hear them now. Voices calling to each other. Fearful. Of him. He dared to close his eyes for a moment. More gunfire. And he remembered what had brought him here.

PA R T  O N E

WEST AFRICA

French Foreign Legion Operating Base

Republic of Mali

February 2013

The temperature was already nudging fifty degrees Celsius and as well as their combat gear and weapons each man carried in excess of thirty kilos of supplies and ammunition.

Their destination was the harsh mountainous terrain where Salafist Tuaregs and Al Qaeda ethnic militias had surged across the border from Algeria. These tribal fighting men knew their ground and it was up to the elite 2e Régiment étranger de parachutistes to dig them out and stop the Islamic militants’ advance.

United Nations Resolution 2085 had backed France’s military intervention in the French protectorate of the West African country of Mali, a landlocked area the size of Texas.The world had applauded when the French and Chadian army liberated Timbuktu, but more brutal fighting was soon to take place hundreds of miles away in the desolate Ametettaï valley, in the heart of the mountainous massif of Adrar des Ifoghas in northern Mali, on the border wit hAlgeria. It was an area controlled by criminals, terrorists and warlords, men who trafficked arms and drugs with brutal efficiency to fund anti-western organizations. The combined ground and air operation to clear the villages in the valley and the nearby caves already promised to be a tough fight. French Special Operations Forces had flown several hundred kilometres from their base in Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso, and seized Kidal prior to the assault on the mountains. The President of France and his politicians wanted this fight, the boots on the ground were happy to oblige. France’s honour was at stake.

Caporal-chef Serge Sokol ushered his sniper platoon into the Puma helicopter’s oven-hot interior from where he and the other eleven men would fast rope down once they reached their landing zone. A month before, when they had parachuted into Timbuktu and secured it from the terrorists, they had had the upper hand, but the rough terrain of boulder-strewn ground here favoured the defenders. Limited access towards the caves funnelled troops into narrow choke points. Easy targets for ambush.

The snipers were going in by helicopter and would then slog across the broken ground and establish their own fire positions. Their long-range rifles would give the attacking legionnaires a better chance of advancing.

‘Bird!’ a voice hailed Sokol.

The Russian’s face, lined from twenty years’ service in every eye-squinting theatre of war that Africa could throw at the Legion, creased further into a grin. In the Slovak language, Sokol was a bird of prey – his new identity given to him by the recruiting captain at the barracks in Marseilles on the day he had joined. The immaculately dressed Foreign Legion officer told the gangly, unkempt and malnourished youth that it suited his hawk-nosed face. And that if he survived the weeks of training and made it through to the Legion’s parachute regiment the captain would pay for a falcon tattoo out of his own pocket. It wasthe first sign of comradeship the runaway youth had ever known and it spurred him on. And now there were so many falcon tattoos across his muscled torso his skin looked like a damned aviary.

Sokol’s close friend, Dan Raglan from the Legion’sparachute commando group, jogged towards him. Sokolcupped a hand to his ear against the Puma’s roar as Danshouted: ‘The target’s moved. He’s in another cave.’

The caves were refuge to Abdelhamid Abou Zeid, one of the world’s most wanted terrorists, commander of Al Qaedain Mali and the 2nd Foreign Legion Parachute Regiment’s target. Their task: to capture Abou Zeid alive and retrieve terrorist intel hidden in the caves. Sokol grimaced. Last-minute changes could cost lives. The briefing had been precise. As the Legion’s paras fought forward the regiment’s commando unit would abseil down from the clifftops and strike into the caves that held the terrorists and their leader. ‘Moved where?’

The commando shoved a folded map into the Russian’s hand and traced a line across the contours on the map. ‘Here. Cave Thirteen.’ He grinned. ‘You think that’s unlucky?’

‘Only to idiots like you who expose their arses sliding down a cliff face on a rope. Who’s made the change?’

The younger man turned to face the cluster of officers standing in the background with two civilians. One civilian wore an eye patch that barely concealed the welt of a scar.

About the Author

David Gilman enjoyed many careers – including firefighter, paratrooper and photographer – before turning to writing full time. He is an award-winning author and screenwriter

Website

Twitter @davidgilmanuk #TheEnglishman

@HoZ_Books @midaspr 

Blog Tour ~ The Last Crossing by Brian McGilloway

🌠 Delighted to be hosting the first stop on this blog tour on Publication Day 🌠

The Dome Press
2 April 2020

My thanks to the publishers and the author for my invitation to be part of this tour
and their kind permission to share an extract from The Last Crossing

Tony, Hugh and Karen thought they’d seen the last of each other thirty years ago. Half a lifetime has passed and memories have been buried. But when they are asked to reunite - to lay ghosts to rest for the good of the future - they all have their own reasons to agree. As they take the ferry from Northern Ireland to Scotland the past is brought in to terrible focus - some things are impossible to leave behind.

In The Last Crossing memory is unreliable, truth shifts and slips and the lingering legacy of the Troubles threatens the present once again.

✯ Here's a tantalising extract from The Last Crossing ✯

Martin Kelly cried for his mother before he died. 

His face was glazed with tears, his mouth a grotesque O as first he pleaded for his life and, when it became clear that they would not listen to him, called for his mother. Stripped naked, he knelt in the grave they had already dug for him. The light of the torch Tony held caught the shiny skin of the scar on his lower abdomen where he’d had his appendix out, standing out against the lividity of the bruising he carried there, his phallus shrivelled amongst the dark of his pubis, at the outer edges of the glare.

Tony had wanted to cover him up, give him his coat to offer him some dignity, but Hugh had refused. He was aware of Karen next to him, her breathing quick and shallow as she watched the black plastic bag of Martin’s clothes, which they had stripped from him, twisted in her grip.

Martin held out his bound hands in supplication, looking from one face to the next. ‘It wasn’t me,’ he said. ‘I didn’t do it.’

‘You’re a liar,’ Hugh spat.

‘I’m not,’ Martin sobbed. ‘I swear on me mother, I’m not.’

‘And you knew what would happen.’

It was then that Martin broke down, his body wracked with sobs that turned to retching. He vomited onto himself, half choking on it, the bile and saliva hanging in a lace from his chin to his chest. He made no effort to wipe it away. 

‘Fuck this,’ Hugh said, moving forward, raising his pistol.

‘Tell me mother - ‘

The shot reverberated through the trees, which came instantly alive, cacophonous as a murder of crows took wing against the evening sky. 

Martin twisted with the shot, his body thudding against the edge of the grave they had dug. Hugh moved across and, with his toe, pushed him down into the gaping space, before firing three more shots in quick succession, each one momentarily illuminating the still white body where it lay, the red wounds flowering as the blood unfurled with each shot. 

‘Get those clothes burned,’ Hugh ordered, glancing at Karen. ‘You,’ he added, looking at Tony, ‘grab a spade and get shovelling.’

© Brian McGilloway

About the Author

Brian McGilloway is the New York Times bestselling author of the critically acclaimed Inspector Benedict Devlin and DS Lucy Black series.

He was born in Derry, Northern Ireland in 1974. After studying English at Queen’s University, Belfast, he took up a teaching position in St Columb’s College in Derry, where he was Head of English until 2013. He currently teaches in Holy Cross College, Strabane.

Brian’s work has been nominated for, and won, many awards, including Borderlands (shortlisted for the CWA New Blood Dagger), Gallows Lane (shortlisted for both the 2009 Irish Book Awards / Ireland AM Crime Novel of the Year and Theakston’s Old Peculier Crime Novel of the Year Award 2010), and Little Girl Lost (winner of the University of Ulster’s McCrea Literary Award 2011).

In 2014, Brian won BBC NI’s Tony Doyle Award for his screenplay, Little Emperors, an award which saw him become Writer In Residence with BBC NI

Brian lives near the Irish borderlands with his wife, daughter and three sons.

Website

Twitter @BrianMcgilloway

@DomePress

Blog Tour ~ The Death of Mungo Blackwell by Lauren H. Brandenburg

✨✨ Thrilled to be hosting today's Blog Tour stop ✨✨

Lion Fiction
October 2019

My thanks to the publishers and Midas PR for my copy of this book
and the invitation to be part of this blog tour

The Blackwells are a family with an extraordinary history and astounding traditions, which include attending their own funerals before they die! Their ways are questionable and their stories about deceased relatives are as bold as their red hair, but it is their eclectic wares that keep tourists coming back to their market in the town of Coraloo. Charlie Price, whose world has come crumbling down after a lapse in judgement leaves him unemployed, finds himself flung into the chaotic world of the Blackwells when he relocates to Coraloo with his socialite wife, Velveteen, and shy son, Gideon. Here Charlie attempts to make a living as a 'picker', reselling under-priced items he picks up at the market. Some of the Blackwells welcome him with open arms, but others resent pickers and want him thrown out of the market. Charlie soon finds this new way of life under threat and his quest for simplicity seems to be crumbling. Perhaps it's time for Charlie to have a funeral of his own! This charming story of hope will warm your heart and make your imagination soar.

On today's Blog Tour stop I am delighted to be able to share this tantalising extract from 

The Death of Mungo Blackwell

Tofts were not welcome at the renowned Coraloo Flea Market. The Blackwells made certain of that. On the brick wall, the sign outside the once prosperous shoe factory proclaimed, NO DOGS OR TOFTS – GRANNY BITES! Reading these words, Charlie Price scratched his thinning blond hair, musing over the long-standing rivalry he had read about between the Tofts and the Blackwells. Today was Thursday; the market was closed, but there was nothing stopping Charlie from exploring. The scent of old leather and lavender lured him – as it did countless others – through the stone archway into the still, quiet building, carrying with it the promise of unearthing a hidden treasure or memorable trinket. Inside, the shops, each specific to their wares – antique books, hand-dyed ribbons, flowers, freshly pressed olive oils, leather goods, and an occasional antique dealer – lined the perimeter like tiny homes. These, Charlie knew, belonged to the Blackwells. The center, reserved for paying vendors and hungry shoppers dining on Granny’s delicacies at hand-hewn tables, was empty today. 

He peered through one of the storefront windowpanes. In front of a faux mantel, two armchairs were arranged in such a way the shop almost looked livable. Charlie moved on. The next shop appeared promising – less orderly, no décor. He spotted a French horn, dented and in need of a polish. Music is money – a mantra he heeded when considering a purchase. He’d come back and make an offer in the morning, but he would have to arrive early if he wanted to turn a profit – especially at the Coraloo. Pickers arrive early. 

Nestled at the top of a rolling green hill in a picturesque town with stone inlaid streets, overlooking curving rows of carefully maintained cedar-shingled rooftops not yet touched by the deluge of tourists or modern construction trends, sat the Coraloo Flea Market. Wayfaring magazine called the market one of the country’s hidden wonders – known for its charm, history, food, and peculiar owners. The writer described it as a place where peace and simplicity dine with the eccentric – a trove for modern-day treasure hunters – keeping watch over a quaint commonality held together by deep ancestral roots and rivalries. It’s why Charlie entertained the thought of moving his family two hours and forty-one minutes southeast of the big city – to start over, to live simply, to shop the Coraloo. He shined his flashlight into the shop – an antique globe perched on a wooden pedestal caught his eye. He doubted they would take less than the asking price, but it was worth a try. Beside it, sitting on top of a pile of yellowing maps, a gold rimmed teacup sat chipped and out of place. It wasn’t valuable anymore. Somebody had probably tossed it out during a spring clean, along with broken picture frames and melted candles. But regardless of its worth, it had a story. The cup once had an owner – possibly a fan of Ceylon orange pekoe or Earl Grey. Had the vessel been a gift or a souvenir from an unplanned road trip? Had the owner been forced to part with this fragment of everyday life to make room for simplicity? 

No… that was his story. With his hands in the pockets of his slacks, Charlie slumped down on an old church pew outside the market shop. Had life really come to this? Had four years at university and a career with a six-figure income dwindled down to sorting through the discarded wares of others? He had been good at his job and never doubted his instincts. He was meticulous, thorough – except on the day the proposal landed on his desk. 

A balmy August breeze crept into the brick edifice, bringing with it the sweet aroma of freshly hung tobacco from a farm on the other side of the hill. Charlie closed his eyes and inhaled distant days – memories of a life absorbed by legality and expectation, before the whirlwind of the past year wreaked devastation on his once predictable life.

He remembered the loan. How could he forget? An equipment loan three times what the proprietor needed. His university roommate and colleague, Carl Rogers, had pulled him aside. “This guy is a pal of mine. Everything’s here. Just sign and you’re done.” That should have been his first red flag – slow down, look closer. The plan seemed solid, the client a chef and former restaurant owner. It was a lapse in judgment. A missing document. He should have caught it. With the fragile state of the financial world, there was no room for error. On a wider scale, the newspapers swarmed with rumors of a crumbling economy in response to banks’ over lending to house-hungry newlyweds. Pair that with this class-action lawsuit of press- worthy proportions, and the bank would take a healthy loss, leading to some very unhappy shareholders. 

He had called Velveteen. She had said she was mid-foil at the salon and could not meet him for another two hours. He had packed up his office and walked out the front doors of Heritage Financial without looking back. He had needed time to strategize, to carefully word how he was going to tell his wife of eleven years that he was unemployed – not just unemployed, but most likely black-balled from every bank, accounting firm, and food truck in the city. 

Stupid food trucks. Charlie let his head fall into his hands, vowing to never eat at a food truck again. The fragmented events leading up to this moment entered his mind, overshadowing the potential of Coraloo. 

His rear end was sore from sitting for so long, and he wasn’t sure he could swim in his own guilt and self-loathing much longer. He raised his eyes at the click clack of high heels. 

Velveteen Price arrived with the latest Melba DuMont novel peeking cautiously over the edge of her handbag. He stood and kissed her – a quick peck on the lips. Whenever he kissed her in public, he pretended all of the other men around were jealous. He loved every inch of her, inside and out, and dreaded telling her their life would drastically change. He sensed she already knew something – regardless, Charlie wanted her to hear it from him, so explained every detail, from how Carl, despite being a known idiot, had insisted his street food truck client was an easy underwrite to the fact that when it fell apart, Charlie took the fall. At this Velveteen informed him her friendship with Carl’s wife, Mary Beth Rogers, was over. 

“I’m done with that woman. I really am!” 

Charlie had laughed – he used to laugh more. 

“But I’m proud of you, Charlie Price.” “For what? Losing my job?” 

“No, for making it this far. It’s not over, you know. You’ll find something better. You were almost VP of the country’s largest bank! Somebody will see the value in that… Somebody will see your value! What about Standard? I’m sure they would hire you. I’ll call Rebecca, her husband is pres –” 

“I’ve already started putting in applications.” He held up two fingers. 

“Two applications already! See! You’re a fighter, Charlie!” “Two rejections.” 

“Today?”

©Lauren H. Brandenburg

About the Author

Lauren H. Brandenburg is the author of The Death of Mungo Blackwell as well as middle-grade series The Books of the Gardener. Lauren and her husband, Jamie, live in Nashville, Tennessee with their children.

Website

Twitter @LHBrandenburg #DeathofMungo

@midaspr

Amazon UK

Blog Tour ~ Eight Hours from England by Anthony Quayle

Thrilled to be hosting one of the final stops on this Blog Tour

Imperial War Museum Classics
26 September 2019

My thanks to the publishers and Random Things Tours for the opportunity to be part of this blog tour

A candid account of SOE operations in occupied Europe described by Andrew Roberts as ‘As well as being one of our greatest actors, Anthony Quayle was an intrepid war hero and his autobiographical novel is one of the greatest adventure stories of the Second World War. Beautifully written and full of pathos and authenticity, it brings alive the terrible moral decisions that have to be taken by soldiers under unimaginable pressures in wartime.’ 

I'm honoured to be able to share an exclusive extract from Eight Hours from England

It was about four o’clock in the afternoon when I heard running feet outside my hut, then Chela’s voice, an octave higher than usual, crying: 

‘Major! Quick, quick! The Germans are coming!’ 

The alarm and urgency in his voice brought me squirming out through the doorway. He must have given a general alarm already, for the Italians had caught fright and were running helter-skelter out of the camp towards the track that led down to the beach. Chela was jigging about with nerves. 

‘Major,’ he pleaded. ‘Please… Please… We cannot stay… run quick.’ He wrung his hands. 

‘Shut up, Chela,’ I said. ‘Calm down and tell me what has happened?’ 

The whole of Chela’s face was contorted with fear. He started to gabble. 

‘They are coming. They are coming. From the south.’ 

‘How do you know this?’ 

‘A shepherd has come running. They have just shot his dog.’ 

The last sentence had a ring of truth: it decided me. 

‘Major.’ There were tears in his eyes. ‘I am responsible for you… Quickly.’ 

By now there was a knot of Americans and British round us, most of them ready carrying their packs and weapons. 

‘All right. Leave camp. Quick as you can. Operators – don’t forget – hang on tight to your crystals and signal plans.’ 

I dived back into the hut. I had few signals to burn; all was ready. I grabbed my pack and gun, and in a moment we were all running down the only track that led out of camp northwards – down the hill to the beach. 

‘How much of a start have we?’ I called to Chela. 

‘Perhaps ten minutes, perhaps half an hour,’ he called back. ‘I don’t know.’ 

The steep track was sodden with rain, and the running feet of seventy men had turned it into a slippery morass. Drake’s feet shot from under him and he landed on his back in the mud. 

‘F— this for a lark,’ he declared as he was pulled to his feet. 

As I ran I found that I was half frightened and half enjoying myself, as though I were taking part in a very exciting game of hare and hounds. 

Now we had reached the beach, and now the only way of escape was up three hundred feet of absolutely bare hill-side. Already my back was aching under the heavy pack, and my heart sank as I surveyed the precipitous slope. 

‘This is where we’ll get it,’ said Nigel. He was fetching his breath in gulps, but at the same time laughing. ‘They’ll pick us off like rabbits as we go up this.’ 

‘The only alternative is to be trapped here on the beach,’ I said. ‘Come on. Up we go.’ 

We began the climb, digging our fingers into the ground, the loose shale slipping away beneath our boots. All about men were swarming up the scree. Grunting and panting we toiled upwards till we were on a level with the abandoned camp. The American sergeant, coming behind me, stopped for a moment to look back. Suddenly he gave a great cry. 

‘There they are! I seen ‘em! I seen ‘em!’ 

‘Where are they, Butch?’ I called over my shoulder. 

‘Coming into camp,’ he panted. ‘I seen ‘em duck behind some rocks.’ 

As I climbed on I thought: ‘This is the end then. I have often wondered how it would come. Now I know. Any moment a bullet will smack into me, and a khaki bundle that was Overton will go tumbling down the hill on to the beach.’

About the Author

Anthony Quayle was a renowned Shakespearean actor, director and film star and during the Second World War was a Special Operations Executive behind enemy lines in Albania. 

Twitter @I_W_M #wartimeclassics

@angelamarymar

#RandomThingsTours

Book Extract ~ The Wartime Midwives by Daisy Styles

Penguin
Michael Joseph
16 May 2019

My thanks to the publishers for my copy of this book and the chance to share this extract

1939...

Mary Vale, a grand and imposing Mother and Baby Home, sits on the remote Fylde coast in Lancashire. Its doors are open to unmarried women who come to hide their condition and find sanctuary.

Women from all walks of life pass through Mary Vale, from beautiful waitress Emily, whose boyfriend has vanished without trace, to young Isla, cast out by her wealthy family after her first year at university goes horribly wrong.

Awaiting them is Nurse Ada and Sister Anne who work tirelessly to aid the mothers and safely deliver the babies. But the unforgiving Matron and Head of Governors, Captain Percival, have other, more sinister, ideas.

As war looms the women at Mary Vale must pull together for the sake of themselves and their babies and Ada and Anne must help protect their patients, no matter what the cost.

✨ I'm delighted to be able to share this tantalising extract 
from The Wartime Midwives - the first book in a new heartwarming series by this popular author ✨

‘More! Please, Mummy, more!’ 

With her head on the same pillow as her son, Gloria stared into her five- y ear old’s sparkling g green eyes and sighed. With her long, raven- black hair fanned out around her slender shoulders, she had the same stunning Mediterranean colouring as her son, except that his hair was a mass of dark curls. Right now his cherubic little face was lit up with excitement, unlike his mother’s, which was drawn with fatigue. She had so much to do before Stan arrived home from work, but how could she resist Robin’s beseeching smile? 

‘Just one more chapter, then I have to go and cook Daddy’s supper,’ she said with an indulgent smile. 

Robin giggled happily and snuggled up closer to his mother. ‘What happens next in the Enchanted Wood?’ he whispered. 

Once again, Gloria opened Enid Blyton’s popular book and continued reading until Robin’s long, silky eyelashes drooped and he finally fell asleep. Laying the book on the bedside table, she stood up and tiptoed to the door, where she turned to smile adoringly at her darling boy. If she’d got her dates right, Robin might well have a little brother or sister to play with in the New Year. Heavens! How would she manage with two? Hurrying downstairs, she checked the meat pie that was baking in the oven in the back scullery, then set about peeling carrots and potatoes. 

Excited as she was about the possibility of a new arrival, she wondered how long she would be able to hold down her job teaching infant children at the local school in Battersea. There was no question that she loved her job, especially now that Robin had just started in the reception class right next door to her own classroom. But with a new baby in the house, surely she would have to give up work to take care of her growing family. Stan had advised her not to dwell too much on what she would or would not have to do. 

‘With war imminent there’ll soon be changes beyond our control,’ he said whenever Gloria started to worry about the future. 

Staring thoughtfully at the bubbles forming in the pan of water she’d put on to boil, Gloria wished that Stan wasn’t quite so insistent about war breaking out. Like most people, she wanted peace, after the horrors of the last war, in which so many millions of men were slain (including her own beloved father). Gloria approved of the prime minister’s appeasement tactics with Hitler, but recent aggression by the Nazis in Czechoslovakia had caused concern. It seemed increasingly obvious that duplicitous Hitler said one thing and then, as soon as Chamberlain’s back was turned, he did exactly the opposite. She knew for sure that her fiercely patriotic husband would be the first to sign up; she’d only to see his expression every time he read an article in the paper or heard a radio announcement about the latest atrocities to know how much he detested the man. 

‘That fella needs teaching a lesson,’ Stan would mutter darkly. ‘A short, sharp shock to put the cocky little upstart in his damned place.’ 

For all her attempts to turn the conversation away from ‘taking on the Hun’, Gloria found that Stan remained steadfastly determined that he would not abandon his country when the call came. The thought of her husband marching off to fight the enemy made Gloria almost sick with fear; all she wanted was to keep her happy little family safe and to bring her children up in a country that was at peace. When she heard the familiar sound of the key turning in the front door, her face lit up; quickly wiping her hands on her pinafore, she smiled at her tall, broad-shouldered husband framed in the kitchen door- way. Even now, after seven years of marriage, her heart still skipped a beat at the sight of his wide, generous smile and the mop of jet-black hair that fell carelessly across his dark blue eyes. 

‘Hello, sweetheart,’ he murmured, and stooped to kiss her full on the mouth. 

Gloria laid her head briefly against his strong chest, where the familiar smell of soap combined with engine oil assailed her senses. 

‘Good day?’ she asked. 

‘Long and hard – London’s getting too busy,’ he joked, as he hung up his coat and washed his hands under the scullery tap. ‘Mmm, supper smells good,’ he said appreciatively, as Gloria laid the hot meat pie on the table alongside a bowl of vegetables dotted with melting butter. ‘How lucky am I?’ he joked. ‘To have a beautiful, clever wife who can cook like an angel after a hard day teaching little ’uns reading, writing and arithmetic!’ 

Gloria smiled as she set down two glasses of cold water by their dinner plates; she knew how proud her husband was of her academic achievements. At the same age as Robin was now she and Stan had started school together; she’d always been the brightest student in the class, while he was just an average learner with an overriding interest in football and car engines. Their easy friendship had blossomed into love, and as teenagers they were inseparable. Stan had started working for London Transport as a bus driver as soon as he left secondary school at fourteen, while Gloria had remained on at school until she matriculated, after which she’d attended a nearby teacher-training college. 

Everybody had said when they got engaged that beautiful, clever Gloria could do better for herself than marry a bus driver, but Gloria had never strayed from her first and only love, even though other men had regularly tried to court her. And when she qualified as a primary-school teacher she married her childhood sweetheart in the church at the end of the street where she’d grown up. Two years later Robin had been born, but it had taken another five years to conceive again; she and Stan couldn’t have been happier or more excited. The only thing that marred Gloria’s joy was the constant, worrying talk of a blasted war! 

After supper they washed and dried the dishes in the back-scullery slop sink, then – as was their nightly habit – they settled down with a cup of tea in front of the coal fire to listen to the radio. Absorbed in following a complicated knitting pattern for a baby’s layette in a neutral cream colour, Gloria wondered dreamily whether the baby she was carrying would be a boy or a girl. 

About the Author

Daisy Styles grew up in Lancashire surrounded by a family and community of strong women whose tales she loved to listen to. It was from these women, particularly her vibrant mother and Irish grandmother, that Daisy learned the art of storytelling. There was also the landscape of her childhood – wide, sweeping, empty moors and hills that ran as far as the eye could see – which was a perfect backdrop for a saga, a space big enough and wild enough to stage a drama, one about women’s lives during the Second World War.

Twitter #TheWartimeMidwives #DaisyStyles

@MichaelJBooks

@PenguinBooksUK

Blog Tour ~ The House at Greenacres by Darcie Boleyn

Jaffareadstoo is thrilled to be hosting today's stop on The House at Greenacres Blog Tour

Canelo
25 March 2019
My thanks to the publishers for my ecopy of this book and the invitation to be part of this blog tour

When Holly Morton fled Penhallow Sands nearly a year ago she was determined to put the past - and Rich Turner - behind her. But now an unexpected loss and financial trouble has led her back to the family vineyard and it's time to tell Rich the truth - he's a father.

Surrounded by the memories of what they once shared Holly's anger fades in the glow of Rich's undeniable love for their son and the way he selflessly steps in to help the vineyard out of trouble. As Holly watches Rich flourish in his new role as father to baby Luke, she realises that though they can't change the past, the future is still theirs to write...

✨ I'm delighted to be able to share with you this tantalising extract from this lovely story ✨

‘Rich.’ 

Their eyes met, and it was all she could do not to throw herself against his chest and sob, then pound it with her fists until she’d released the pain she’d carried for what felt like a lifetime. 

‘I’m … sorry for your loss, Holly.’ 

She licked her lips, gripping the monitor tightly in front of her as if it could protect her from pain. ‘Thank you. I can hardly believe he’s gone.’ 

‘Me neither. It doesn’t seem right somehow. He was always here, and part of me thought he always would be.’ Rich shook his head. ‘Would you like a drink?’ 

She nodded and followed him through to the kitchen, her heart pounding and her throat tight with emotion. 

‘Wine?’ he asked, holding up a bottle. 

‘No thanks. Something else. Not alcohol.’ She pushed her hair behind her ears, aware that he was gazing at it. The last time she’d seen him, it had still been long; she’d had it cut after having Luke. She was used to it now, but it probably looked strange to Rich. 

‘Lemonade?’ 

‘Please.’ 

She placed the baby monitor on the table and watched as he opened two cans, then poured the lemonade into glasses before handing her one. 

‘Thanks.’ She stared down at her glass, willing the whooshing of blood through her ears to stop, wanting words to come that would not cause hurt or pain, sound bitter or strangled. This wasn’t about her or Rich now; it was about their son and what was best for him. 

‘How are you?’ Rich asked. ‘You’ve had your hair cut. It suits you.’ 

‘Thanks.’ 

A murmur from the monitor made her pick it up again and watch for the lights that flashed at any noise Luke made. 

‘Is that a baby monitor?’ 

‘Yes. Luke’s in my room.’ 

‘Luke? That’s the baby’s name?’ 

She ran her gaze over his face, but it remained expressionless. Only his eyes betrayed his emotions, his deep, dark eyes. 

Did he know? Had he guessed? 

‘How … how old is he?’ 

‘Three and a half months.’ 

Now Rich frowned, and she knew he was trying to work out if Luke could be his, but she’d left the previous summer not knowing she was twelve weeks pregnant, and Luke had been born early, at thirty-three weeks. Would he ask her, or had he decided that her grandfather’s wake wasn’t the time or place for such an intimate conversation? Or did he have no idea? Did it hurt him that she had a child he might believe wasn’t his? Worse still, what if he didn’t want to find out? 

He raised his glass and sipped his drink, his face etched with uncertainty. ‘Is he … I don’t know how to ask this, really, but … is he mine?’ 

She had to tell him and it had to be now. It had been too long already. 

‘He is yours,’ she blurted, then held her breath, watching as myriad emotions passed over his face. She’d wanted to break it more gently, but they might only have minutes alone and she couldn’t bear to keep it from him any longer. 

‘He’s mine?’ he squeaked eventually. 

‘Yes. Do you need to sit down?’ 

He shook his head. 

‘I’m a dad?’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘Why didn’t you tell me before … before you … before I … before …’ He was shaking his head, his eyes shining and his breath coming in shaky gasps. 

‘I’m so sorry, but I didn’t know I was pregnant when I left. I cut off all social media and changed my mobile number, so I had no way of contacting you. I was so angry, I couldn’t bear to keep any links between us.’ 

He dragged his hands through his hair. ‘I did the same.’ 

‘You did?’ 

‘So even if you had tried to contact me, you’d have struggled. Damn it, Holly, what have we done?’ 

They gazed at each other for a while as their confessions hung in the air between them. Exhausted, Holly pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and sank onto it, then Rich did the same. 

‘You know … I never imagined we could end up like this.’ His voice was tinged with sadness. 

‘Like what?’ 

‘Like strangers.’ He looked down at his feet, exhaled, and raised his eyes again. ‘We’re parents. I have a son I didn’t know about. I thought we’d be …’ 

‘Yes?’ 

‘I thought—’ 

‘There you are!’ 

Holly jumped as a hand landed on her shoulder and she turned to find her old friend Francesca Gandolfini smiling at her. 

‘Fran!’ Instinctively she got up and hugged her friend, but the hug she received in return was stiff and formal. 

‘Good to see you, Holly, although I’m really sorry it’s in these circumstances.’ 

‘Thank you.’ Holly tried to pull herself together, to focus on what Fran was saying, but it was hard when all she wanted to do was continue her conversation with Rich. They couldn’t leave it like this. She realized Fran was staring at her, so she shook herself. ‘I guess eighty-eight is a good age, but even so … is it ever time?’ 

‘I don’t think so.’ Fran shook her head. ‘I know my grandmother says she feels the same at seventy-eight as she did at eighteen. She Skyped me yesterday and was going on about how her body is letting her down because she can’t run up the stairs any more but her mind’s as sharp as ever.’ She smiled. 

‘Your grandmother Skyped you?’ 

‘Oh yes!’ Fran nodded, causing her silver and amethyst earrings to sway. ‘Since Dad went back out to Italy, he’s got Nonna Gandolfini using every technological device possible. She’s madly in love with her voice-activated virtual assistant.’ Her dark blue eyes twinkled. 

‘I’ll have to see if I can get Granny to try out some new technology. Dad said she loves online shopping, but I don’t think she’s tried video calls yet.’ Holly tried to picture her granny using Skype or FaceTime, but it wasn’t easy. 

‘You should.’ Fran sipped her wine. ‘How long are you back?’ 

Holly glanced at Rich, then back at Fran, two of the people she’d cared about most in the whole world but who were now like strangers. She’d been away for less than a year, yet it could have been a lifetime for the gulf it had created between them. 

‘I’m not sure.’ She didn’t want to commit to anything yet, had tried not to make any decisions. 

‘And you have a baby?’ Fran frowned, hurt clouding her eyes. 

Heat crawled up Holly’s throat and into her cheeks. 

‘Yes.’ 

‘Well that’s something you kept to yourself.’ 

Holly winced at Fran’s bluntness, but she knew her friend was right. They’d been so close, but she hadn’t contacted Fran at all while she’d been away. 

‘Uh … I’d better be going.’ Rich stood up and shifted from one foot to the other while running a finger under his shirt collar. Panic filled Holly. He couldn’t leave now, not when they had so much to discuss. 

‘Can’t you stay for a while?’ she asked, hating the desperation in her tone. But she wanted to get this over and done with, couldn’t bear the thought of it hanging over her for another hour, let alone another day or longer. 

‘I can’t. I’m sorry. I need … some time to think.’ He stared at her hard and she understood. He needed to process what she’d told him before he did anything. It was a shock for him, of course it was, and coming on the back of their difficult break-up and subsequent estrangement … 

‘I’ll see you soon?’ she asked, filling her eyes with meaning. 

‘Yes. Let me give you my number and you can text me yours.’ 

He scribbled on the back of an envelope that was propped up next to the kettle, then handed it to Holly. 

‘It’s good to see you, Rich.’ Fran smiled. ‘Your mum said you’ve been busy with a new job.’ 

‘Yes. That’s right. With an accountancy firm in Newquay. We’ll have to catch up.’ He turned to Holly. ‘I’ll see you soon. The sooner the better, I think.’ He gave her a small nod, then walked away. 

Holly bit down on her bottom lip. Too many things were happening here and she didn’t know which fire to try to extinguish first. Rich was absolutely bewildered at the bomb she’d dropped on him, and although Holly was still mad as hell at him for what he’d done last summer, she also felt guilty that he’d been oblivious to Luke’s existence. On top of that, Fran was clearly still smarting from being abandoned. Holly had made such a mess of everything, and she felt like running up to her room, slamming the door and hiding under the duvet. But that was something for her teenage self; she was an adult now and she had to face up to what she’d done. 

‘Fran … I know I owe you an explanation. I’m so sorry for running off and not contacting you.’ 

Fran sipped her drink, eyeing Holly over the top of her glass. 

‘I’m just glad you’re all right,’ she said eventually. ‘You’re one of my oldest friends and I care about you.’ She ran her free hand over her short red-brown hair, then sighed. ‘I can’t believe you have a baby and I didn’t know anything about it. Is it a boy or a girl?’ 

‘A boy.’ 

At that moment, the lights on the monitor flickered and Luke let out a squawk. 

‘And it seems he’s hungry. Want to meet him?’ 

Fran nodded enthusiastically. 

‘Come on then.’ 

As Holly weaved through the bodies in the dining room, then climbed the stairs to her old room, she let the guilt settle on her shoulders. Running away had seemed like the only option last summer, but now that she was back, she had some bridges to build. 

She just hoped her friends and family would be able to forgive her. 

Most of all, she hoped Rich could cope with the information she’d just divulged, because if he couldn’t, she had no idea where to go from here. 

About the Author

Darcie Boleyn has a huge heart and is a real softy. She never fails to cry at books and movies, whether the ending is happy or not. Darcie is in possession of an overactive imagination that often keeps her awake at night. Her childhood dream was to become a Jedi but she hasn’t yet found suitable transport to take her to a galaxy far, far away. She also has reservations about how she’d look in a gold bikini, as she rather enjoys red wine, cheese and loves anything with ginger or cherries in it – especially chocolate. Darcie fell in love in New York, got married in the snow, rescues uncoordinated greyhounds and can usually be found reading or typing away on her laptop.

Twitter @DarcieBoleyn #HouseAtGreenacres

@Canelo_co