Blurb
In his heart she was his woman.
In reality she could never be.
In a land where creatures shape-shift, a blind man sees, and where believing in your gut instinct can save a life, a Herculean hero matches wits with a beautiful huntress.
Cyrenne’s life is pledged in servitude to the deity of the forest. She believes in obeying the deities, remaining chaste and that her abilities, as a warrior, are better than any man. When she catches the attention of the Storm Deity, and refuses his offer of immortality, he punishes her by besetting fear upon her. Her comrades die when she is unable to fight. She swears she shall not return home until she proves herself worthy and she sets out on a journey of redemption.
Gareth has always hated the Upland deities. He has no use for a woman dedicated to them, and who looks better in armor than most men. He believes his gut instinct is always right, the deities are always wrong and a woman’s place is in the home, any home but his. When the spirited woman with the iron resolve saves his life, they set out on a journey that takes them through uncharted territories where love teeters on the edge of danger.
Excerpt
Visions
of death, reflective agonizing screams of her comrades, kept Cyrenne tossing
and turning all night. By the time she awoke, to the annoying twill of birds,
irritation and depression were her morning companions.
The
gamy whiff of roasted calderon, and the little that lay in her stomach, sent a
wave of nausea to her throat. Her head pounded.
Remembering
she had company she grabbed her dagger and sat up.
Sunlight plunged like a knife into her sleep
deprived eyes. She winced.
Smoke
from dying embers curled toward the sky.
A
carafe of wine lay on its side, reminding her of a conversation told through
the cloud of drink and a man whose intense masculine presence stirred strange
emotions within her.
She glanced to his bedroll glad to see it
empty. Struggling to her feet, she rolled up her blanket, slung her bow and
quiver, of arrows, over her shoulder and glanced around.
Thankful
Gareth was nowhere in sight, she made her way to the river to wash the sleep
from her eyes.
A
woodpecker stabbed a tree. The sound echoed through her head like a blast of
gunfire caught between mountain ranges.
At
the river’s edge she bent and doused her face.
“Good morning, Sunshine.”
Cyrenne’s head snapped upright and she caught a ragged breath.
Gareth stood waist deep in the middle of the river.
Water dripped from his hair, slithered down his hairless chest. He shook
his head, shooting water droplets through the air. His gaze fixed on hers he
lifted both arms and raked his fingers over the top of his head, then smoothed
the dank tendrils away from his forehead.
The deliberate movement bulged his muscular upper arms and massive
chest.
She jerked to her feet and boldly met his gaze. Her heart collided with
her chest.
“Have you no shame?”
A
flush of heat seared her cheeks, but she wouldn’t turn away.
He
shrugged. “There is no shame in keeping one’s body cleansed. Tell me...,” a sly
grin lifted the corners of his mouth, “...you are not one of those women who
believe touching one’s body is evil?” He ran his palm sinfully over his chest
and she knew he tried to make her uncomfortable.
A
tug in the apex of her thighs caught her off guard. She squared her shoulders,
determined to seem unaffected - only she was, more than she should be.
The air, charged with primal energy, slammed
into her.
“Perhaps you prefer the aroma of sweat to that of fragrant oils?” He bent over, cupped water in his hands, and
let it dribble over his chiseled, magnificent, torso.
Entranced,
a strange heady quiver warmed her body.
Logic demanded she leave but her feet remained rooted.
“That
a man would anoint himself in any scent leaves me to believe he is anything but
a man.” She couldn’t tear her gaze from
the gleam of sun-drenched droplets making their way across his firm, concaved,
abdomen. Her knees wobbled, and she
cursed under her breath.
“I
can attest olive oil, when applied by the hands of a fair maiden, has enormous
powers.” His grin widened. “But then you misunderstand me. I referred to your
daily regime.”
Keenly aware of her filthy, slept in garb and the soot from the campfire
in the creases of her fingers, Cyrenne struggled to maintain an even,
conciliatory, tone. “I need not defend myself to you--you are an insufferable
excuse of a man — no . . . dragonwort.”
“Dragonwort?”
His hearty laughter bellowed through the small clearing.
Her nails cut into her forearms.
“You compare me to a small wilting flower? I can assure you I am not.”
He took a step toward the shore.
Horrified,
curious, Cyrenne drew out an arrow, positioned the notched end on the string,
and aimed. “Take one more step and you shall be without that which you are so
quick to boast about.”
“Surely you jest.” Un-intimidated he strode through the water.
“I
jest not.” She gripped the bow tighter -
drew back her bowstring. A knot formed in her belly. He halted mid-stride and
she thanked the Deities above.
“I
think I hear my hounds afoot.”
“Your mockery does not amuse me.”
One
more step… No! Her heart pounded with foolish anticipation. I dare not see
more.
“Quickly
hand me my tunic lest I be torn to shreds.”
“I
shall do better. I shall leave.” She spun on her heel. Her hand shook, an
understandable reaction, given her inexperience when it came to men and their
sexuality.
Pondering the mysteries of the flesh
deterred one from focusing on war tactics and strategies.
She
stumbled over an entwined mandrake root and caught herself. Slow down. Gather
composure; lest he think I scare like as a woodcock running from its own
shadow.
Branches
rustled behind her and she knew Gareth reached for his garb.
Confused
by the sudden flash of heat and jitter of nerves battling her belly, Cyrenne
pushed all thoughts of his naked body from her mind.
Meeting
Gareth had served a purpose. She now knew how to save her comrades. And no man
was going to stop her from carrying out her mission; even if he was pleasing to
the eye.
--------------------------------------
Every aroused muscle screamed in protest as Gareth recalled the way
Cyrenne had stood watching him, her eyes filled with curiosity. Despite the
brisk chill of the water, a lustful heat stirred his blood, continued to
course, despite his best efforts.
She’d
demanded he stop; but he’d sensed her desire to see more. He’d heard the
anticipation in her slumberous voice.
Gareth
strapped the leather sandal around his ankle and shoved to his feet.
He
knew women, knew them well, thanks to Anacone. He’d become a man in her arms
that winter when he was thirteen. She had taught him the fine art of pleasuring
a woman, how to caress the right spots with more than his hands, how to tease
and take his time till a woman was right for the taking. Cyrenne had that look, sober or drunk. But,
he’d kept his promise to her. After very little sleep, he had jumped into the
river.
Gareth
slipped his leather jerkin over his wet shoulders and glanced into the thicket
where she had disappeared.
He
did not intend to humiliate her. His jest was meant to quell her
uneasiness. That she’d drawn a bow on
him was charming. That she’d bolted away and misunderstood him was unsettling.
Hearing
a commotion, he strapped his scabbard around his waist.
Entering
the campsite Boreas, his trusted comrade, lumbered toward him. Wrapped in his
big beefy arms Cyrenne struggled against him.
So
she hadn’t gone far, hadn’t left for good like he’d thought. The idea pleased
him.
“Lukie
here, Lad, I’ve pooked a bonnie lass from the woods.” Boreas smiled a wide
toothless smile.
Gareth
stepped toward them then halted. If he remembered correctly, she insisted she
could defend herself. “You’d best--“
“Ow!”
Boreas received a swift kick to his shin, gave up his captive and rubbed his
leg.
Gareth
winced.
Cyrenne
swirled around and landed a solid punch to Boreas’ chest. His body stiffened
with shock. His ruddy face a shade redder than his hair, he pulled out a sharp
edged blade.
“Boreas
retreat,” Gareth ordered above the raucous laughter of his fellow companions.
“She is with me.”
Boreas grunted, knew better than to challenge his authority in front of
the men, and lumbered toward the campfire.
“Every
time we meet you are in the arms of another man. I ask you, why?” Gareth
grinned. The woman had spunk. He admired that.
She
swept hair from her cheek and stomped toward him.
“That you jest on my account, knowing full well I am not myself,
confirms my initial assessment of your character.”
“Ah
yes, that of a dragonwort. I do recall. And I recall being told you did not
summon my help. Forgive me for not coming to your rescue - again.”
Flushed,
her braided hair coming undone, he held back the urge to brush a few loose
tendrils away from her luscious mouth.
She
stopped within a hand’s pace between them.
The
passionate blaze in her dark, insolent, eyes…
Deities
be damned, he cursed silently, sunlight paled against their brilliance.
“If
your men weren’t such boors preying on innocent women—“
“Innocent?
You, Sunshine, can handle yourself quite well. No, I fear my poor friend,
Boreas, faced greater danger.”
“Do
not call me by that ridiculous name.”
“Ah,
but it suits you so well, does it not?”
She
inhaled deep, tightened her stance, readying herself for battle.
He
would enjoy wrapping his arms around that luscious body; enjoy grappling
strength against strength, lusty heat against heat. Gareth backed up. “I
thought you’d left.”
“If
not for that disgusting attempt on my person I would be long gone. What kind of
filthy animals do you call comrades?”
Though he understood her need to lash out at him, her words punched his
gut.
“Those filthy animals are my friends,” he
snapped. “I owe them my life, my respect and undying gratitude.”
“You should have better control over your friends.” Her lips thinned.
For
a second, the desire to ravish her cruel mouth, with a punishing kiss flit,
across his mind. “They are of their own free will.”
“Well,
restrain them, or my blade shall leave them with no other employ apart from
that of a eunuch.”
Gareth
grinned despite himself.
“I
am glad I amuse you. Do you fancy being mauled?
She grabbed his loins.
He stiffened. This woman never ceased to amaze him. “Ah, Sunshine, I
thought you an innocent, but if you could just squeeze a little hard—-“
She gasped. Her hand dropped as though burnt. “You are...” she stepped
back, stumbling over her own feet, “the most intolerable oaf I’ve ever had the
misfortune to meet.”
She was rather stunning flushed with anger and would be quite a feisty
tumble in bed.
His gaze traveled over the leather ringed
maille, under which her full molded breasts rose and fell with angered breath,
traveled over her hips and powerful, bare, thighs colored golden by the sun.
Ah, that he could slip his hands up beneath her short armor and feel the silken
folds of her womanhood... Painfully erect beneath his own armor his gaze
snapped around the clearing. How
many of his men felt the same lusty heat? He noticed two men observing them.
His scowl spurt their quick departure.
“You
had best stay away from my men,” Gareth ordered forbidding further argument.
“They have been without a woman for a long time.” A trip into town to be
serviced by a few hetairais would do them all a bit of good.
“Then
shackle them and let me leave in peace.”
“You
wish to leave? Done!” Frustration coiled within him. “Go home. This is no place
for a woman.” She’d be safer away from his men, away from him.
“And
find a rope for yourself as well.” She spun on her heel.
Watching her walk away, Gareth
realized no woman would grace his bed this night. Aggravating wench! He’d spend
another restless night unable to get the thought of her, of her fingers curling
around his shaft, out of his dreams.
Bio
Marianne Petit is a past President of the Long Island Chapter of the Romance Writers of America. Her love of writing stems back to high school. She spent hours reading Nancy Drew, Alfred Hitchcock and historical romances. At the age of fifteen, she wrote a short story for children, as well as numerous works of poetry. Her love of history stems from her father, Roger, a Frenchman, whose love of American history greatly influenced her writing interests.Newsday and several local newspapers have written articles on Ms. Petit and she was interviewed on TV for her first book, a time travel entitled: A Find Through Time.
She is a past President of the Melville Lions club, and currently 1st Vice District Governor for the Lions of Suffolk County, Long Island NY, a service organization that raises money for the less fortunate - especially the sight impaired.
She loves to ski, raft, horseback ride, and enjoys the theater.
Marianne lives on Long Island and is happily married for 40years. She has two sons, two wonderful daughters-in-laws and four adorable grandchildren.
You can visit her website at http://mariannepetitbooks.com for extensive research links and excerpts of Ms. Petit’s books.
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