Silver Silence - excerpt #4
Silver Silence, book 3 of my Druids of Avalon trilogy is in bookstores Tuesday Oct 27. I'm celebrating with excerpts, lost scenes, an interview and a week-long contest!
To enter, just comment on any post put up between Wed Oct 21 through Friday Oct 30. Two lucky readers will win autographed copies of both The Grail King and Deep Magic, as well as an autographed copy of Romantic Times BOOKReviews magazine November issue, featuring me on the cover!
Please consider including your email with your post so I can contact you quickly if you win! And if you don’t…check out more chances to win at www.joynash.com.
By the way, if you're planning on buying Silver Silence, I hope you'll consider picking it up close to the Oct 27 release day, as any book's opening week sales are the most important to an author's publisher.
Thanks and good luck to all!
And now, Silver Silence excerpt #4:
Great Mother, but his mood was black.
The meal had helped a little. Ciara had even managed to find a few chunks of meat to float in his broth. She must be feeling generous. Or perhaps just very needy. Not many travelers found themselves stopping at this gods-forsaken crossroads.
Rhys’s weariness had receded a little upon Fergus’s warm greeting. No doubt the man anticipated the profit Rhys’s harp brought to his tavern. But Rhys sensed honest regard, too. A minstrel’s song, even sung with half a heart, was a joy Fergus did not often experience.
It shamed him, this burning, angry need. And yet, he could not summon the strength to resist it. If it was wrong, so be it. He was tired of fighting.
Fatigue dragged at his bones as he followed Ciara up the stair. He felt old. Far older, even, than his nine-and-twenty years. Fifteen years, he’d wandered. More than half his life. His youth had been worn to dust on the road. Aye, he did his duty to Avalon. Every day, he fulfilled the promise his grandfather had forced him to give, knowing he would never be done with it. Knowing he would never be free.
It angered him. It had from the beginning, though in those early days, panic had been his foremost emotion. He’d conquered his fears long ago—but his rage? That remained, simmering beneath the genial facade he presented to the world. He could not fight for his life, nor could he escape it.
He could only forget. For a few hours, at least.
Ciara climbed the stairs swiftly. She lit a candle in her small room under the eaves, then shut and bolted the door. Turning, she leaned against it.
Rhys set his pack in a corner, then straightened and looked at her. She was thin—if he wished, he might have counted her ribs. But her breasts were high and full, and she was more than willing to give him what he wanted.
Her fingers went immediately to the tasseled cord at her waist. She unknotted the braided leather, and let it drop. Her blouse dropped next. Then her skirt. By the time her undertunic joined the heap of clothes on the ground, she was trembling.
He ordered her onto her knees. She obeyed swiftly. Her eyes, sharp with excitement, fixed on his groin. He unlaced his breeches; his shaft sprang free. She made an appreciative sound in the back of her throat, and licked her lips.
He used her mouth first, holding her head in place and plunging into her almost desperately, seeking that rush of dark lust that blotted out every other thought. Her ripe red lips worked him, encouragement vibrating deep in her throat. Her hands clutched his buttocks, her nails digging deep. But oddly, the pain seemed very far away. As did the pleasure. It was as if his emotions were wrapped in a death shroud.
Unsatisfied, he left Ciara’s mouth, and ordered her onto the bed, which was little more than a straw-stuffed pallet laid on a wooden frame. She lay with arms flung overhead, watching hungrily as he removed his clothing. Naked, he bent to retrieve something from the floor.
He crawled over her on all fours and entered her with one hard thrust. She gasped, hips arching. Catching her wrists, he wrapped them with the braided leather cord she’d worn at her waist. He looped the free end around the end rail of the bed frame and pulled the rope taut.
“Aye!” she gasped. “Like that. Harder, Rhys! Harder—”
He drove his flesh into her with anger and lust and hopelessness. But try as he might, he could outrun none of it. His shame spread over him like a vermin-ridden blanket, until he all but choked with the ugliness of it. Ciara, oblivious to his inner turmoil, urged him on.
He was glad, he supposed, that one of them would take some fulfillment from their joining. With an odd detachment, as if he were spectator rather than participant, Rhys watched the frantic union of their bodies. His lust had long gone cold; he could have easily withdrawn and walked away. But Ciara would not appreciate that insult.
So Rhys closed his eyes and summoned a fantasy—one as forbidden and shameful as it was exciting.
In his mind’s eye, the woman beneath him was not a whore. She was young, and innocent, and trusting. Freckles danced across a proud nose that was decidedly Roman. A gap showed between her front teeth. Her pointed chin hinted at her stubborn nature, and her hair…ah, her hair was a rare luxury. Long and bright as flame, it spilled and curled like a river of fire, circling her glorious round breasts.
Excerpt #5 coming up tomorrow! All the best!