We live on opposite sides of the world - me in Australia, and my guest in Scotland. Shehanne Moore, author of 'The Unraveling of Lady Fury', talks about the links that bind many Australians to their forebears. In the olden days, when Europeans first came to Australia, convicts were sent here from England, Ireland, and Scotland.
Sit back, relax, and enjoy this guest post from my Scottish mate - and fellow Etopia Press author - Shehanne!
It’s all that Bloody Code’s Fault
Firstly I want to
thank the lovely Noelle for asking me along here today. One of the pleasures of
being an author, is the lovely people you get to meet. It’s even lovelier when
they ask you to blog. Of course the downside is you then have to come up with
that blog.
Having blogged
bad women, food, Jamaican aphrodisiacs,
recipes, pirates, pirates and pirates again, old wives tales, what’s
left of my recently released book, The Unraveling of Lady Fury to yak about?
Well, I am
visiting Australia
ain’t I? Ever wondered how come you
inherited all these convicts from the other side of the globe? Well, blame it
on the Bloody Code.
Okay so my last
blog was about Bull Cod, I’ve not just changed a few letters there to come up
with that. The Bloody Code was the 222 crimes in Britain which carried the death
penalty. I’m quite astonished, looking at them, the things I’d have been hung
for. I have never impersonated a Chelsea pensioner, or damaged Westminster Bridge, but cutting down a tree anyone? I’d be dangling with quite a few neighbors on
that one. Writing a threatening letter?
Here’s a few others.
* being in the company of gypsies for a month
* strong evidence of malice in children 7-14 years old (Coulda been me here
too!)
* stealing horses or sheep
* blacking yourself up at night
No wonder some
judges and juries thought it was...too
harsh. Why not bestow all these law breakers on Australia instead? Simple
really.
So what has The
Unraveling of Lady Fury actually got to do with Botany
Bay? Was Lady Fury one of
the 20% of the transportees, many of whom quickly attached themselves to male
officers or convicts. A courtesan, as these women were called?
The answer is nothing. Except the hero gets auctioned
off ...behave yourselves, what kind of book do you think this is?...it was a
legitimate slave auction in Port Royal, although thinking on his feet, had the
authorities known he was the notorious Captain Flint, they’d have hung him
instead. The sad thing was he smiled at
all the old dearies in the hope they would buy him. But they didn’t. Plainly
they shoulda gone to the UK’s
specialists....Specsavers.
Blurb
Rule One: There will be no kissing. Rule
two: There will be no touching…
Widowed Lady Fury Shelton hasn’t lost
everything—yet. As long as she produces the heir to the Beaumont dukedom, she just might be able to
keep her position. And her secrets. But when the callously irresistible Captain
James “Flint” Blackmoore sails back into her life, Lady Fury panics. She must
find a way to protect herself—and her future—from the man she’d rather see
rotting in hell than sleeping in her bed. If she must bed him to keep her
secrets, so be it. But she doesn’t have to like it. A set of firm rules for the
bedroom will ensure that nothing goes awry. Because above all else, she must
stop herself from wanting the one thing that Flint can never give her. His heart.
Ex-privateer Flint Blackmoore has never
been good at following the rules. Now, once again embroiled in a situation with
the aptly named Lady Fury, he has no idea why he doesn’t simply do the wise
thing and walk away. He knows he’s playing with fire, and that getting involved
with her again is more dangerous than anything on the high seas. But he can’t
understand why she’s so determined to hate him. He isn’t sure if the secret she
keeps will make things harder—or easier—for him, but as the battle in the
bedroom heats up, he knows at least one thing. Those silly rules of hers will
have to go…
EXCERPT
Fury sat down and
dipped the quill into the ink. She detected the faintest trace of nerves. It
must be the fact Thomas lay in the cellar. Why else would a man, so great, so
stalwart, so worldly as Captain Flint be nervous of her?
“Well, yes,” she
said, listening to the pleasing scratch of the nib on the soft paper.
“Babies are not always made in a
night. Of course, you wouldn’t know that, being you. It will take time.”
“All the more reason then to just
get going. After all this time, sweetheart, you don’t know how eager I am.”
He strode across the tiled floor
and the ink trailed a long dark path across the paper as he dragged her to
her feet. Had it blobbed it might have been something to worry about. But she
was very set on this. And calm. As calm as one could be having this man in her
bedroom, knowing what was coming next out of dire necessity, her husband in a
box in the cellar and her cast off, potential lovers on their way out the door.
“No, James.” She held a hand up
between their lips. “There will be no kissing.”
“No kissing? Why in hell not?”
It displaced her calm to see him
grin. She would have preferred that he was indignant. Especially as he was a
man who thought he could settle all his arguments—with women anyway—with a
kiss. But she kept her face cold, blank.
“Because.” In some ways she was
cold. Cold with rage.
“Aw, come on Fury, didn’t you
like my kissing? Hmm?” His breath, hot and male, brushed her fingertips. He
wrapped his arms around her, splaying his hands across her back, so her hand
might as well not have been there for all the protection it was.
But she was calm. Didn’t she have
to get into bed with him after all? So, even the impulse to squirm was one she
would squash. When she thought of all he had done to her, she would give him
nothing. Not even the knowledge she found his proximity so unsettling that she
sought to pull away.
“Your kissing was fine, in its
way, I suppose. But kissing is a sign of affection.”
“How do you make that out?”
She knew exactly why he scratched
his head. Their love-making had been torrid. It had been sensual. It had been
shaming. And it had been absent of any affection. Certainly on his part. So,
why on earth would a kiss be a sign of anything? To him anyway. She was the
damn fool who had thought it had. Who even now was forced to concede the
pleasure it would be to take her hand across his face to assist his
understanding of her feelings. The impertinence of the damn man, the stinging
ignorance.
“It just is.” She eased the
distance between them a whisper. “So there will be none. Not now. Not at all.”
“All right then. Saves time. It
means—”
“Rule two.” She saw his eyes
freeze as he readied himself to yank off his shirt. She persisted anyway. Why
not? In many ways she walked a tightrope here. If she paused it might be to her
detriment. “You will be fully dressed at all times.”
“What? How the hell am I meant
to—”
“I am sure you will manage. You
managed plenty before. But I do not desire to look at your body before, during,
or after. Nor in any shape or form wandering about this house in just your
breeches. Is that understood?”
He dropped his hands from his
shirt and glared, so he must have. “You wanted to look at it plenty before. In
fact, it makes my head spin, just how often you—”
True. But that was then. “Rule
three.” Clasping her fingers around the cool edge of the dressing table
to
create another inch of distance, she continued.
“Rule three? You mean there’s
more?”
“I will not touch you in any
place, intimate or otherwise. I will lie. You will perform.”
Connect with Shehanne Moore here.
