Showing posts with label Lilacs at Dawn. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lilacs at Dawn. Show all posts

Saturday, May 28, 2011

Six Sentence Sunday 5/29/11


Happy Memorial Day weekend, everyone (Yanks and non-Yanks alike)! Shop 'til you drop, barbecue 'til you pop, and somewhere in there spare a thought for the fallen.


   Here's a little historical tidbit, for those who may not know: Memorial Day was first celebrated as "Decoration Day" on May 5, 1866 in Waterloo, N.Y, with the laying of flags and flowers on the graves of New York's Civil War dead.

   So...not to be too cheesy about it, I thought I'd give you six more sentences  from my Regency WIP, Lilacs at Dawn. 

  The hero, Marc Antony Warren, Viscount Webb, is a newly-returning combat veteran of the Napoleonic Wars. He fought and was wounded on The Peninsula and suffers from "battle fatigue" or what was known as "soldier's heart" during the Civil War, "shell shock" after World War II, and what we today call PTSD. Whatever you wish to call it, Webb remains haunted by nightmares of combat and his fallen comrades in arms.

    So here are six more from Webb's homecoming:

Webb’s breath frosted the mist. He tasted the fog on his tongue, a cold, damp English welcome. Sharp pains in his leg had bedeviled him since Portsmouth. Nearly too weary now to retain his seat on the horse, he knew he’d overdone the riding. England, as usual, had overdone the weather.

With a practiced motion he flicked open a flask and tilted it to his mouth.




Sunday, May 8, 2011

Six Sentence Sunday 5/8/11

Happy Mother's Day, everyone.

Couldn't recall any motherly sort of passages that didn't involve Epilogues and such, so instead, I offer you a toast.

More from my Regency WIP, Lilacs at Dawn.  Our story up to now: The night before his wedding, Viscount Webb is shot while on a mission on foreign soil and loses consciousness clutching his bride-to-be's garter. Somehow, he makes it back to England in time.  But his new bride, Sabrina, and his brother, Andrew, think he's drunk, rather than wounded, in shock and lightheaded from loss of blood.

At the reception, he offers his new bride a toast:

Webb rose, taking her hand.  All eyes turned toward them as he swayed on his feet, lifting his glass to her. 

"To my wife . . . the woman I would not die for."

An awkward silence greeted his words, followed by shocked gasps that made Sabrina's face flame.

"You mean 'would die for,' you ox," Andrew said.

"I know what I mean," Webb growled, his voice so low she had to strain to hear him, his hand tightening on hers so she could not turn away.  "I crawled back from hell to be here."