Tag Archives: Bartholomew

Famine #51: The Oldest Profession (WeWriWa)

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Howdy, friends. Thanks for dropping by for another Weekend Writing Warriors eight sentences from Famine.

We’ve seen Bartholomew be harsh, and we’ve seen him be tender. How about we give him a pleasant interlude this time? (Iona is what Seattle historically, and euphemistically, referred to as a seamstress.)

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This work is in the public domain in the United States, and those countries with a copyright term of life of the author plus 100 years or less.

This work is in the public domain in the United States, and those countries with a copyright term of life of the author plus 100 years or less.

His fingers bumped over the boning, the silk and ribbons, caught and released the frills and lace that women thought made them alluring. “Très belle.” He pulled her body back against his, and her breath hitched.

Bartholomew wrapped his other arm around Iona and trailed his lips from her shoulder to her neck to her ear. She hesitated then permitted him to capture her lips and turn her to face him. His lips parted and his tongue encouraged hers open. Their tongues touched, stroked, but when she tried to speed his leisurely pace, he slowed her.

“Non, I wish to enjoy your pleasure,” he said against her lips, and she exhaled into his mouth.

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See? I’m not always putting him through the wringer. (Okay, okay, just 99% of the time.)

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Once again, I encourage you to check out the work of all the other writers who are participating in this week’s WeWriWa hop.

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Famine #50: Just a Dream

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Hola, Weekend Writing Warriors, friends, and followers! It’s my anniversary weekend. Mr. Pierce and I have been married for seventeen years. (At least one of us deserves sainthood for that.) So I may be lax on making the WeWriWa rounds today.

I wanted to post this little snippet as a counterpoint to Bartholomew’s harsh words for Matilde last week. This follows a few pages after that confrontation. Bartholomew has learned that a disturbing dream had roused Matilde from bed and sent her searching through the books in his study.

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737px-Gustave_Dore_Inferno_Canto_21Matilde suddenly threw her arms around his waist and pressed her face to his chest. “Please don’t die.”

For a heartbeat, Bartholomew looked down at his ward then he wrapped his arms around her and murmured, “It was just a dream, ma chérie.”

She nodded against him. “It felt so real, and so awful.”

“Just a dream.” He caught her shoulders, eased her back, and leaned down to look into her eyes. “I’m fighting fit, Matilde, and too stubborn to die.”

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Okay, so the truth of that last sentence is a bit complicated, but she can find that out later. Thanks for stopping by and leaving comments. You guys, as always, are awesome. And please remember to check out the other WeWraWri participating blogs here.

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Famine #49: Coquette (Weekend Writing Warriors)

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Happy weekend and Happy Mothers Day, Weekend Writing Warriors and friends! Got my Famine cover shoot rescheduled, so I’m back on the road to getting some great marketing shots for Show and Tell.

In the meantime, the random scene pick for this week follows. Matilde (now 15) has just gotten busted by Bartholomew. She was in his study, the one room in the house that’s strictly off limits to her.

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This work is in the public domain in the European Union and non-EU countries with a copyright term of life of the author plus 70 years or less.

This work is in the public domain in the European Union and non-EU countries with a copyright term of life of the author plus 70 years or less.

She bit her lip and looked up at him from beneath her lashes. “Please?” Her whispered word was soft and sensual, and it made his ire soar.

“Do not act like a coquette with me. You are not your mother, Matilde.”

Her chin jerked up, and she snapped, “My mother worked hard.”

“Your mother was a drunken harlot who beat her children. You are better than that, and I will not tolerate you acting like a criminal or a whore.”

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Harsh.

Remember to stop by the official Weekend Writing Warriors list for links to lots of other writing samples.

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Famine #47: Bullfrog (WeWriWa)

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Hola, Weekend Writing Warriors and friends!

Let’s dive right into this week’s random Famine post, hmm? It’s low tea at Bartholomew’s house. Matilde (now 15 years old) is talking with Mrs. Henderson (her governess):

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antique teapot and saucer“What kind of treachery have you foisted upon your long-suffering guardian, child?”

“I refused to complete Suite bergamasque.”

Bartholomew spread sweet cream on a warm scone and attempted not to be baited by the chitchat.

“Is that all?”

“And I pouted because he would not show me his sketch–a portrait of me at the piano. Doubtless he’s given me an elephant’s nose and donkey ears.”

“And the wide, croaking mouth of a bullfrog,” Bartholomew added between bites.

“Monsieur!” Mrs. Henderson’s protest held all the appearance of being genuine, but Matilde laughed.

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*snort* He makes me laugh, too. Thanks for stopping by and leaving comments each week, guys! Here’s the link to the official WeWriWa list. Check ‘em all out.

Famine #46: Not From Hell (WeWriWa)

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Hello, my friends! So dorko me forgot to sign up for Weekend Writing Warriors last week. It was on my calendar. The reminder came up. But, yeahhh. This weekend was scheduled for the Famine cover shoot, but that got bumped. So I’m hanging with you guys.

Anyhoo, since nasty ol’ Ewan got such a warm reception two weeks ago, I think I’ll give you another scene with him. In this one, he’s shown up uninvited at Bartholomew’s house.

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737px-Gustave_Dore_Inferno_Canto_21“—send you back to Hell,” Mrs. Henderson was saying, her voice calm and firm.

Quiet as a shadow, Bartholomew slipped through the kitchen and down the hall toward the great, curving staircase. He peered around the corner to see Ewan’s back and didn’t fail to notice the gaping hole in the ravener’s left shoulder.

The Governess stood atop the second floor landing, a steady rifle aimed at the Scot. Mr. Vernon, his nose bloodied and eye swelling, stood mid-stairs, his fists up and ready.

“I’m from Inverness, woman, not Hell,” Ewan replied.

Glass crunched beneath his feet as Bartholomew stepped into the foyer behind the ravener. “Doubtless they’re pleased to be rid of you.”

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Thanks for all of your great comments last week, guys. And don’t forget to hop over to the other blogs listed on the official WeWriWa list.

Famine #45: Enemies At-Hand (WeWriWa)

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It’s the weekend and we all know that means Weekend Writing Warriors. Thanks for leaving lovely comments on last week’a post from Famine. Today’s snippet is another random one that I hope you will enjoy.

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Apocalypse_vasnetsovEwan, Claire’s oldest and most dangerous ravener, stepped into the night and leaned over the balcony rail. He looked left and right, frowned, and then straightened. Besting Bartholomew’s six-plus feet by several inches, Ewan was a Scottish brute with cropped chestnut hair and a scar running from ear to ear across his face—a gift from Bartholomew. He shrugged out of his black frock coat, dropping it upon the balcony and leaving dark streaks on the clean laundry. Ewan swiped both sides of a blade clean with his tongue, returned it to its sheath, then hopped over the rail to the alley below.

A moment later, Barnes appeared, backlit by a fire’s wicked orange glow. He was followed by shouts and the thud of running feet and banging doors throughout the building. He shed a pair of kid gloves and tossed them back into the apartment, then he wiped his face on one of the sheets, leapt up to catch the roof, and disappeared over the ledge.

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Thanks for stopping by. Don’t forget to visit the Weekend Writing Warriors list to find links to more great snippets.

Famine #44: Memories of Love

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So this week was looking grim, but then I got confirmation on the final model for the Famine cover. That made me happier. And, guys, this cover is gonna be stunning. :D

Okay, so now on to posting from Famine for Weekend Writing Warriors. I’ve been editing this week — tweaking old material and adding a lot of new words, like this little memory of Bartholomew’s long-dead wife, Aemelia.

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TemptationHe closed his eyes and remembered returning to his wife after a long campaign in Barbaricum. How she had bared her body to him, opened herself to his need, and taken all of his longing. She had never asked about the scars he bore; he was a soldier, a Gaul, a warrior. Scars were part of his history, and she’d said they warned of his strength to any man who would question his power.

There was their small house, always dim and smoky from the hearth fire. Aemelia’s rough fingers snagging his tunic, the creak of leather as she undressed him. “This is new, and this one,” she had murmured as she’d inspected his skin for scabs and bruises. There was the saltiness of her lips and the sweetness of her tongue.

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Thanks for stopping by. Here’s the link to the WeWriWa list. I hope you’ll check out more writers’ snippets while you enjoy a leisurely Sunday.

Famine #43: Jealousy (Weekend Writing Warriors)

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Hello and welcome back for another Weekend Writing Warriors* snippet from Famine, my historical fantasy WIP. These randomly chosen eight sentences bring us back to Claire. She is strolling through Central Park with Nash Barnes hanging on her every word. Bartholomew is trailing them. Claire, for anyone not in the know, is Famine-incarnate, one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

*Confession: I forgot to sign up for WeWriWa last week, but thought that I had. (Apparently, sleep deprivation is not a winning strategy.) I posted this earlier in the week, but just decided to let it roll.

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file0001201698731“Do you see how the older men adore me?” She paused to smooth the front of her blue walking suit, her fingers making a languorous trek down her bust. “They are my favorites.” She looked up at Barnes then met Bartholomew’s gaze and said, “Do you know why, Barnes?”

“No, Ma’am.”

She smiled. “Because their droopy, old wives despise me. Jealousy is delicious, like sweet cream and berries.”

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Before you go, I want to thank all of you for visiting and/or commenting. You guys are awesome and your encouragement is manna. I apologize for not consistently making the rounds and responding to comments during the last few weeks. I’m trying to juggle my days to get more consistent again.

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More wonderful snippets can be found at the official WeWriWa site. Check them out.

Famine #42: Between Two Worlds (Weekend Writing Warriors)

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Hello and welcome back for another WeWriWa post from Famine. On Monday I finished the first draft of this novel. Been letting it sit, and will dive into edits this week. Already started talking to ByteStudio Photography about cover concepts. Casting is moving forward and I’m looking into wardrobe, locations, and makeup/hair artists. So much fun! :D I love pulling together cover shoots.

In the meantime, I’m doling out another random scene. This one takes place on the Overland Flyer (the first transcontinental train in the U.S.).

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They had reached the Sierra Nevadas. Bartholomew stood upon the observation platform, smoking and watching the night go by. The mountains, glittering with frost beneath the full moon, looked like silver saw teeth cutting toward the stars. They hewed their way up through the stardust sky to cleave a line between Heaven and Earth.

Two worlds and he belonged to neither.

The door behind him opened to admit Matilde and Mrs. Henderson. “Goodness, the wind has a bite,” the governess said. “I’m reconsidering this foray, Miss Matilde; it’ll do none of us any good if you catch a chill.”

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Thanks for visiting and/or commenting. As always, I encourage you to check out all the other weekend writers posting at the Weekend Writing Warriors site.

Famine #41: Bartholomew’s Seal (WeWriWa)

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“It’s alive!” Hacking cough aside, I’m feeling much more human this week and got out of the house more than once to enjoy some fresh air and sunshine.

I’m posting, again, from Famine for Weekend Writing Warriors, and I will be finishing the first draft of this novel this weekend. (Only five scenes left at the time of this post.) I’m still skipping around, so in this random scene, Matilde is looking at the seal that Bartholomew uses to close his envelopes.

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Robert Cornelius (c. 1839)

Robert Cornelius (c. 1839)

She lifted and turned the dark wooden handle to look at its brass matrix. It depicted the same Roman eagle that he bore upon his hand and a banner beneath that read, Deo Volente Surgam. “What does this mean, Monsieur?”

“God willing, I shall rise.”

“Rise to do what?”

He took the seal from her, returned it to its case, and stood, the letter in hand. He gazed down upon her, his manner severe and dark. “Evidently, mail a letter to London.”

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If you want to read more Weekend Writing Warrior 8 Sunday snippets, pop over to the official site to find the list of participating blogs.

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And, once again, thanks for all your supportive comments. You guys say the nicest things. :D