The Novels of Ravenwood by Judith Sterling Book Tour and Giveaway :)
Night of the Owl
The Novels of Ravenwood Book 4
by Judith Sterling
Genre: Time Travel Fantasy Romance
PhD student Ardyth Nightshade has renounced men and pursues her twentieth-century career with single-minded focus. When fate whisks her to medieval England, she meets her match in a man whose passions mirror her own. Can she sacrifice ambition for a love she never sought?
Hugh, Lord Seacrest confounds all who know him. He refuses to marry without a meeting of minds and hearts, and no lady has even approached his ideal…until Ardyth. But she's an odd one, with unique skills, shocking habits, and total conviction she needs no man. She also harbors secrets, and in the midst of rumors, plots, and murder, trust is fragile.
A woman outside of her time. A man ahead of his. They must take a leap of faith to forge a bond that will shape history.
Toasts
abounded, and the music soared. Yet Emma’s gaze kept straying to
the gold ring on her finger. ʼTwas tangible proof she was a married
woman, the property of William l’Orage. Soon, in the bedchamber
they would share, she’d discover exactly what that meant.
She
shuddered. Would he understand her predicament? He might laugh. He
might even force her to betray her sense of self-preservation. ʼTwas
his right, and she’d said the words: “to be bonny and buxom in
bed and at board.” The board she could handle; bed was another
matter.
Still,
there were moments during the ceremony when he seemed softer somehow.
When she entered the chapel, the look in his eyes stole her breath.
It implied approval, pride.
And
desire.
For
the second time in as many minutes, she shivered. She looked to the
high, vaulted ceiling and twisted her wedding band.
“Cold
again?” her husband asked. The low, rich timber of his voice was
seductive and becoming all too familiar.
She
dropped her hands into her lap and cast a cautious glance his way.
“Not especially.”
A
pox on the man! He looked sinfully handsome today. It made him
unduly appealing and far more dangerous. His eyes glittered like the
dark jewels on his belt.
She
squirmed in her high-backed chair. His
belt!
God
save me from what lies below it.
“You’ll
be warmer once we withdraw to our chamber,” he said.
She
swallowed the lump in her throat. “Oh?”
“I
told Tilda to have a fire waiting, and plenty of warm wine.”
“Oh.”
“Is
that all you can say?”
“What
more do you require?”
“If
not words, how about a smile?”
“I’ve
smiled overmuch the past few hours. My cheeks are numb.”
His
grin was sensual by nature and mischievous by design. “Have you no
enthusiasm for the coming festivities?”
She
stifled a grimace. “Festivities. Is that what you call them? If
you want a festive night, you’d do better to invite jugglers and
mummers to prance about the chamber.”
His
black eyes smoldered. “No, my bride. You and I will devise our
own entertainment.”
The
power of speech deserted her. Yet she kept her composure during the
toasts and as the people cheered the bride and groom for the last
time. Then William rose to his feet.
The
dreaded moment had come. In a daze, she stood. Her eyes sought Meg,
but the older woman was deep in conversation with Wulfstan and didn’t
notice.
William
guided Emma away from the table and out of the boisterous, oblivious
hall. Once they were beyond observation, she pulled her hand from
his arm and used her veil as an excuse to occupy her hands elsewhere.
She
climbed the spiral, stone stairs as slowly as she dared, delaying the
moment when the bedchamber door would close behind them. The
stairwell torches were ablaze with flames that eagerly licked the
shafts of wood. Behind her, William’s footsteps were as loud as
thunder.
At
the top of the stairs, the large, oak door stood wide open. There
was no one inside the bedchamber, not a single soul to grant her one
last pardon. Tilda had turned down the bed, and it loomed in the
shadows, waiting.
On
shaky legs, Emma crossed the rush-strewn floor and stood in front of
the massive, arched fireplace. She studied the inferno roaring
inside, refusing to look at William. Behind her, the door closed
with a thud, and the bolt slid to with a scrape of finality. She
heard and felt each crunching step as he came up behind her.
“My
lady,” he murmured. “My wife.”
She
couldn’t face him. “Aye,” her voice cracked. The fire looked
wild, hungry.
“Would
you like some wine?” His breath warmed the side of her neck. A
second later, his lips sealed the tender flesh with a kiss.
“Wine.”
She spun around. “Wine would be nice.”
His
eyes blazed hotter than the fire. He hesitated, then smiled. “Then
wine you shall have.” In two strides, he moved to the table where
it waited. He grabbed the pitcher and poured dark liquid into one of
two silver cups. Then he offered one to her.
Her
fingers brushed his as she took the cup. She thanked him with a
closed-mouth smile and took a sip of wine. The heady mixture of
cinnamon, ginger, cardamom, nutmeg, and cloves tickled her tongue.
The liquid warmed and soothed her throat.
“Good?”
he asked.
She
nodded and sipped again.
He
grinned. “Perhaps ʼtwill loosen your tongue.”
“Perhaps.”
His
grin deepened. “Though I see it’s had no effect yet.”
Hours
of nervous tension crystalized. “I’ve better use for my tongue
than to prattle the night away.”
“Really?”
He inched closer. “Would you care to demonstrate?”
Shadow of the Swan
The Novels of Ravenwood Book 3
Lady Constance de Bret was determined to be a nun, until shadows from the past eclipsed her present. Marriage is the safest option, but she insists on a spiritual union, in which physical intimacy is forbidden. Not so easy with a bridegroom who wields unparalleled charm! But a long-buried secret could taint his affection and cloak her in shadow forever.
Back from the Crusades, Sir Robert le Donjon craves a home of his own and children to inherit it. From the moment he meets Constance, he feels a mysterious bond between them. When she’s threatened, he vows to protect her and agrees to the spiritual marriage, with the hope of one day persuading her to enjoy a “real” one. She captivates him but opens old wounds and challenges everything he thought he believed.
Two souls in need of healing. Two hearts destined to beat as one.
Wulfstan’s
expression shifted faster than the midnight clouds. “Why are you
here?” he asked in a low, tight voice.
Keeping
her distance, Jocelyn eyed the wolf behind him and willed her voice
to sound calm. “Why do you think?”
Wulfstan’s
eyes were like ice. “I think…that you’re spying on me.”
She
held his wintry gaze. “Then you think rightly.”
“What?
No denial? No protestations of innocence?”
“Would
you have me lie?”
He
clenched his fists. “No.”
“Then
you cannot—”
“Nor
would I have you pound your pestle into my private affairs.”
Heat
swept through her. “Pray, what affairs have you that are not
private?”
“I’ve
given you a free hand with the servants and the keep. What more do
you want?”
The
wolf turned away and padded toward the forest. Her courage doubled.
“More.”
Her
mind made up, she strode past Wulfstan and approached Woden’s
Stair. She raised her foot above the first step.
“Stay!”
Wulfstan shouted above the wind.
She
stopped short and turned to him. “Are you addressing me?”
He
tore his gaze from the forest and settled it on her. “No. The
wolf.” With powerful strides, he bridged the gap between them.
Her
stomach quivered. He stood but a foot away. “Good,” she croaked.
Then she cleared her throat. “For a moment, I thought you ordered
me to stay, as you would order a dog.”
Humor
softened his features. “Now there’s an idea. I must say, it does
have a certain appeal.”
“Be
serious.”
“A
dog can be trained to please its master, but the master also enjoys
pleasing the dog. Some hounds are spoiled, in fact.”
She
frowned. Something in his tone was...suggestive. “Were I a bitch, I
would not be so easily managed.”
He
grinned. “That I believe. And I know you’re no animal to be
trained. You’re a strong woman with a mind of your own. But even
the strong-willed like to be pampered. Wouldn’t you like it?”
“I…I
wouldn’t mind being pampered.”
His
hair looked like spun starlight. “And pleasured?”
She
stepped backward, and the heel of her boot met stone. Flustered, she
clambered onto the step.
Wulfstan’s
demeanor darkened. “Get down from there.” His large hands invaded
her mantle and encircled her waist.
She
wriggled free of his hands and backed onto the second step.
He
crossed his arms. “Didn’t you hear me? Come down. That’s an
order.”
Her
body heat flared anew, and she climbed three steps higher. “I heard
you, but I’ll not play the bitch to any man.”
“This
isn’t a game.”
“No?
What would you do if I ran all the way to the top?”
His
words, exactly measured, were a promise. “I would stop you.”
“You
could try.” She whirled around and started upward.
He
grabbed her from behind and hoisted her several inches off the
stairs. She struggled and kicked, and her left foot connected with
his flesh.
“Woden’s
blood!” He hauled her away from the stairs and planted her on the
ground.
She
twisted in his arms to face him. “Your nerve is unparalleled.”
His
face was mere inches from hers. “Trust me, it bows to yours.”
“You’ve
a clever tongue, my lord.” The hard, hot length of his body pressed
against her.
His
eyes were now dark and inviting. Expectant. “Would you care to see
how clever?”
He
lowered his lips to hers in a feather-light kiss. She gasped at the
intimacy of it. He slipped his tongue inside her open mouth and began
to explore.
’Twas
her first kiss. A secret made known.
He’s
tasting me,
she thought. He tasted like mulled wine.
She
melted to the kiss and opened her mouth wider. Their tongues entwined
in a wet, rhythmic dance every bit as intricate as the patterns of
Saxon art.
This
is magic,
she thought. And she wanted it to last forever.
Soul of the Wolf
The Novels of Ravenwood Book 2
A Norman loyalist, Lady Jocelyn bristles when ordered to marry Wulfstan, a Saxon sorcerer. She nurses a painful secret and would rather bathe in a cesspit than be pawed by such a man...until her lifelong dream of motherhood rears its head.
A man of magic and mystery, Wulfstan has no time for wedded bliss. He fears that consummating their marriage will bind their souls and wrench his focus from the ancient riddle his dying mother begged him to solve. He's a lone wolf, salving old wounds with endless work. But Jocelyn stirs him as no woman ever has.
Their attraction is undeniable. Their fates are intertwined. Together, they must face their demons and bring light to a troubled land.
Sitting
without repose on one of the solar’s high-backed chairs, Constance
shifted positions. An unexpected chill crept in with the evening. The
shutters were closed, and a fire danced and hissed on the hearth. The
room was aglow with candles whose light harmonized to showcase the
exquisite tapestries on the wall. Vibrant yet vulnerable, the flames
quivered at the slightest draft.
Her
stomach quivered, too, as she stared at her half-eaten pigeon pie.
Whatever
made me agree to share his bed? The
mention of rats? The thought of a prickly straw mat between her back
and the cold, hard floor?
From
the other high-backed chair, Robert eyed the pie that lay unprotected
on the table between them. “Do you plan to eat that?”
A
predator drawn to his prey.
She shrugged. “I suppose not. Do you want it?”
“I
thought you’d never ask.” He attacked the food.
She
folded her hands in her lap. “Sir, your appetite is a thing of
wonder.”
He
swallowed, then grinned at her. “Why, thank you.” His smile
disappeared. “Or do you criticize?”
“Not
criticize. Marvel.”
His
dimples were back. The one on the right was deeper. “I’m a man of
many talents, and eating is one of them.” He took another bite.
“Evidently.”
She cleared her throat. “I only wondered if…” Her stomach
trembled as he licked sauce from his fingers.
Abruptly,
he ignored the food and studied her face. “If what?”
She
sighed inwardly. Just
say it!
“If all your appetites run that strong.”
His
intense stare roused something inside her. She’d never felt its
like. Heat, not only in her face but her entire body.
“You’re
referring to appetites of the flesh.”
She
lifted her chin. “I am.”
With
a casual air, he leaned back. “I’ll admit, I’ve enjoyed the
company of women. Have I ever! Truly, deeply, unreservedly—”
“I
grasp your meaning.” She shifted again on her chair. “Do you
think you can live without it?”
“I’m
willing to try.”
“Trying
won’t suffice. If we’re to share a chamber, I need a clear
statement of your intentions.”
He
grabbed his wine, drained the cup, and plunked it down on the table.
“We agreed to be friends, did we not?”
“We
did.”
“Friends
don’t steal from one another. They take only what is willingly
given.”
“Know
this now: I shall never give it.”
His
gaze held hers. “So you’ve said.”
“I
mean what I say.”
“As
do I, and you have my word. I shall never force you to consummate our
marriage.”
Relief
coursed through her. He was a man of his word; that much she knew.
She was safe. All would be well.
He
slapped his thighs. “That said, shall we to bed?” He eased out of
his chair and stretched his limbs. “The mattress is calling my
name.”
She
hesitated only a second, then stood. “Odd. I thought it called
mine.”
“You
don’t mean—”
“No.
The bed is as much yours as mine. We’ll share it.” ’Twas a
simple matter of fairness. No need to overthink it. Then
why do my legs feel weak?
He
glanced at her as they started toward the bedchamber. “Good.
Feathers are far superior to the floor.”
“So
the mattress is stuffed with feathers. I noticed you testing it
before; now I know why.”
“I
thought perhaps it held wool, which would’ve been fine. But I’ll
take luxury any day. Here we are. After you, my lady.”
The
lively fireplace greeted them as they entered the chamber. Already,
the space was warmer than before. Two stools stood in front of the
fire. A table lined one wall; above it hung another fine tapestry,
whose threads wove the image of a swan on a secluded, tree-lined
pond. Directly opposite sat the bed. Its canopy was suspended from
the ceiling, and rich green curtains spilled down around the carved,
wooden headboard and frame. The inner sanctum, with its turned-down
linen and coverlets, waited in shadow.
She
stared. A person could lose herself in a bed like that. And in eyes
as infinite as her husband’s.
Flight of the Raven
The Novels of Ravenwood Book 1
How eager would the bridegroom be if he knew he could never bed the bride?
Lady Emma of Ravenwood Keep is prepared to give Sir William l’Orage land, wealth, and her hand in marriage. But her virginity? Not unless he loves her. The curse that claimed her mother is clear: unless a Ravenwood heir is conceived in love, the mother will die in childbirth. Emma is determined to dodge the curse. Then William arrives, brandishing raw sensuality which dares her to explore her own.
William the Storm isn’t a man to be gainsaid. He’ll give her protection, loyalty, and as much tenderness as he can muster. But malignant memories quell the mere thought of love. To him, the curse is codswallop. He plans a seduction to breach Emma’s fears and raze her objections. What follows is a test of wills and an affirmation of the power of love.
Hugh
stormed into the cave, unable to stem the tide of jealousy swelling
inside him. A pox on Ranulf! Ardyth thought him smart, talented,
kind, and handsome. She
told me she didn’t need a man. Now here she is, half in love with
a goliard!
He
stopped and frowned. “Why do you recoil?”
She
halted and lifted her chin. “Why do you look so angry?”
With
purposeful strides, he closed the distance between them. “I met
Lady Isobel near the gatehouse. She told me you were here, talking
of Ranulf.”
“Oh,
she did! How good of her to report my every move, and how
predictable that you prize her opinion above mine.”
“As
you prize Ranulf above other men?” He clenched his fists, willing
her to contradict him yet knowing she wouldn’t.
“What
are you talking about?”
“I
saw the pair of you last night…conversing cozily in the hall. ʼTis
obvious he’s claimed your affections, though how I cannot—”
“What?!”
Her flushed face was a mask of disbelief.
“You
heard me.”
“I
did, but I doubted my ears. A man of your depth and perception
must’ve realized that…”
His
clamped fingers relaxed. “Realized…what exactly?”
“Must
I say it out loud?”
“I
think you’d better.”
With
a huff, she rolled her eyes. “Ranulf is just a friend. If there’s
anyone I like around here, ʼtis you!”
He
hesitated only an instant, long enough to absorb what she’d said.
Then he grasped her arms, pulled her to him, and pressed his lips to
hers.
Breaking
free of his hold, she took his face between her hands and returned
his kiss with passionate abandon. Her tongue took the lead. Her
moan harmonized with the howling wind. She tasted of elderberries,
ginger, and honey. Of lust and life. Heat rushed through him,
heightening every sense as he gave himself to the kiss.
Judith Sterling is an award-winning author whose love of history and passion for the paranormal infuse everything she writes. Whether penning medieval romance (The Novels of Ravenwood) or young adult paranormal fantasy (the Guardians of Erin series), her favorite themes include true love, destiny, time travel, healing, redemption, and finding the hidden magic which exists all around us. She loves to share that magic with readers and whisk them far away from their troubles, particularly to locations in the British Isles. Her nonfiction books, written under Judith Marshall, have been translated into multiple languages. She has an MA in linguistics and a BA in history, with a minor in British Studies. Born in that sauna called Florida, she craved cooler climes, and once the travel bug bit, she lived in England, Scotland, Sweden, Wisconsin, Virginia, and on the island of Nantucket. She currently lives in Salem, Massachusetts with her husband and their identical twin sons.
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