Showing posts with label historical romance. Show all posts
Showing posts with label historical romance. Show all posts

Monday, August 10, 2026

The Duke's Runaway Omega Teaser #rabtbooktours




LGBTQ+ Historical Romance, MPreg, Mystery & Suspense

Date Published: August 14, 2026

 



Phillip’s on the run, with not just one but two alphas on his trail.

 

Raised as an alpha, Phillip’s unexpected manifestation as an omega turns his life upside down. His father demands a handfasting, insisting Phillip be mated to whichever alpha wins the day with their pheromones. But when the triumphant alpha turns out to be his school friend Everett, Phillip realizes they are fated mates. However, as a diminished omega, his chances of bearing Ev’s children are slim. Heartbroken, Phillip flees to London.

Everett never expected to be Duke of Harriford. His title brings a slew of distasteful marriage and handfasting offers. The latest invitation for his old friend Phillip shocks Ev into accepting. Phillip is everything he remembers and more, and Ev soon finds himself responding to the potent scent of Phillip’s pheromones. When his mate runs, Ev questions whether their feelings are true, or merely the bond of alpha and omega. Despite his fears, he’s determined to find Phillip and bring him home.

As Ev searches London, Phillip questions the wisdom of his choices. His plans have begun to unravel rather spectacularly. To start with, he’s pregnant, the one thing he thought he’d never be. Worse, there’s an alpha hunting him -- and it’s not Ev.

 

EXCERPT

 

Yorkshire, 1811

Lord Phillip Tyerman stared through the barred windows of his tower room at the parade of men and women summoned by his father. All of them were well-heeled and every one of them was looking to make a prestigious match with the earl’s eldest son. The earl’s omega son, who was unable to inherit either lands or title. The earl’s useless son, who wasn’t even a full-fledged omega. Just a not-quite-beta whose first presentation had caused no scandal, lured no lusty alphas, and could have been passed off as little more than being in his second puberty. Not even the beta servants of the household had realized anything was amiss. Only his youngest sister had noticed. It had been Philomena, who was now heir to their father’s estate at fifteen, thanks to her unexpected and early manifestation as a dominant alpha. Lovely Phil, whose patrician nose had wrinkled as though a bad odor had just filled the air.

“What a dreadful stink! Have the oranges gone over?”

Phillip could hear it even now, a full year hence, and it still rankled to the point where he’d taken to wearing a strong sandalwood fragrance to avoid smelling like rotted fruit. His father’s shocked look had likewise never left his mind. The forbidding expression on the earl’s face had been bad enough, but Phillip’s subsequent banishment to the tower room from the heir-presumptive suite had cut even deeper. He had been nearly twenty-two at the time, grown tall and strong. He was the spitting image of his father. Everyone, even his omega mother, had assumed he’d manifest soon as an alpha, and his delicate sister as an omega.

The tall and strong young man had become the omega, and the petite, delicate, and winsome girl had become the alpha. God most certainly had a peculiar sense of humor, at least insofar as the Tyerman family was concerned.

With a snort of irritation at the memory, Phillip turned his attention back to the courtyard below, where the last equipage had rolled up to the front steps. The livery on the carriage door proclaimed the occupant to be a member of the Harrifords. Intrigued despite himself, Phillip opened the windowpanes and peered through the bars, hoping for a glimpse of whomever it was that had come from that prestigious family to gawk at the sale of the Tyermans’ awkward omega son. Of course, even if the occupant proved to be Ev Harriford, Phillip fully intended to be well away from this house long before arrangements could be made to pursue a match with any of these honored guests.

He sighed and turned away from the window, leaving it ajar to bring in fresh air to a room that was stuffy even in the dead of winter. He had no fear of his scent drawing unwelcome attention from all those alphas despite being near his heat. His pheromones were practically indiscernible, as even in heat they never carried much beyond his immediate person. The doors to the tower stair were securely locked, and only his mother and his beta valet carried the keys. He felt no qualms about allowing the room to air out while he dressed for this ridiculous charade.

Well, said charade would come to an abrupt and hopefully embarrassing end for his father. Phillip had a small bag packed with the most minimal necessities safely stowed in the bottom of the wardrobe. He’d return to his rooms to “refresh himself” when the alphas retired for brandy and banter, and he’d make his escape then, while his father negotiated with them for Phillip’s eventual marriage to the highest bidder.

The tiniest tremor ran along his spine. It seemed his estrus had chosen to come in a timely manner. At least he would not have to spend several days in isolation waiting for it to arrive so the festivities could begin in earnest. The mere thought of said festivities sent another shiver through him, this one of disgust.

A brisk tap sounded on the door, followed by the sound of keys in the lock and his mother’s quiet entrance. She gave him a mildly disapproving glance upon seeing him still in his ordinary daywear. “You should always lock the inner door, Phillip,” she chided him. “You ought to be in your tails by now. You have a scant half hour before dinner. Your father wishes you to meet the guests tonight prior to the formal ceremony on Saturday.”

“Ceremony!” Phillip winced as the word came out in shocked tones. “What ceremony?! I thought this was the usual idiotic dinner party series so he can twist the arms of his alpha friends and convince one of them to marry me to their offspring --”

“No, dear,” his mother interrupted with false serenity. She smiled at him, the attempt obviously meant to soothe, yet the smile did not reach her eyes. “The earl has decided to make this a formal handfasting ceremony, to ensure the chosen candidate does not hand you the mitten after. So only the most acceptable and honorable suitors were invited. If you don’t find anyone particularly to your liking, the earl will decide who wins the right to bond with you.”

The earl will decide. His mother’s use of his father’s title told Phillip that Lady Winifred Tyerman did not support this extraordinary decision. It also told Phillip that his father had chosen not to leave the critical matter of his awkward son to chance or romantic feelings. His thrice-damned sire would pick the person who would control Phillip for the rest of his life. Then the true significance of his mother’s words penetrated the fog engendered by the word “ceremony.”

“A handfasting? What on earth are you on about?” Phillip cursed himself for the shake in his voice.

Handfasting was an ancient custom, very much out of use, as it used a bonding bite to ensure the omega couldn’t flee with another alpha or beta. But to do so in this day? The handfasting ceremony included a public bite, binding the omega to the alpha forever, socially and physically, even if the alpha chose to marry someone else. While the ceremony wasn’t precisely outlawed, it was frowned upon as outrĂ© and generally reserved only for omegas of wealthy families perilously close to the end of their breeding years.

And this was to be his fate? He’d be damned first.

 

 

About the Author

Autumn grew up loving history, mythology, and all things Japanese, not necessarily in that order. This eclectic love affair has bled over into her writing, and her stories are always well spiced with the taste of Japan, strange mythological beasties, or the lords and ladies of the ton. Sometimes all three, leading to dark desires and forbidden loves.

And after all, dangerous passions should lead to uninhibited love.

 

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Tuesday, July 14, 2026

The Beauty of Individual Things Book Blitz #rabtbooktours



Historical Fiction / Jazz Age Romance

Date Published: 07-14-2026

Publisher: Mission Point Press



The Beauty of Individual Things follows Margot Andrews, a young American woman swept from New York high society into the dazzling yet fractured world of 1920s London. When the transactional demands of privilege collide with betrayal and violence, leaving her disillusioned and adrift, she escapes to the freshwater shoreline of lost childhood summers.

With her past unrecoverable and her future uncertain, Margot searches for a different life amid Detroit’s dynamic and monied Prohibition era—with its yacht races, rumrunners, and industrial might. Set against a city on the rise, she must navigate her family’s ruthless pursuit of social standing, the magnetic pull of charismatic boat racer Ellis James, and the relentless echoes of her past. The story explores the weight of loneliness and the personal cost of love and reinvention as Margot decides whether to remain a fragile ornament of her family’s design or forge an identity that is beautiful, imperfect, and entirely her own.


About the Author

 

 Karen Thomas Yoo was born and raised in Grosse Pointe, Michigan. She graduated from the University of Michigan and received an MBA from Duke University. When she isn't writing, she can usually be found in her garden or on a paddleboard in Lake Michigan. A mother of three grown children, she lives in Grosse Pointe with her husband. This is her first novel.


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Tuesday, June 23, 2026

The Beauty of Individual Things Teaser #rabtbooktours



Historical Fiction / Jazz Age Romance

Date Published: 07-14-2026

Publisher: Mission Point Press



The Beauty of Individual Things follows Margot Andrews, a young American woman swept from New York high society into the dazzling yet fractured world of 1920s London. When the transactional demands of privilege collide with betrayal and violence, leaving her disillusioned and adrift, she escapes to the freshwater shoreline of lost childhood summers.

With her past unrecoverable and her future uncertain, Margot searches for a different life amid Detroit’s dynamic and monied Prohibition era—with its yacht races, rumrunners, and industrial might. Set against a city on the rise, she must navigate her family’s ruthless pursuit of social standing, the magnetic pull of charismatic boat racer Ellis James, and the relentless echoes of her past. The story explores the weight of loneliness and the personal cost of love and reinvention as Margot decides whether to remain a fragile ornament of her family’s design or forge an identity that is beautiful, imperfect, and entirely her own.


Excerpt


No one tells a young woman that things usually happen because of money, sex, or power. We learn it on our own. Polite girls go on to elegantly suppress the notion, but most know it, and I was nothing if not polite. It was different for Grace. She was a Maxwell. It wasn’t in their nature to suppress things. They blew them up.

An early lesson remains etched in my mind. It was a summer day in 1913. The Maxwells had secured a white clapboard weekly rental on the shores of Elk Lake, tucked among the rolling farmland and evergreen forests of northern Michigan.

The screen door slammed. I shaded my eyes as Uncle Fred crossed a narrow strip of beach, wearing a faded black-and-white-striped bathing costume.

“You’ll burn, Fred,” Aunt Lou clucked from her canvas sling chair under the shade of a lurid yellow umbrella.

Cousin Grace doubled over, shrieking with laughter. “You look like a ghost,” she sputtered. I suppressed my giggles by intently staring at a beached canoe.

Uncle Fred hadn’t brought any alcohol on that vacation.

“It’s called drying out,” Grace had whispered one night after we were tucked away in our shared bed. “The booze turns dusty and blows away … or something.”

I never saw the dust, but for two or three rocky days Uncle Fred kept to his room, scolding us through the door to lower our voices. Then one bright morning, the dust cleared. All breakfast table chatter quieted as he stood at the head of the table, bright-eyed and eager to lead us on bracing outdoor excursions involving tree identification—white pine versus red—campfires, and fish brought home on stringers. I felt sorry for the fish, but they were delicious.

Now, after nodding in acceptance of his daughter’s ribbing, Uncle Fred called to me, “Margot, I’ll see you at the end of the dock.”

I immediately stopped giggling. I had been forbidden from docks and floating canoes because I didn’t know how to swim. At ten years old, I was mortified by this humiliating precaution yet too frightened to do anything constructive about it.

Aunt Lou had dismissed all petulant objections. “The water doesn’t care, child. It’ll drown you all the same.”

 

About the Author

 

 Karen Thomas Yoo was born and raised in Grosse Pointe, Michigan. She graduated from the University of Michigan and received an MBA from Duke University. When she isn't writing, she can usually be found in her garden or on a paddleboard in Lake Michigan. A mother of three grown children, she lives in Grosse Pointe with her husband. This is her first novel.


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Wednesday, May 27, 2026

Dona Nobis Pacem Teaser #rabtbooktours




Historical Gay Romance

Date Published: May 29, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press

 


Dona Nobis Pacem. God Grant Us Peace.

 

Voiceless Donnell and defrocked priest Nathan are outcasts and strangers at the turn of the century. Despite his handicap, Donnell has made a life for himself as a businessman and owner of a saloon. His heart goes out to those whom life has dealt an unhappy hand. When Nathan arrives in this former gold-rush town, horsewhipped and ill to the point of collapse, Donnell is the only one to offer help.

Barely ordained before being accused of unnatural desires, Nathan has been sent to travel a faux road to Damascus as penance. He did not expect to survive the trek, and longed for the peace he might find when his body gave up the fight.

He never expected to meet someone like Donnell. Despite his lack of voice, Donnell is the teacher Nathan has hungered for all his life, and the lover he never dared seek out. Triumphing over a lifetime's worth of threatened damnation will not be easy to overcome, but Donnell's not giving up. The passion they share is what both men have always craved, but never found. When they're discovered, standing together is the only thing that will save them both.

 


EXCERPT

 

In a fit of optimism, some enterprising settler twenty-odd years ago had named this patch of land "Shady Grove." The name hadn't stuck longer than the first summer, arid heat scorching the life out of anything the daft fellow had tried to plant, and carrying away his wife and children.

After that, or so the story went, the settler had cursed his homestead with the new name of "Hell."

When gold was found not far west in a puny stream, the name changed yet again to "El Dorado." Though that lasted no longer than the rush of miners who picked, panned and mined away most of the precious metal.

When the gold was mostly gone and civilization caught up with the roughneck men who'd blazed through in search of riches, there came bankers, lawyers and doctors, along with their pretty wives and dainty daughters. Amongst themselves, they'd formed a quaint city council, elected a mayor, nominated a marshal, and rechristened this hole in the ground as "Nazareth."

Those whose tongues weren't corseted by the niceties observed in polite society still called the former boomtown "Hell."

As for Donnell, he called it home, and had since the day he was born, a silent infant who'd opened his mouth to wail, but made almost no sound, not then and rarely ever afterward. The best he could manage was a sort of scale of breathing -- a whistle, a shush, a sigh. He'd never spoken a proper word. At least his hearing was top-notch.

Music was Donnell's voice instead, tickled out through the ivories of the old upright piano he'd paid a considerable sum in gold dust to have shipped from Chicago. Within the safe haven of Treighton's saloon, Donnell had placed that piano facing the street, where he'd have a fine view through the mosquito netting over the window when he played.

He could arrange Treighton's however he wanted, no questions asked. Owner's rules and that owner would be him.

Music wasn't his only skill. He was a favored son of Lady Luck, and the cards danced to his tune. Those who thought a mute man was simple, and an easy cheat at faro, often found themselves losing big.

He'd given up the game after winning Treighton's, though. No sense in pushing his luck too far.

A man who'd call himself satisfied with his lot in life, Donnell caressed the piano keys, a jingling tune flowing smooth and sweet as quality whiskey under his mastery of the music. He let the corner of his mouth quirk upward with dry humor. Many were they who'd claimed the son of a whore, muteness aside, would never make anything of his life. They'd been wrong, too.

Did they accept his good fortune with grace? Hell, no. The "proper" folks of Nazareth scorned him still, and always would. Too good for the likes of him and his saloon.

Thank God for sinners, eh?

* * *

A sudden clamor rose from the dusty, uneven street outside, usually quiet and deadly dull during the morning hours while laborers and leftover miners toiled, polite society occupied themselves with polite works, and gamblers slept off their night's fun. Attention captured, Donnell peered through the mosquito netting over his window.

Soon enough, the source of the commotion came into view. Donnell raised one eyebrow, intrigued. A tall, lean man, far too thin for his height. He was dressed in the tattered remnants of a once-respectable shirt, now missing its collar and cuffs, and formerly sturdy denim trousers, with no hat on his head nor shoes on his feet nor a coat on his back. Bleached-out hair stringy from lack of washing and long enough to be caught up in a queue hung over his face and tangled across his eyes.

Donnell leaned forward, instantly captivated. He'd never seen the equal of those eyes, their color distinct even at this distance. Aqua blue, the shade of summer skies, dulled by hunger and pain, but no less remarkable.

In point of fact, were he to be cleaned up and provided with a few good healthy meals, Donnell guessed this young man would easily steal anyone's heart away. Not least of all his.

Not that anyone knew about his preferences. It was safer that way. He came in for scant questioning about his lack of female companionship, as most thought if his tongue didn't work then neither would his cock.

Donnell abandoned those thoughts and focused on the beautiful -- yes, beautiful -- young man instead, a far more pleasant diversion. He'd no stubble on his cheeks or chin, both badly sunburned. Young, then. Tall and gangly enough that at a guess Donnell would have put him in his late teens, no more than twenty, not so far Donnell's junior.

A man could make quite a lot of himself in twenty years plus change. He could raise himself a fine establishment like Donnell's, or he could end up staggering filthy and starving down a dusty, badlands street with children and bad-tempered dogs jeering him every barefooted step of the way.

Donnell frowned when the young man staggered, swaying alarmingly before righting himself. That didn't seem to be clumsiness, but rather weariness. Perhaps illness?

"Drunk," Bettina sniffed, peering past Donnell. She might work in a saloon, but she had no patience with men who behaved badly when they'd had too much of the grape and grain. She didn't scold like the holy men, no, she tore strips off their hides and nailed them to the wall, and they loved her for it.

Barely hearing her, Donnell continued to track the man's progress. Seeming to ignore the rabble jeering at him, he came to a stop and stood up as straight as he could, attempting to brush dust, mud and worse off his clothes, smoothing them down. He dragged his hair out of his face with hands that shook minutely and gazed up the length of the street still to go.

The quiet despair in his eyes struck a chord in Donnell's heart, reverberating with a sense of hollow misery. Here was a man who'd fallen as far as he could go, with a trail of heartbreak behind him that stretched out for as many miles as he'd walked.

Donnell sat back and drummed his fingers on his knees. Poor bastard.

Enough kind souls had helped Donnell in his day. He owed this poor fellow no less.

 

About the Author

Willa Okati (AKA Will) is made of many things: imagination, coffee, stray cat hairs, daydreams, more coffee, kitchen experimentation, a passion for winter weather, a little more coffee, a whole lot of flowering plants and a lifelong love of storytelling. Will's definitely one of the quiet ones you have to watch out for, though he -- not she anymore -- is a lot less quiet these days.

 

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Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress

 

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Tuesday, April 7, 2026

A Cowboy's Dilemma Book Blitz #rabtbooktours




Western Historical Fiction

Date Published: 08-19-2025

Publisher: Artemesia Publishing, LLC



As the Kelly Can Saga continues, Charlie and his wife, Susan, must deal with continued conflict as they attempt to grow their fledgling Kelly Oil Company. Like many other oilmen, Charlie and his partner, Hank Thomas, want to acquire oil and mineral rights to the Osage Nation’s land in northern Oklahoma. This leads them to confrontations with an adversary from their recent past. Susan’s life is imperiled by those evil characters. How will her cowboy come to her rescue and deal with dangerous direct threats on their lives? Charlie rapidly steps up to the challenge as any past Top Hand at the world-famous Miller’s 101 Ranch would.

 


About the Author



E. Joe Brown is an award-winning author of novels, short stories, and memoirs. His current projects include a series of historical fiction novels set in his native Oklahoma. Publication of the first book in the series is scheduled for August 2022. His memoir ‘Mickey and Me’ about meeting his hero, Mickey Mantle, is now featured in the National Baseball Hall of Fame. Joe currently serves as President of New Mexico Westerners, an Advisor to the SWW Board of Directors, and is a member of Western Writers of America and Military Writers Society of America. 


He supports his love of music and performance through active membership in the International Western Music Association. He served on the organization’s board of directors for three years. In 2013, Governor Susanna Martinez appointed him a New Mexico Music Commissioner.


 Veterans Portrait Project, Military, USAF


Photo Courtesy of
Stacy Pearsall's
Veterans Portrait Project


Joe concluded his lifetime military and civil service careers upon retirement on June 30, 2010. An exciting multi-faceted career of firsts included leading the USAF Range Instrumentation Team to aid the original NASA Space Shuttle program. His team helped create the Shuttle Worldwide Network and supported the first six missions of Space Shuttle Columbia. As the Air Force Flight Test Center Project Manager, he guided the design, construction, and implementation of the Benefield Anechoic Facility on Edwards AFB. The facility tests state-of-the-art electronic warfare systems in a secure environment. His final assignment was in direct support of the two-star Major General at Edwards AFB where he advised on strategic planning to assure future readiness to test USAF and Department of Defense weapons systems. 


An alumnus of the Oklahoma State University College of Engineering, Joe continued his engineering education during both his military and civil service careers. He completed coursework at the University of Colorado, Georgia Institute of Technology, George Washington University, University of Tennessee, Chapman University, and the University of California at Los Angeles. He later completed a BS in Business Management at Phoenix University and the Executive MBA program with a Strategic Planning emphasis from Webster University.


Joe has been married to his wife Linda for over fifty years, and their sons have given them five beautiful grandchildren.

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Monday, December 8, 2025

Born Like This Guest Post and Review #SilverDaggerTours

 


She went back in time to rescue him.

She never counted on falling in love…


Born Like This

Maizemerized Book 2

by Maggie Blackbird

Genre: Historical Paranormal Time-Travel Romance



She went back in time to rescue him.  She never counted on falling in love…

Alma Whitecrow prefers hunting and fishing with men, not romancing them. But hearing about the roguishly handsome coureur de bois, who saved her sister from the Dakota, haunts her thoughts and dreams. Well-versed in surviving the wilds, Alma resolves to travel to the mid-eighteenth century, as her sister once did, to save the man from impending death.

Charlot Baudelaire thumbs his nose at society’s expectations, content living as a loner, trading with people he calls the Saulters. If he needs a woman for the night, there is always a willing maiden. What he doesn’t expect is a spunky and stubborn female warrior to challenge him.

Charlot is not the man Alma dreamed about, and Alma is not the kind of woman Charlot pursues. But the longer they are together, the more drawn to each other they become, until Alma faces the biggest decision of her life. Stay with a man who may never reciprocate her love, or return to her Ojibway home and bland existence.

 

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Alma had expected to step into a battle. Reality set in. The only killing she’d done was animals when hunting with Grandpa. But if she didn’t shoot, she risked her own life and Theodore’s as she faced six Dakota sporting arrows.

Theodore growled, waiting for her command.

The Dakota didn’t fire at her, though. They seemed to fire everywhere else, hollering in a language she couldn’t comprehend. The fear in their eyes indicated she’d terrified them.

Maybe they assumed she was a ghost when she’d emerged through the flickering flames.

As the Dakota scattered, she tracked their moccasin footprints, but one set stood out. Grandpa had told her about the spread of the toes, and these toes weren’t spread. They came from a person who walked in shoes or boots. Someone who later in life had switched to the footwear of the Indigenous people.

She followed the footprints with Theodore beside her, sniffing. She used the end of her rifle to move aside the thick brush, which was why her homeland was called the bush at her reserve. There was nothing to call a forest or woods about Northwestern Ontario.

The thick underbrush kept trying to snag her clothing. Clothing she longed to remove. When she left home, she’d donned an outfit for a cold Halloween night. But summer bloomed here. She could remove her jacket since she had a sweater underneath, and beneath that a tank top.

A groan came about ten feet from her, and she aimed her rifle in the direction of the sound. She moved through the many twigs and branches but didn’t spot a blood trail. Whatever lay beneath the berry bush had been hit there.

Another groan.

Whoever was hurt wasn’t an animal. That was the sound of a human being. Maybe one of the Dakota?

She edged in closer until she caught the moccasins sticking out, along with breeches. This wasn’t a Dakota or warrior from the village under attack.

Her heart held its beat.

Had she found Charlot?

Setting

While growing up as a little girl, my family was involved in baseball, so we’d head for the local baseball diamond at The Point (a peninsula on the lake).  While my mother sat in the stands to watch, and my father coached the team, me, along with my brother and sisters, along with our cousins, would tear off to the replica fort situated right beside the baseball game happening.

I had no idea at the time that the fort was once a trading post during the fur trade in Canada.  Nor did I realize where we played was a big gathering spot for my Ojibway ancestors to meet in the spring to celebrate the Midewiwin.  From what I researched, over a thousand of them would gather there to celebrate “seeking the good life.”

I also didn’t understand that the waterways were the “roads” for my people to travel.  Most people associate Indigenous people with horses and teepees.  That is not so for the Woodlands people who were all about the wigwam and canoe.  The French fur traders, and eventually the Voyageurs also traveled these waterways.  The lake and river were part of The Voyageurs Highway.

The first explorer through my land was Jacques de Noyon who travelled these waterways as far back as 1688.  Then there was Pierre Gaultier de Varennes, sieur de La VĂ©rendrye who established the first fort in my area (the local hospital is named after him).  The replica fort came afterward and was rechristened “Fort Frances” after Lady Frances Simpson, the wife of the Governor of the Hudson's Bay Company, George Simpson.

So yes, writing about this area came naturally to me for the Maizemerized series.  I wanted to explore my homeland from the Rainy Lake and Rainy River to Lake of the Woods.

Free use image from Open Clipart Vectors
 
Ornery Owl's Review
 
Five out of Five Stars
 
This story kept me reading! The pace is snappy and the plot is unique. If you like time travel romance and your favorite tropes include grumpy/sunshine and enemies to lovers with definite sexual chemistry, this is the story for you. Only one bed--or bedroll? You got it!
 
I found Alma to be a relatable and emotionally compelling heroine. She is practical, plain-spoken, and proud of her hunting skills. Charlot is well-cast as the grumpy component of the grumpy/sunshine pair with his rough edges, roguish charm, and soft center. I felt Alma's struggle to decide whether to remain in the past, considering everything she'll lose if she does so. 
 
My only complaint is that the time travel rules are somewhat vague. Is the path between eras only open at Halloween? Is it limited to the corn-maze's reappearance? This wasn't a big enough bone of contention to cause me to remove a star from my rating. The world-building and the strength of the characters and their connection carry the story. 
 
The steamy encounters between Alma and Charlot make this book appropriate only for adult readers. The scenes are beautifully written and those who enjoy explicit moments in their romance will appreciate them. 




Born For This

Maizemerized Book 1



She’s always been obsessed with her ancestors, and now he’s offering her a chance to live with them... forever.

Second-year university student Edie Whitecrow gobbles up each course on Indigenous studies. If only she could experience the lives of her Anishinaabe ancestors instead of reading about them. On her way to a Halloween party decked out as a historical Ojibway maiden, she spies a corn maze in a spot known to be barren.

A scarecrow figure beckons Edie to enter with the enticing offer of making her biggest wish come true. She jumps at the chance and finds herself in the past, face to face with the man who haunts her dreams—the handsome brave Thunder Bear. He claims he’s spent twelve years waiting for Gitche Manidoo to send her to him.

Life in the eighteenth century isn’t what Edie romanticized about, though. When her conscience is tested, she must choose between the modern day or the world of her descendants—where the man she was born for resides.

 

What readers are saying:

“This novel is true to history while still spinning a lovely tale of love. I highly recommend it to anyone who loves historical and time travel romances.” –Goodreads Reviewer


“The story had me glued to the pages from start to finish. Loved and recommend this book.” –B&N Reviewer


“Based on prior reading from the author, I knew this would be a great book. I had no idea just how much I’d love it.” –BookBub Reviewer


“Once I started reading, I was not putting this book down.” –Goodreads Reviewer

 

This is one of the best romance novels I’ve ever read in my entire life. This book will pull you in full force and make you feel so many different emotions.” –Goodreads Reviewer

 

 

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Thunder Bear nodded. “Fire Woman. Is it not an appropriate name? The flames did not burn you. Fire is your friend. Your spirit guide.”

“I want to be honest.” She wet her plush mouth with the color riper than raspberries. “I have been educated in the ways of the white men. Where I come from, we live like white men.”

“I know you do. It is in your speech, your movement, your behavior.” He reached out and touched her bare arm that possessed delicate strength beneath the smooth flesh he palmed. “You are here to become what you are meant to truly be. We will teach you, if you are willing.”

“I am more than willing. In the white man’s world, I am learning everything about the People. I have studied the People ever since I was a little girl.”

“I know you have. It is why you came.” He could not resist letting his palm move along her arm. Beneath the skin he stroked, her slight muscle flexed.

She wet her lips.

The urge to claim her mouth was a test of his restraint. They’d only met this morning, and he must go slow. To slide his mouth over hers after just meeting was not how a warrior conducted himself. Yet, the way she’d drew her tongue along her lower lip was caressing and licking him beneath his breechclout. Her innocent gesture might as well have been her nails raking his backside, her hands boldly exploring his arms, and her breasts melting against his chest.

She was aptly named, because a fire danced in her sparkling dark eyes. A fire of desire. A fire of need. A fire flickering with mesmerization in her gaze touching his face.

He stifled the groan aching to leave his throat.

She seemed to drag her gaze to the dark water. If where they stood was better lit, he’d probably witness redness on her cheeks.

“What is it?”

Again, she wet her lips. “I… Maybe I should go back?”

A punch seemed to knock his gut. “Return? Now?”

“No.” She shook her head. “I mean the wigwam. Not the…the…”

“The dancing flames?”

She nodded.

Relief loosened the knots of his shoulder muscles. He didn’t believe in restraining any maiden, but if she had dared to run for where she had come from, he probably would have tossed her over his shoulder and carted her back to the camp. Now that he had found what he’d waited twelve years to capture, he wasn’t letting her go.

Somehow, he had to help her find her courage to survive with them. She was destined to be here.







An Ojibway from Northwestern Ontario, Maggie resides in the country with her husband and their fur babies, two beautiful Alaskan Malamutes.  When she’s not writing, she can be found pulling weeds in the flower beds, mowing the huge lawn, walking the Mals deep in the bush, teeing up a ball at the golf course, fishing in the boat for walleye, or sitting on the deck at her sister’s house, making more wonderful memories with the people she loves most.

 

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Wednesday, November 19, 2025

Finding Harbor #GayBookPromotions

NEW RELEASE

Book Title: Finding Harbor

Author: Duncan Gaye

Release Date: November 10, 2025

Tense/POV: Third person/ past tense

Genres: MM Historical Romance, LGBTQ Fiction

Tropes: Friends to lovers, strangers to lovers, small town romance, forced proximity, shared bed 

Themes: Love against the odds, found family

Heat Rating:  2 flames

Length: 291 pages

It is a standalone story and does not end on a cliffhanger.

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Blurb

Part of The Long Shadow Series by Duncan Gaye

Patrick Callahan comes to Cape Breton expecting easy money from a quick and lucrative timber deal. Instead, he only finds humiliation. Swindled out of his inheritance and stranded in a windswept fishing village, he is left with nothing but a single suitcase and a future that has collapsed overnight. At seven and a half feet tall, Angus MacAskill is a gentle giant with his own past. In St. Ann's, he is known for his silent kindness as much as he is for his stoic nature. He offers Patrick a bookkeeping job in his mercantile, and a place by the fire. What begins as a simple arrangement blossoms into a profound connection neither man could have ever imagined. 

Set within the wild beauty of nineteenth-century Nova Scotia, Finding Harbor is a queer historical romance about survival, finding home, and a love that takes root slowly but with unshakable strength. Perfect for fans of Annie Proulx (Brokeback Mountain), Cat Sebastian (A Gentleman Never Keeps Score) and KJ Charles (An Unseen Attraction).

Excerpt 

Patrick watched, fascinated by the sight. Submerged, Angus looked even more amazing. His chest rose like an island from the water, with rivulets flowing through the valleys of his muscles. His hands, spread wide to aid his floating, could have easily spanned Patrick's entire ribcage. Every proportion spoke of power held in careful check, strength tempered by conscious gentleness.

As Angus had predicted, the water's temperature became pleasant after the initial shock. Patrick swam to the pool's center. His strokes were strong and careful. They reflected his childhood summers in Boston Harbor. He circled Angus once, then twice, like a small craft orbiting a ship.

"Show off," Angus said, righting himself in the water. He moved with surprising speed for his size, catching Patrick around the waist before he could dart away.

Patrick found himself lifted effortlessly, Angus's hands secure around his midsection. "What are you—" he began, but his question transformed into a yelp of surprise as Angus tossed him several feet through the air. He hit the water with a splash, sank briefly, then surfaced, sputtering but laughing.

"Again?" Angus asked, his eyes bright with mischief.

"You're a menace," Patrick said accusingly, but he swam back to Angus, nonetheless, allowing himself to be captured once more.

This time, Angus hoisted him into the air with deliberate care, ensuring Patrick was prepared before launching him skyward. At the pinnacle of his leap, Patrick savored a delightful instant of weightlessness—just a taste of flying. Then, in a beautiful arc, he dove cleanly back into the water. As he emerged, he noticed Angus watching him with bright-eyed admiration.

"Graceful," the giant commented. "Like a kingfisher."

What began as play evolved into a pattern: Angus would throw, Patrick would fly, then dive, then return for more. Each toss sent him higher, Angus's strength precisely controlled to provide thrills without danger. Patrick laughed freely, just like he did as a child. He forgot about being self-conscious. The joy of movement, water, and trust flooded him.

Breathless and excited, Patrick swam to Angus and climbed onto his broad shoulders. He wrapped his arms loosely around the giant's neck. "Onward," he commanded imperiously, pointing toward the small waterfall.

Angus obliged. He swam with powerful strokes that barely seemed affected by Patrick's added weight. They traversed the pool together, Patrick riding high above the water's surface, feeling the play of muscles beneath him as Angus moved. In the tender embrace, skin met skin; Patrick's chest molded to Angus's back. This connection stirred a quieter pleasure, profound and comforting.

At the waterfall, Angus stood tall, water cascading down his body. Patrick, perched confidently on his shoulder, felt like he was soaring among the towering trees. The shift in perspective was exhilarating.

"You see things differently from up here," Angus said in a low voice, one hand reaching up to steady Patrick.

"Is this how you always see the world?" Patrick asked, marveling at the altered perspective.

"More or less," Angus confirmed. "Higher than most, lower than trees."

He helped Patrick slide down from his shoulders. His hands guided Patrick through the water. Soon, they faced each other, bodies close but not touching. Droplets clung to Angus's eyelashes and beard, catching sunlight like tiny prisms. His hands remained at Patrick's waist, neither restraining nor demanding, simply connecting.

Patrick placed his palms against Angus's chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath water-cooled skin. Angus's eyes held his, patient and waiting. He inched closer, their lips poised for connection. When the kiss came, it tasted like fresh water and sunlight; unhurried and adventurous. Unlike their first kiss by the fireside, heavy with longing, this one held a different charm. It was not about urgency, but the playful bliss of certainty. Angus's arms cradled him gently, as water lapped at their shoulders. Wrapped in each other's embrace, they felt whole for a moment, completely secluded in their secret haven.

About the Author 

Duncan Gaye lives in River Forest, Illinois. He believes magic can be found anywhere, even the suburbs. He writes the kind of love stories that sneak up on you—queer, tender, and just a little strange. His books are full of burly big-hearted men, tall tales, impossible odds, and the kind of endings that leave you wanting more.

When not writing, he likes to read, travel and relax with his adorable senior dogs, Spotty and French Fry.

The Long Shadow Series by Duncan Gaye is a thematic anthology series of stand-alone LGBTQ+ novellas and novels that tell love stories shaped by the extraordinary. Blending elements of speculative fiction, magical realism, tall tales, and literary drama, these are stories where intimacy and identity meet epic strength and emotional vulnerability.

From the mythical to the mundane, each book explores larger-than-life characters—strongmen, bodyguards, super soldiers, and other giants. For fans of emotional intensity, queer desire, and stories that stretch the boundaries of realism, this series offers a new kind of legend.

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Saturday, November 15, 2025

To Beguile a Banished Lord Review #IndiGo

Title: To Beguile a Banished Lord

Series: Regency Rossingley, Book Three

Author: Fearne Hill

Cover Artist: Mandy Porto

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 11/11/2025

Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 294

Genre: Historical, historical romance/British Regency, gay, bisexual, age-gap, humorous, sunny/grumpy, hurt-comfort, humorous

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Description

Rollo Duchamps-Avery, the high-spirited second son of the eleventh Earl of Rossingley, is not in his father’s best books. After one misdemeanour too many, the earl ruins Rollo’s idyllic summer by packing him off to the wilds of rural Norfolk, arranging for him to stay with the Duke of Ashington’s loathsome brother.

Lord Lyndon Fitzsimmons has an aversion to houseguests. Shunned by polite society for crimes far wickeder than anything Rollo could dream up, all Fitzsimmons wants is to drink himself into a stupor, tend his beloved hydrangeas, and take potshots at tin soldiers.

If only his inquisitive young visitor, with his pretty little head of wispy blond hair, his stupidly coltish legs, and his knack of always being where Fitzsimmons would rather him not, would leave him in peace.

This third book in the Rossingley Regency romance series features the fourteenth Earl of Rossingley’s lively second son, Rollo, and the Duke of Ashington’s disgraced brother, Lord Lyndon Fitzsimmons. This book can be read as a standalone.
 
The following excerpt contains material suitable only for readers 18+. 

Excerpt

To Beguile a Banished Lord
Fearne Hill © 2025
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One
Rossingley Estate, Summer, 1825

I must not swive the stable boy (again).

I must not swive the stable boy (again).

I must not swive the stable boy (again).

I must not…

“Crocodile tears won’t save you this time, Master Rollo.”

Pritchard’s lisping note of triumph was unmistakeable. “No matter how prettily you shed them, you’ve pushed your papa too far. He is provoked beyond measure.”

“He’d be his usual fine and dandy self if you hadn’t gone running to inform him.”

“My primary role in the Rossingley household is to serve the earl,” answered Pritchard, as prissy and prim as ever. “Not his licentious offspring.”

Rollo harboured an ugly notion that his father’s valet had been waiting a long time for this moment, possibly since when Rollo, at age four, had sprinkled rich, resinous lily pollen amongst Papa’s meticulously folded white linens. It had been the opening salvo of a rather jolly dislike of each other.

“You’re relishing this, aren’t you, Pritchard?”

“Tremendously,” Pritchard confirmed.

Escape flitted across Rollo’s mind, but only for a second. One step ahead, and perhaps recalling the time Rollo had feinted past him and sprinted away across the lawns, Pritchard had brought along reinforcements in the form of two burly footmen stationed on either side of the library door. The window, alas, was closed.

Rollo shot a pleading look towards Kit Angel—Papa’s divine and terribly understanding paramour—currently decorating the settee, who shook his head. Everybody was loyal to Papa to a fault, and it was damned annoying.

“Sorry, old chap.” At least Kit sounded genuine. “For what it’s worth, I tried to talk your father out of it. Some of us enjoy having you around.”

What did he mean by having you around? Rollo wasn’t planning on going anywhere, unless swallow diving headfirst out of the nearest window and running for the hills until Papa had calmed down counted. And talk him out of what?

Before Rollo could further parse Kit’s words, Papa himself swept into the library, dressed in his favourite chartreuse silk banyan and pearls. Rollo coveted both immensely. As always, the eleventh earl was impeccably turned out, though this morning, his flamboyant attire sat at odds with the discomfiting, frigid set of his mouth. Rollo barely dared meet his pale eyes; when his mouth looked as grim as that, his gaze could freeze a lake.

“Rollo, my darling.”

Rollo winced. Only a fool would mistake the endearment for anything other than an affectation.

“Yes, Papa.”

The ice-chip eyes glittered. “You know why you’re here, I assume?”

“Yes, Papa.”

Experience taught Rollo that short answers tended to be met more favourably. Unfortunately, his smart mouth had a lamentable tendency to act independently of his mind. “Writing out I must not swive the stable boy one hundred times was a significant clue. The lack of hot water in my room this morning more subtle. But no less vexing.”

The faintest ghost of a smile twitched his father’s lips, gone in an instant. Even in the midst of a scolding, Rollo still appreciated he had the best of fathers. Most would have introduced his arse to the switch long ago.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself, Rollo?”

Rollo straightened his shoulders. Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb and all that. The importance of standing up for himself had been instilled in him from a young age; Papa could hardly complain now he was reaping what he’d sown.

“Yes, Papa. Several things, actually.”

Papa sighed. “I’d expect nothing less.”

“Firstly, my wrist aches.” Rollo waggled it to demonstrate. “I have indelible green ink stains on my second-favourite blush waistcoat, and I’m still frightfully chilly. And, for the record, Ellis was an able, willing, practiced, and—dare I say—extremely encouraging participant.”

“Naturally, he was; you paid him two pounds!”

“And it was very well deserved.”

“And then a further crown, on account, for future favours!”

Goodness, Pritchard had been busy. Rollo shot him an evil look, though in having his financial transactions laid out so bluntly, his bravura hung by a thread.

“At risk of repeating myself,” Rollo ploughed on, “I considered it money well spent. Ellis has several strings to his bow.”

“Evidently.”

His father’s fine blond brows knit together. The line between standing up for himself and cheeking Papa was a fine one; Rollo had a sneaking suspicion he might have tiptoed across it.

“Darling Rollo,” began his father, a layer of frost coating each syllable. “For all I care, our stable boy could have the whole string section of London’s prestigious Philharmonic Society tucked behind the fall of his breeches. And you could have twanged every single instrument.”

Rollo had been on his knees attempting exactly that until he’d been discovered by the second groom, who’d blabbed to the head groom, who’d gone tittle-tattling to Pritchard.

“Nevertheless, as you are well aware, there is nothing I detest more than fortunate, well-heeled members of society taking advantage of those in their employ.” With an irritable flick of his hand, Papa waved away Rollo’s attempt to defend his actions. “That Ellis was willing is an irrelevance. You placed the man in a devilishly awkward position, and I simply will not tolerate it. Have I made myself crystal clear?”

“Yes, Papa,” he replied meekly. “Sorry, Papa.”

“And so you should be.”

Yet to be mollified, his father folded his arms and began pacing in front of the fireplace. “The simple truth remains. Our loyal servants are out of bounds. I distinctly recall this being made perfectly clear to you when you returned from Eton last year. Did I not?”

Rollo hung his head. “Yes, Papa.”

“If it had been your first demeanour and you had been totally in the dark, then, of course, I would instruct you on how a Duchamps-Avery should behave. It would be remiss of me not to. But, as it is, the fact that you stand here, arguing the point after all I’ve…”

Ahhh, to begin the day with one of Papa’s sweet lectures. Rollo didn’t need to tune in for the rest. He knew how things ran. Their disputes were well rehearsed operatic duets, composed of increasing exasperation on Papa’s part, Rollo feigning abject apology, a discourse on how a Duchamps-Avery should conduct themselves, ending with a loving embrace and a promise to do better. As usual, Pritchard and Kit had been making a fuss over nothing. Rollo would bow his head a few times, continue to appear suitably repentant, and ride this one out.

Content in the sure knowledge he was loved, Rollo’s thoughts drifted. In a few moments, Papa would fizzle out and decree his penance. Idly, Rollo wondered what it might be. Papa was nothing if not creative. Over the years, Rollo’s punishments had ranged from counting all the earwigs in the orangery (aged five, he was discovered hiding in the coal cellar after two hours of searching) to scrubbing the scullery steps with a toothbrush (for convincing his twin brother, Willoughby, that eating crushed pinecones would allow him to see better in the dark). Willoughby casting up his accounts the next morning during the church sermon aside, some of Rollo’s so-called punishments had turned into rather good fun. Like the time he was consigned to digging over the vegetable patch and unearthed an adder, which had slithered over Pritchard’s foot.

“To that end, Rollo, it is high time you had a firmer hand. My own father, rest his soul, oft quoted that a rose bush must be heavily pruned in order to produce the best blooms. And, on this occasion, I believe he was speaking with the weight of wisdom. Don’t you agree?”

Papa’s lecture appeared to have taken a horticultural detour. “Er…yes?”

“Excellent.” His father clapped his hands. “Therefore, Dobson will accompany you when you depart for your trip to Norfolk this afternoon, see you safely settled in, and return to collect you in three months’ time.”

“D-Dobson will…what?” Rollo’s happy flights of reminiscence screeched to a halt. Did…did he…did…? “Sorry, Papa, I must have misheard. Did you just say Dobson’s accompanying me to Norfolk?”

“Got it in one, darling. You are clever. To Goule Hall, to be precise. On the edge of the Broads, between some hellish backwater named Stokesby and another provincial bog going by the name of Wroxham, I believe. A delightful, if not a tad isolated, property belonging to the Ashington estate. The duke’s twin brother, Lord Lyndon Fitzsimmons, remains in residence after spending an enforced period of seclusion there a couple of years ago, whilst he…ah…reflected on several episodes of…ah…poor behaviour in and around the ton. I shall spare you the details. Suffice to say that in comparison, dear boy, your antics are those of a rank amateur.”

This Lord Lyndon Fitz-something-or-other could have kidnapped the moon from under the noses of the sun and the stars for all that Rollo cared. “And this…this Goule Hall is in Norfolk?” he clarified, aghast. Perhaps, somehow, his father was confusing Norfolk with Mayfair.

Alas, no.

“Unless the hall has been excavated and deposited elsewhere since the duke and I corresponded less than a week ago, then yes.”

“And Willoughby is coming too,” Rollo decreed, praying if he said it with enough confidence, that would somehow make it true.

His father shook his head. “On the contrary. Willoughby will be travelling to London with me. I plan to use the time you are apart to begin schooling your brother in the rudiments of my business affairs.” He flashed Rollo an evil little smile very much like Rollo’s own, displaying all of his sharp pointed teeth. “And perhaps take the opportunity to do some shopping, pay a visit to my tailor, and so forth.”

Ugh. That was a low blow. Rollo didn’t give two hoots for learning about business. Willoughby would inherit the title and all that nonsense, anyhow. But how he adored their family shopping expeditions! Much more than Willoughby ever did.

Pritchard made an odd noise, quickly covering his mouth with his hand. Knowing the blasted valet, the whole thing had been his bloody idea. He’d always enjoyed having the earl to himself. Rollo would have said so, too, if every ounce of his not inconsiderable intelligence wasn’t fixated on desperately seeking a way out of the barren wasteland now known as his immediate future. Because, from where he was sitting, Norfolk already seemed horribly like a fait accompli. Three months. Three summer months. Stuck with a dull, ancient lord, in a draughty old hall in the middle of effing nowhere. They might as well just shoot him with a musket ball now and be done with it.

He tried one last time. “Ha ha, very funny. But…really, Papa? Norfolk? Cold, flat, windy Norfolk? Even Bonaparte wasn’t exiled to Norfolk!”

“No.” The earl tilted his white-blond head, so like Rollo’s own, in gentle acknowledgement. “But then, my dear, Napoleon Bonaparte wasn’t a spoiled second son of an earl, caught swiving one of my stable boys when he’d been given explicit instructions not to manhandle the servants. Pritchard? Ring for Dobson, if you would be so kind. I do believe Rollo’s valises are already packed.”

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Fearne Hill is a British writer of queer romance and the winner of the 2025 Lambda Literary Award for LGBTQ Romance. When she’s not crafting characters who fall hard and kiss slowly, she works as an anaesthesiologist. She lives in the deepest Dorset countryside with her beloved spaniels.

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Ornery Owl's Review

Rating: Five out of Five Stars

I am always in awe of anyone who can write a good regency romance, and this is an excellent regency romance. Although many of the characters seem uncharacteristically accepting of romantic/sexual liaisons between men, the author handles this aspect realistically. 

There is more of a grumpy/sunshine vibe to this tale than an enemies to lovers arc. Rollo and Lyndon are never really enemies. When Rollo is sent to Lyndon's estate in Norfolk as punishment for his indiscretions with a stable boy, his initial encounter with Lyndon is off-putting. The clearly drunk lord shoots tin soldiers with a toy bow, brandishes the bow at Rollo, then urinates into the fireplace.

Rollo makes it his mission to learn more about Lyndon, whom he finds compelling in spite of the man's crude and intimidating behavior. As he wears Lyndon down, he learns that he and Lyndon share certain desires in common. 

I appreciate the way the setting becomes a character itself. It adds richness and texture to the story, helping to bring the prevalent themes, such as shame versus acceptance, to the surface.

The story provides realistic varied moods, alternating between brightly comedic and darkly dramatic. This contrast added depth to the characters as well as the plot. 

I would recommend this well-written gay Regency romance to adult readers who enjoy a steamy slow burn connection. Readers who prefer that erotic interactions stay behind closed doors are likely to find the story too explicit.    

   
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