It’s such a delight to have Patricia Bond, Author of By Love’s Honor Bound, in The Blue Rose Writing Room. She’s also a fellow Soul Mate Publishing Author!
Welcome Patricia!
Here’s a bit about By Love’s Honor Bound
Someone is killing Conductors on the Underground Railroad one by one. With a cellar full of runaway slaves, Olivia June Mathieson must decide – is the handsome Fenton Pierce-Smythe savior or traitor?
Both Fenton Pierce-Smythe’s fiancee and grandfather were killed when runaway slaves spooked their horses. Determined no one else will face that pain, he hunts runaways to return them safely to their owners. But can he remain unmoved by their plight? And unaffected by the beautiful woman who risks her life to lead them to freedom?
Warning: This title is intended for readers over the age of 18 as it contains adult sexual situations and/or adult language, and may be considered offensive to some readers.
My Review
I can’t resist a good historical, especially one that is loaded with intrigue and delightful, unexpected twists that keep the reader guessing from the first page to the last.
Ms. Bond has created wonderfully complex characters in Olivia and Fenton, and each of them has secrets they are desperate the other not discover, in spite of their undeniable and ever increasing attraction. Murder, danger, and betrayal all succeed in adding a rich depth to a brilliantly woven tale.
I loved that Olivia is a determined risk taker, who though having lived a life of privilege endangers her life to help runaway slaves. Intrinsically a decent human being, Fenton overcomes his personal vendettas to save the woman he’s come to love.
The skillfully written historical details and lush descriptions in the book added to Ms. Bond’s natural story telling abilities to create a thoroughly delightful read.
I rate By Love’s Honor Bound a solid 4.5 roses.
About Patricia
Ever since her first encounter with a long hooped skirt gown at age 5, Ms. Bond fell in love with the style. Her love of historical romance began a bit later, when she discovered Gladys Malvern’s books and scoured the public library for every one she could find. Reading Gone With the Wind as a teenager cemented her suspicion that she was born about 100 years too late. She daydreamed about writing novels but knew it was beyond her ability at that time. Instead, she tried her hand at poetry and really bad iambic pentameter flowed from her fingers. Thankfully, for the world at large, it was a short-lived obsession.
After attending an all-girl high school run by Felician nuns, she enrolled in a local men’s college that had just opened its doors to women. (A Libra, she understands the need for balance.) She earned her B.A. in English, and met her future husband there. Many years, four children and a grandchild later, the man who made her see fireworks with the first kiss is still her go-to research assistant for all things romantic.
The desire to write books never left, even as she worked selling property and casualty insurance, Avon , and craft kits. She sold luggage at a local department store to earn the money to attend her first RWA national conference and finally feels safe enough to admit to hiding a legal pad under her counter where she wrote scenes in between customers. She still does much of her writing longhand. (100 years too late, remember?)
RWA is the best thing to happen to her writing career, teaching the art as well as the craft of writing. It also brought her together with four of the most amazing women she’s ever known – critique partners and friends. Special thanks and much love to Helen, Karen, Carol and Jan. An amateur photographer, Reiki master and Guild knitter, Ms. Bonds lives in Western New York one mile from the home she grew up in. You can often find her at the lakeside, camera and notebook in hand.
Enjoy an Excerpt
The bed had already been turned down, and as he removed jacket and waistcoat, Fenton noticed a tray set by the chair. Neatly arranged on it were a decanter of brandy and a crystal snifter, a small bowl of apples, and a basket. Lifting the cotton cloth covering the basket, he found a few biscuits and chunks of cheese. In front of the chair was an upholstered footstool with a newspaper and book on it.
Everything a weary businessman would like, Fenton thought, smiling as he poured a brandy. Reaching for the newspaper, he settled into the chair.
He had poured his second brandy and had just taken a bite of apple when there was another flash outside his window. It reminded him of Bolt. The poor animal was probably frightened to death. Luckily, however, ol’ Bolt’s brain was ruled by his stomach. Fenton put on his jacket, stuffed a few apples into his pockets and, happily munching his own, opened the door and headed down the corridor toward the rear of the house.
He dashed across the yard and ducked into the stables.
Poor Thunderbolt didn’t even come close to living up to the image his name implied. If it were possible for a horse to cower, Bolt did. Backed up with his hindquarters against the wall, he nervously pawed at the hay covering the floor, his eyes round and white with fear.
“Easy, boy,” Fenton called softly, slowly advancing to the stall. “Good boy. Pretty loud tonight, isn’t it?”
The horse nickered quietly, bobbing his head in seeming agreement as he took a tentative step forward.
“Well, it won’t last long,” Fenton assured him, stroking his muzzle. “Clouds will be breaking up soon, you’ll see. Besides,” he said, reaching into his pocket, “I brought you something.”
Bolt’s ears pricked and he raised his head.
“A little dessert, courtesy Mr. Thomas Mathieson.” Fenton held up one of the apples for Bolt to see. “Would you believe he sent up a whole basket for me? I can’t eat a whole basket by myself, and I thought, ‘Now who would I want to share these with?’ And who do you think came to mind?”
He patted Bolt’s strong neck as the animal crunched his apple. Fenton chuckled.
“Actually you weren’t my first choice, you know. Even though she said she wanted to see me, I can’t expect her to come waltzing into my bedchamber.”
He dug out a second apple and gave it to the horse. Sitting down on a bale of hay, Fenton took a bite of his own apple. He waved the fruit in the air, gesturing and talking between mouthfuls.
“You should have seen her, Bolt. She was beyond beautiful. Hair all done up fancy and frilly,” he said, moving his hand in curling motions at the side of his head. “Her eyes sparkling like snow in the moonlight. And her dress . . .”
He trailed off to sit in unmoving silence as he pictured her creamy shoulders and the gentle swell of her breasts rising from the froth of lace at her neckline.
He hadn’t been aware of his stillness until he felt Bolt’s soft muzzle brush his hand as the horse tried to nibble his apple. “I never knew red and white could make a woman’s skin glow like that,” he murmured, absently feeding the horse the remainder of the apple. “Beyond beautiful,” he repeated in awestruck wonder.
Bolt nudged his elbow and brought him out of his reverie.
“I hope no one has locked the door to the house,” he mused.
Fenton opened the stable door just a crack. “Looks like the worst of it is over,” he told Bolt. “I’d best be getting back in before I wind up sleeping here tonight.”
Thunderbolt’s disgusted snort brought an easy smile to Fenton’s face. “I’m not fond of the idea either. We’ll set off early tomorrow, don’t you worry. You’ll be in your own stall before lunch. Good night, boy,” he called as he went out.
He turned up his collar against the rain, pushed open the door, and came to an abrupt halt.
Silhouetted against the side of the house was a small, wraithlike figure, hunched over and moving quickly.
A thief, sneaking into his host’s house?
***
Livvy put her hand over the latch to muffle the sound of the click even though she was pretty sure the household was asleep. She’d had to wait so long for the rain to let up to take the basket of food Samuel had prepared for the runaways, she hadn’t been sure he would still be up. She needn’t have worried. The erstwhile butler had never let her down. In fact, he’d argued quite determinedly to accompany her, until she’d been forced to her method of last resort. She had ordered him to bed.
She didn’t like doing it. It was a symbol of the very thing she was fighting against. But the weather was too awful for him to go out, and Livvy knew the ancient butler could never overcome a lifetime of master-slave thinking.
Moving with sure-footed familiarity through the dark kitchen and butler’s pantry, then through the dining room, she made her way up to the second floor. She just passed her brother Robert’s old bedroom, now a guest room, when a hand reached through the darkness and grabbed her arm.
Connect with Patricia
Website: http://www.patricia-bond.com/
Available at:
