amusement transforming her, making her so lovely that he was momentarily robbed of breath. “The breakfast hasn’t started yet, Jago.”
“Oh. Well, do you think anyone would notice if we sneaked away?”
“I think since we’re the guests of honor we probably have to stay.”
He frowned. “What if I dropped a few subtle hints that they should go? Or would that be terribly rude.”
“No, you probably shouldn’t do that—we promised them a wedding and a meal, after all.”
He heaved a put-upon sigh. “Well, I supposed I’d better go back out there and face them, then.”
Benna took his hand, raised it to her mouth, and kissed it. “I’ll go with you, how about that?”
Jago smiled. “I can do anything if you’re with me, Benna.” He squeezed her hand and then opened the door for her. “Shall we, my darling duchess?”
“Yes, let’s face them together, my dearest lord.”
And then she stepped out of the room and Jago shut the door behind them.
Hello my romance reading friends!
First off, I’d like to say: THANKS SO MUCH FOR READING.
I hope enjoyed THE POSTILION and are looking forward to John Fielding’s story in THE BASTARD.
If you’ve just read THE POSTILION the chances are good that you’ve read the first book in the series, THE FOOTMAN. If so, then you are the sort of reader who likes unconventional tales of love and adventure. You’re my kind of reader, in other words.
THE MASQUERADERS is a 3-book series (maybe 4, I haven’t decided yet …) about characters who aren’t immediately what they seem.
The series grew from a standalone novel, THE FOOTMAN, when I decided I wanted a hero from the working classes.
Only after I started writing THE FOOTMAN and Jago and John showed up did I think about more masqueraders.
Benna only makes a brief appearance in the first book, but she immediately captured my attention.
Who was she, I wanted to know.
Yes, I’m that crazy kind of writer who never knows what characters will show up in my books.
The only way to learn more about a character is to write their story.
I’ll admit I was blown away by Benna’s story—I wasn’t expecting her adventurous past.
Anyhow, I’m about ¾ finished with THE BASTARD as I write this little note. John’s past is every bit as interesting as I expected—and his future is surprising not only me, but him, too.
If you liked my story, I’d really love even a one sentence review on:
AMAZON
or
GOODREADS
Or anywhere else you like to review.
I especially love to get emails from readers. Drop me a line at minervaspencerauthor@gmail.com if you would like to see a specific character get their story. Or tell me the sort of story that YOU’D like to read. I am always open to good ideas!
Please read on for a peek at THE BASTARD, Book 3 in THE MASQUERADERS series …
Chapter 1
Norfolk Island Penal Colony
1812
No beard could ever conceal the scar that bisected his face, the same way no glove could ever hide his right hand. John Fielding was, and always would be, a freak. That knowledge fueled him like coals heaped on a roaring fire and he bunched his six-fingered hand into a fist and connected it with the other man’s chin. The resulting crack of bone and spray of blood fed his rage and nourished his hatred. It was a punch in the face of every person who’d played a part in sending him on this journey to the far side of Hell.
And it also earned him another handful of coins.
John watched with disinterest as his opponent went down with a dull thud. The crowd reacted with a primitive roar and John turned away and pushed through the maddened throng, ignoring congratulations and jeers alike.
Riddle, the man who managed John’s fights, waited in back with all the rest of his ilk: Men who sported cheap, too-colorful clothing and noses that had never been broken. Men who spoke in quick, sharp sentences as their watchful eyes roamed in constant, shiftless motion.
Riddle grinned at John, the money he’d spent on his suit ruined by the black gap in his front teeth. “Well done, lad,” he yelled over the din, reaching up to clap John on the shoulder.
John shrugged away his hand and snatched his shirt off the wooden cart where he’d tossed it a short time earlier. He pulled the rough-spun garment over his head and turned back to Riddle as he tucked the tails into leather breeches as battered and scarred as he was.
“Where’s my money.” It wasn’t really a question.
“Aye, aye. Not so hasty, my