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

Wednesday, September 9, 2015

Available Now: Irish Pride Box Set by Kemberlee Shortland

IRISH PRIDE SERIES BOX SET
Kemberlee Shortland

 ISBN: 9781310562150

ASIN: B01520GFE2

 Length: Novel

Genre: Contemporary Romance

Price: $7.99 (SALE $2.99 through September)

 Buy Here: Tirgearr Publishing

  This box set includes:

Rhythm of My Heart - Eilis Kennedy, gave up a singing career to become an Artists Representative with Eireann Records. Kieran Vaughan is just the talent she needs to contract who will really launch her career, while at the same time getting her out from under her boss's thumb. Fergus Manley vows to have Eilis in his bed at any cost.

A Piece of My Heart and the short story sequel, Constant Craving - Ten years after their break-up, the addendum in Mick's father's will forces Mick and Kate together to save Mick's heritage. Kate thought she was falling in love with Mick all over again, but a new revelation is too much for her. She is determined to finally say goodbye forever to her childhood sweetheart. Mick has other plans for Kate's future. And none of them involve goodbye.

Shape of My Heart - Gráinne moonlights at The Klub! to earn money for college tuition. John ‘JD’ Desmond is an undercover detective. The Klub!, owned by Jimmy Malloy, is being used as a drug front, headed by the notorious Taylor 'The Hunter' Wade. JD wanted Gráinne to snitch for him, but things get complicated when they fall in love. When Gráinne witnesses Jimmy’s murder, she and JD are forced to run for their lives.

• • •


Kemberlee is a native Northern Californian who grew up in a community founded by artists and writers, including John Steinbeck, George Sterling, and Jack London. She has dual diplomas -- canine and feline nutrition, and hotel and restaurant management. At one time she also ran a private part time obedience business, and also showed English Bull Terriers In 1997, she left the employ of Clint Eastwood to live in Ireland for six months. It was there she met the man she would marry, and relocated to live in Ireland permanently. While always writing, Kemberlee earned her keep as a travel consultant and writing travel articles about Ireland. In 2005, she saw her first romance sell, and to date, she has eight published romances. Kemberlee enjoys her two Border Collies, who feature on the cover of A Piece of My Heart, and also knitting, gardening, photography, music, travel, and tacos! 

Find Kemberlee Online:

 Website - http://www.kemberlee.com

Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/AuthorKemberleeShortland
Twitter - http://www.twitter.com/kemberlee
Amazon - http://www.amazon.com/author/kemberleeshortland
LinkedIn - http://www.linkedin.com/in/kemberlee
Hearticles - http://www.hearticles.blogspot.com
HeartShapedStones - http://www.heartshapedstones.blogspot.com
Tirgearr Publishing - http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Shortland_Kemberlee




Tuesday, March 17, 2015

Five Days on Ballyboy Beach by David J O'Brien

FIVE DAYS ON BALLYBOY BEACH
David O'Brien
ISBN: 9781310829987
ASIN: B00NIVD8K2
Length: Novel
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Price: $3.99

Buy here - Tirgearr Publishing

A startling revelation - the long-time friend you never viewed romantically is actually the person with whom you want to spend the rest of your life.

But what do you do about it?

For Derek, a laid-back graduate camping with college friends on Ireland's west coast in the summer of 1996, the answer is … absolutely nothing.

Never the proactive one of the group - he's more than happy to watch his friends surf, canoe and scuba-dive from the shore - Derek adopts a wait and see attitude. Acting on his emotional discovery is further hindered by the fact he's currently seeing someone else - and she's coming to join him for the weekend.

As their five days on the beach pass, and there are more revelations, Derek soon realises that to get what he desires, he'll have to take it. Events conspire to push him to the forefront of the group, and, as unexpected sorrow begins to surround him and his friends, Derek grasps his chance at happiness. After all, isn’t life too short to just wait and see?

10% of the author's royalties will be donated to WWF,
the World Wildlife Fund.

• • •

“Do you remember everyone you’ve ever kissed?”

We were sitting around the fire, which sent its flames up from the dry driftwood to spread light past us to the tents behind. It illuminated the hazel copse a little way off, but was beaten by the darkness before reaching the waves that softly washed up on the shore, thirty yards away.

Just the two of us, Sinéad and I, sat beside the fire. Sarah was in the dunes, and John and Bill had gone to the town to get more drink. We’d all thought that we’d have been drunk already, but we weren’t yet. We nearly were—at least I was—but not quite enough. The two lads had decided to walk the mile to the pub and get a dozen more cans of beer and a bottle of Jameson, and some lemonade for the two girls. Us men were fairly sure that by the time we’d finished the beers we’d be ready for the whiskey straight, or with just a little fresh, cool water from the stream beside the copse. It gurgled in the silence behind me, down a few rocks into a wide brackish pool that drained slowly down the beach at low tides, meandering through the sand.

I watched Sinéad looking back at me as she thought about the question. She was beautiful. I could see that in the firelight. Why couldn’t I see that during the day? Was it the night? Don’t be stupid, Derek, I told myself. It’s the booze! And the knowledge that you’re sharing your tent with two lads.

Still, she was beautiful. But she was better than just attractive— she was smart and funny and all those adjectives that people throw around when describing the people they fancy. She was one of my best friends—definitely my best female friends. That's why she was there, of course, because she was not just a pretty face. Yet that was a pity right now, when all I wanted was someone sexy.

“Yes," she answered. “I remember everyone. But then, I haven’t kissed very many people. Only twelve.”

I looked back at her eyes, my own betraying my surprise. “Really? You have only ever kissed twelve people?”

Sinéad laughed softly and nodded. “Yes! And I knew them all before I kissed them. Does that surprise you so much? Why do you ask anyway? Can you remember all those thousands of girls that you have kissed?” She asked this in a gently mocking way, and I blushed a little, though probably not enough for her to notice in the light from the fire.

I looked into the flames for a moment, then met her eyes again. “I haven’t kissed thousands of girls! And I am not that surprised about you only kissing twelve guys, though I am curious as to how that is,” I smiled, wondering how the hell it was possible. “But, I have to admit that I don’t remember every girl I’ve kissed. I don’t remember kissing some of them that I know I have kissed. It depends on the circumstances of the kiss. Sometimes I was fairly drunk.”

She laughed, and I laughed with her. I took a swig of beer and she did the same, then I looked at the fire again, not really wanting to look straight at her as I continued. “Sometimes though, I see a girl, and she looks so familiar, and yet I’m sure that I don’t know her, and she gives no indication that she knows me, or that I seem familiar to her. Or sometimes I see a girl who I don’t recognise or think I have met before, but who looks at me like she knows me or should know me, and I just wonder, if maybe a few years ago, I wasn’t holding her on a dance floor and kissing her. It’s really strange.”

When I raised my can again she was still looking intently at me. “Everybody forgets people. People don’t stay looking the same all their lives, so you are going to not recognise people, eventually, and if you didn’t know them all that well in the beginning, you're going to forget them sooner. I’ve forgotten lots of people I used to see around. I haven’t forgotten the people I have kissed because I knew them quite well, and I still know some of them very well. Why I haven’t kissed people I didn’t know is none of your business, really. But to be honest, it just happened that way: I was never not going out with someone for very long. But anyway, there have been lots of men I knew well and didn’t kiss, and I still remember them. Kissing doesn’t have that much to do with your memory—even if you think that you should remember the ones you kissed more than the ones you didn’t.”

I said nothing, but nodded and took another swig of beer, raising it high and draining the last of its contents into my mouth. She again took my cue and drank.

“What if the people you think you know are girls that you would have liked to kiss, but never did?”

• • •

David J O'Brien was born and raised in Dun Laoghaire, Ireland. He studied environmental biology and later studied deer biology for his PhD, at University College Dublin. Instead of pursuing his life-long interest in wolves and predator-prey interactions, after completing his doctorate, he taught English in Madrid, Spain, for four years while his girlfriend finished her doctorate in molecular biology. They married and moved to Boston, USA, so his wife could pursue her career and David decided that teaching was a vocation he was happy to continue. After seven great years teaching Biology at Boston's Cathedral High School and Zoology at Bridgewater State College, he returned to Spain three years ago so his wife could set up her new research group in her hometown of Pamplona shortly before their daughter was born. He currently teaches English and science in Pamplona, while looking after his daughter and writing.

David has loved writing since his teens. He began with poetry and had one of his first poems published in Cadenza, a small Dublin poetry magazine at the age of fourteen. Since then several more have been published in journals and anthologies such as Albatross, The Tennessee State Poetry League, Poems of Nature and various anthologies of Forward Press imprint in Britain. He began writing fiction soon after and wrote the novella that would later become Leaving The Pack at the age of seventeen. Though his academic writing took precedence for a number of years, and he is still involved in deer biology and management, he kept writing other things in his spare time and has always dreamt of one day being able to do it full time. While living in Madrid, he wrote some non-fiction articles for the magazine Hot English and while in Boston for the newspaper Dig.

An avid wildlife enthusiast and ecologist, much of David's non-academic writing, especially poetry, is inspired by wildlife and science, and he sometimes seeks to describe the science behind the supernatural. He has written a little bit of everything: to date a four-act play, a six-episode sit-com, various short stories and five more novels.
His Young Adult paranormal novel The Soul of Adam Short will be published in 2015 and a novella under the pseudonym JD Martins was published in January.

David is currently working on sequels to Leaving the Pack and an Ecological Fiction novel set in Scotland called The Ecology of Lonesomeness, He is also plugging away at a long novel set in the pre-Columbian Caribbean, and a non-fiction book about the sociology of hunting.

Find David Online

Website - http://davidjmobrien.wordpress.com
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/DavidJMOBrien
G+ - https://plus.google.com/u/0/+DavidOBrienauthor
Tirgearr Publishing - http://tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/OBrien_David


Going Against Type by Sharon Black

GOING AGAINST TYPE
Sharon Black
ISBN: 9781310882845
ASIN: B00NJ2OL4M
Length: Novel
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Price: $4.99

Buy here - Tirgearr Publishing

Some would say Charlotte ‘Charlie’ Regan has it all. Beautiful, smart, athletic, and a great job working as a journalist – in the almost exclusively male sports department. But Charlotte is not quite so sure as she seem. Recently split from her overbearing boyfriend, she escapes for weekends surfing in the Atlantic, and spends her free nights watching sports, roaring at the TV.

Derry Cullinane is a fashion writer, gossip columnist, and sophisticated man-about-town – The go-to guy for any woman seeking expert advice on what fabulous outfit to wear for any given occasion. He’s also tall, dark, good looking . . . and straight! So what’s the snag? He has a track record of dating glamorous, vain, and shallow women.

Charlie gets an opportunity to write a new column under the pen name Side Swipe, but soon is drawn into a war of words and wit with a rival paper’s columnist, The Squire, and their verbal fireworks get readers and editors talking. Yet neither Charlie nor Derry knows just who the opponent is.

When Charlotte and Derry meet at the Races, the attraction is instant. As their relationship develops, so much more proves at stake than protecting their alter egos. But a blunder puts Charlotte’s job in jeopardy just as Derry’s past makes front page, and Charlotte begins to doubt her feelings. When Side Swipe and The Squire are finally forced to reveal themselves, will they revert to type – or confound everyone’s expectations?

• • •

Charlotte had waited years for Donal to utter those magical words. This morning he'd finally said them.

'We're trying you out as a columnist, Charlie. Go grab 'em by the–'

'Thank you, Donal,' Charlotte replied fervently. Yesssss!!!! She mentally punched the air. 'I won't let you down.'

Maybe not the magical words every girl longed to hear but for Charlotte Regan – sports reporter for Ireland Today – they were music to her ears.

Now she sat at a blank computer screen in the noisy sports department and thought hard about her first column. The sports editor had given her carte blanche. She grinned mischievously as she typed her introduction.

What witless wonder dreamt up the idea of men's underwear with the logo 'Small' emblazoned on it?

And what was English striker Adam Small thinking when he recently dunked his two big feet into the tacky world of big brand fashion?

'Charlie?'

'Donal!'

'What are you down to do this weekend?'

Oh, let's see. Paint my toenails. Bathe in goats milk. Have wild sex with that gorgeous new reporter in the newsroom.

'I'm covering the hurling match on Sunday...'

'I need you to get down to Cork. There's open war! Nine months stand off and the players have called a strike from next week. No one gets that GAA bloodletting the way you can.'

'Uh hmm. I was there yesterday. Just drove up last night.'

'Yesterday? Monday? You were in Cork?' Donal's eyes widened. Charlotte nodded. What other yesterday was there? Maybe he was surprised she'd gone down on a day off.

'And I got a story.'

Donal rubbed his nose as he stared in bewilderment at Charlotte. 'What are you talking about, Charlie?'

She smiled patiently.

'I mean I went into the dressing room last night and got a story. JJ Nevin's not being disciplined. The selectors haven’t been stood down. Nevin’s switching codes. He’s going to sign for Galway. He’ll be playing soccer in the Airtricity League.'

Donal, Charlotte thought, not for the first time, did a great goldfish impression.

'When were you going to tell me?' he managed finally. Then, as an afterthought added, 'hang on, you went in where last night?'

'The dressing room.'

Donal glanced over at the deputy sports editor, Tim Hanlon, who grinned and shrugged. 'They let you in?' His eyes narrowed.

'Not the first time I've been in a men’s dressing room,' Charlotte said, enjoying herself now. 'Well yes, but...'

'What am I supposed to do? Let the male reporters steal a march? Who'd stop me anyway?

After JJ was substituted, he was taking a shower. I'd never get a story if I were shy!'

'Nobody could accuse you of being shy, Charlie,' John Dempsey, the soccer correspondent announced as he strode in and threw a newspaper down on the adjacent desk. 'We talking about the weekend activities?'

Charlotte rolled wide-set, hazel green eyes and grinned.

'Not yet.' She switched her attention back to Donal. 'Anyway, Nevin – clothed in a towel I might add – and I had a long talk. He filled me in on the whole thing.
They're announcing the signing on Thursday.'

'And we lead with the story tomorrow in the supplement!' Donal said, slapping his hand down delightedly. 'You boys hearing this? None of you will ever be half the man Charlie is!'

• • •

Sharon Black trained as a journalist and worked for The Evening Herald and The Irish Examiner.

She has had short stories published and she won the 2010 Dromineer Literary Festival short story competition.

She lives in Dublin with her husband and their three children.

Find Sharon Online

Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/pages/Sharon-Black-Author-Page/1433997893531882
Twitter - https://twitter.com/Authorsharonb
Blog - http://www.sharonblackauthor.blogspot.com
Tirgearr Publishing - http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Black_Sharon


Where the Shamrocks Grow by Cathy Mansell

WHERE THE SHAMROCKS GROW
Cathy Mansell
ISBN: 9781311081100
ASIN: B00N7ZRGIE
Length: Novel
Genre: Romantic Suspense
Digital Price: $4.99

Buy here: Tirgearr Publishing

Set in 1917 against the backdrop of the Irish civil war, young Jo Kingsley is transported from her turbulent childhood of domestic servitude, to the sophisticated life of the upper classes at the beautiful Chateau Colbert. Here she meets Jean-Pierre, the grandson of her employer, Madame Colbert, and visits Paris where she discovers the desires of men. But Jo’s destiny takes her to America where she experiences more than her dreams of becoming a music teacher.

During prohibition, in the mysterious haunts of Greenwich Village, she falls deeply in love with Mike Pasiński, a free-spirit; and a son of Polish emigrants. However, loneliness, loss and hardship follow during the Wall Street crash.

Will the beautiful Jo let go of her demons and learn to love again?

• • •

Dublin City 1917

Jo Kingsley awoke from a troubled sleep. Her eyes flickered open, and her gaze rested on the thick velvet curtains, partly drawn across the bedroom window. The street lamp shone through, casting shadows on the ceiling. She glanced at the holy pictures on the wall that had always been a source of comfort to her. But tonight the Virgin Mary did not appear to be smiling down on thirteen-year-old Jo. A distant scream reverberated around the room. She felt a stab of fear and reached across the bed to her grandmother.

‘Grandma. Grandma, please wake up.’ With trembling fingers, she traced the outline of her grandmother’s face. It was cold. Startled and distressed, she drew back in the clear knowledge that the wailing sound was none other than the Banshee.

Jo scrambled from the bed, hurried down the stairs, grabbed her black woollen coat from the hallstand, and ran barefoot from the house. Her long fair hair flew out behind her as she raced down the street to her mother’s cottage. The Dublin streets were dark and dimly lit, and the frosty pavement made her feet tingle as she hammered on the door. Her stepfather, Tom, wheezing and gasping for breath, finally opened it. She stepped inside.

‘Ma! Ma! Come quickly, something’s happened to Grandma.’

Kate, a thin woman in her early forties, appeared in the doorway of the bedroom, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. ‘What in the name of God brings you out at this time of the night, girl?’

‘I think me grandma’s dead,’ Jo cried. ‘I… I heard the Banshee.’

Kate sprang into action. ‘You look after things here, Jo-Jo. Sleep on the couch for now.’ In minutes, her mother was dressed and rushing up the street.

Five-year-old Liam cried out in his sleep, and Tom handed her a cover before going back into the bedroom and closing the door behind him. Jo held the thin well-worn blanket close to her shivering body. She didn’t want to be here. A dull ache gripped her. How could her grandma be dead? She’d been all right when they’d bid each other good night. Powerless to stem the tears that trickled down her cold face, she sat in the darkness. What would happen to her now? She bit her nails, digging into the tops of her fingers until they hurt.

The room smelt damp and Jo had no recollection of ever living here. Now, whenever she had cause to visit her mother, it was a sharp reminder of how lucky she was to have been brought up by her grandmother. She curled up on the couch but couldn’t sleep.

She heard coughing, and a shaft of light appeared in the doorway. Tom shuffled into the room clearing his throat, carrying the twins. Jo swung her feet from the couch onto the cold floor. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

He shook his head, too breathless to speak, and placed the whimpering babies down next to her. He lit the lamp on the table and turned up the wick. The light threw shadows across the room, the wallpaper peeling from the walls. Jo looked down at the children’s thin frames and spindly legs, and covered them with her blanket. Innocent eyes looked up at her, the same blue as hers, except theirs were hollow and lacked lustre. She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself to keep warm. The reality of her mother’s life hit her and brought a lump to her throat. She felt sorry for the children, who, in spite of the cold, had fallen asleep.

Feeling wretched and helpless, she made a fire from the turf piled up in the corner by the hearth, hoping it would take the chill from the room. She glanced across to where Tom was lying with his head down on the table, his bald patch visible and a blanket pulled across his thin shoulders. There was no sound apart from his laboured breathing as he dozed, and the sparks from the fire as the turf ignited. She filled the black kettle and hung it on one of the hooks over the fire.

The cupboard was bare apart from a packet of oats, and she wondered if her mother was drinking again! She made the porridge. It was tasteless, watery with little substance, unlike her grandmother’s creamy porridge. Her poor grandma! She had looked after her for as far back as Jo could remember.

Tom stirred and looked across at the sleeping babies, yawned and stretched his long thin arms. The kettle hissed and spouted water, almost extinguishing the fire. Jo got up and made a fresh pot of tea. She poured Tom a mugful and placed it on the table next to him. He was coughing again, beating his chest with his clenched fist. His consumption seemed worse and she pitied him. ‘Tis always worse at night,’ he told her.

‘The porridge is a bit thin, but it’s the best I could do.’

‘Aye! It’s grand.’

When at last daylight seeped through the thin curtains, her mother hadn’t returned.

The room depressed her and she wanted to go home to her grandma’s.

‘I’m going back now, will you be all right?’

‘Aye. Thanks,’ he managed between a fit of coughing, calling out to her when she reached the door. ‘Sorry… for your trouble, Jo.’

• • •

Cathy Mansell writes romantic fiction. Her recently written family sagas are set in her home country of Ireland. One of these sagas closely explores her affinities with Dublin and Leicester. Her children's stories are frequently broadcast on local radio and she also writes newspaper and magazine articles. Cathy has lived in Leicester for fifty years. She belongs to Leicester Writers' Club and edited an Arts Council-funded anthology of work by Lutterworth Writers, of which she is president.

Find Cathy Online

Website - http://www.cathymansell.com
Facebook - http://www.facebook.com/cathy.mansell4
Twitter - https://twitter.com/cathymansell3
LlinkedIn - http://www.linkedin.com/profile/view?id=164084748
Blog - http://blog.cathymansell.com
Grassroots - http://www.transculturalwriting.com/Grassroutes/content/Cathy_Mansell.htm
AuthorsDen - http://www.authorsden.com/cathymansell
Tirgearr Publshing - http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Mansell_Cathy



Friday, November 1, 2013

Come away with me…

I’m Cynthia Owens, back once again to invite you to visit a tiny island jewel on the Atlantic Ocean, complete with tidal pools, caves, a beautiful lighthouse and a rocky coast upon which many a Maritime sailor has run aground…including Cathal Donnelly.

Turtle Island is the setting for my new historical-romance-with-a-paranormal-twist, Keeper of the Light.

If you’ve read Deceptive Hearts, the first book of the Wild Geese Series, you’ll recognize Cathal as one of Shane MacDermott’s best friends. A story teller and a singer of songs, a dreamer and a bit of a rebel, Cathal washes up on the stormy shores of Turtle Island with no memory of who he is or why he’s there.

He’s rescued by Laura Bainbridge, a spirited Maritime beauty with dreams of a wider world beyond the island home she’s always known. But will dreams of Prince Charming take her away from Turtle Island? Or will an encounter with Helena Bodewell, the island ghost, point her in a different direction.

Here’s an excerpt from Keeper of the Light, when Laura first meets the Lady of Turtle Island:

A high, thin cry sliced through her reverie. Her skin prickling, Laura peered into the thick fog.
Nothing. Had she imagined the sound? Was it merely the wail of the wind, the cry of a seabird?
The sound came again, lost, grief-stricken. A woman’s keening wail.
She squinted harder, straining to make out a form, a shape, anything in the thick shroud of fog and dark.
“Is someone there?”
The heartrending cry came again, shivering along Laura’s spine and raking fingers of pain across her heart. “Please… where are you?”
There! High on the cliff at the far end of the beach. A small white-gowned figure, long blonde hair blowing around her. Laura gasped, coughing violently as the wind scored her lungs.
It couldn’t be!
“Helena?” The howling wind snatched the whispered word and carried it away.
The woman turned slowly, and Laura’s breath caught in her throat. Had the woman in white heard?
She was beautiful. Laura had known she would be. Fragile and ethereal, the small woman’s sea-colored eyes blazed, her ruby lips curved into a smile of heartbreaking loveliness as she gazed steadily at Laura for a timeless moment.
Then the wisp of a vision vanished.
Laura squeezed her eyes shut. “It can’t be.”
Was it possible? Had she really just seen the legendary Lady of Turtle Island? Had Helena’s gaze really met hers?
Would the island ghost’s prophesy come true?

Come visit me!

Friday, September 28, 2012


Five Stars for The Eagle's Woman

Miriam Newman is currently somewhere in western Ireland, doing research for the sequel to this new release The Eagle's Woman. In her absence, her friends have been allowed to go "behnd the scenes" of this blog to post celtic-themed articles.

What better article to wish Miriam "bon voyage" and to celebrate her latest book? This is a review published by YouGottaRead Reviews on September 28, 2012--in time for her leaving for the shores of the emerald isle--and we publish it here on her own lovely blog.

Review – The Eagle’s Woman By Miriam Newman
SEPTEMBER 28, 2012 
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Title: The Eagle’s Woman
Author: Miriam Newman
Publisher: DCL Publications
Buy Link: http://www.amazon.com/The-Eagles-Woman-ebook/dp/B008RZD4Q2/ref=sr
Rating: pastedGraphic_1.pdfpastedGraphic_2.pdfpastedGraphic_3.pdfpastedGraphic_1.pdfpastedGraphic_3.pdf You Gotta Read

Blurb:
Son of an impoverished, dying Norse chieftain, Ari raids for booty and slaves so he can feed his people. Pagan himself, still he spares priests though he sells them. He’s a heathen, a murderer, and it is a sin for any Christian woman to love him. Yet when he abducts Maeve from her peaceful Irish fishing village, he may have found the one woman who can.

Review:
Reading The Eagle’s Woman was to me like sipping a rare wine. The taste, the aroma, the heady fire of the words–I wanted the sensation never to end. Ah, Miriam Newman, you are the keeper and dispenser of poetic prose. You make me drunk with the pleasure of reading.

Like the two other novels by Newman I have read, The King’s Daughter and Scion, this latest one focuses on one powerful man and the woman he has come to “own.” And like those two books, the man is strong, resilient, even sensitive; while the woman keeps herself at an ironic distance, measuring and unyielding, yet irresistibly drawn to him.
Unlike those previous novels, which were set in almost fantasy universes, The Eagle’s Woman takes place in a setting cold, beautiful and real–the ninth-century Norway of the Vikings. Newman describes longships on the rough sea, steamy sauna baths and fire-lit longhouses with the sureness of a writer who has been in those very places.

Ari is a Viking whose latest foray has captured Irish slaves for selling in Denmark. Among the women is Maeve, a gold-haired beauty who fights her captivity from the beginning as she is almost raped by one of the rude plunderers. She fights her confinement on the longship, and most of all she fights the nearness to Ari, to whom she now belongs by right of seizure.  Even while struggling against him, she finds herself conflicted emotionally, seeing his compelling body and handsome face: “Well, he was a beautiful man, that was all. A beautiful, savage, murdering heathen.”

Ari himself is larger than life, almost like the majestic figurehead we imagine on the prow of a proud Viking ship. He is utterly enraptured by Maeve. Gazing on her, “His parts ached with immediate urgency." At first he will not abuse her because he plans to sell her in Hedeby, a Danish port and center of a thriving slave trade. Later, as he begins to understand his own needs, he will not force her because he feels an honest admiration, and he respects her fighting instinct: “You could not put your heart in a woman’s hands. It was like handing a razor to a child–they would only cut it out without meaning to.”

The pace of the novel is swift and sure. The author takes us from the longship to Ari’s home in Norway; and from there to a distant coastline where Maeve has been brought as a captive again–this time by Ari’s malevolent half-brother.

At last Newman moves the reader to a long-awaited consummation of her characters’ passions, until finally Ari murmurs to his woman: “I want inside you. All of me, inside all of you.”

Here’s to beautiful writing, and to a satisfying love story. I raise my glass to you, Miriam Newman, and to your latest triumph The Eagle’s Woman.