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

The Gun by Daithi Kavanagh

THE GUN
The Tadhg Sullivan Series, #1
 Daithi Kavanagh
ISBN: 9781311474087
ASIN: B00NU8MDTA
Length: Novel
Genre: Thriller
Price: $3.99

Buy Here: Tirgearr Publishing

Irish Garda Detective Tadhg Sullivan leads a special unit that investigates politically motivated crime. A man known only as The Deerstalker is a cancer who has infected the Irish political system.

Sullivan teams up with journalist Helen Carty, and together they try tracking down the mysterious killer. Carty adds to Sullivan’s problems, when he finds himself falling in love with her. And further complicating things, he starts losing trust in his partner, Detective Pat Carter, who appears to be on the side of the Garda Commissioner, who Sullivan is rapidly falling out with.

Sullivan’s case is further thrown into confusion when a copycat killer, Tommy Walsh, is shot dead by the CIA. When the CIA discovers that they've killed the wrong person, the two agents involved--Simon, who has become disillusioned by his time stationed in the Middle East, and Joey, a psychopath who confuses zealotry with patriotism--are also in pursuit of The Deerstalker.

Sullivan finds himself in a race against time, if he is to arrest The Deerstalker before the CIA take him out, and use his death as a pawn in a political game of chess.

Who will win out in the end?

• • •

He stared at the gun lying on the bed.It was in his possession for nearly half his life and he’d never known what to do with it. The funny thing was, he’d always hated guns and yet, here he was.

He heard his wife moving around downstairs and knew that very soon she would call him for a cup of tea. He had to get the gun back into its hiding place.

He thought back to the first time he’d seen it. A late night knock at the door and a man from down the street had handed the gun and ammunition to him, wrapped in fertiliser bags.

“What the hell is this?” he’d blurted out.

“It’s a gun,” the man had said showing no expression.

“What are you giving it to me for?” he’d whispered, not wanting his family to hear them.”

“Because I trust you,” he’d replied.

“What the hell do you mean, you trust me? You hardly know me! And all I know about you is that you’re mixed up in the IRA. I have a family and I don’t give a damn about the North. Now please get away from my door and take that thing with you.”

The man had stared at him, but all calm had disappeared from his features. Then he spoke through gritted teeth.

“Now listen to me. The guards are going to be here shortly. Something serious happened tonight and now you’re mixed up in it, whether you like it or not. If you don’t take the gun from me now, when the guards arrive here and see us together, I’ll implicate you. Even if they don’t believe me, it will mean that you’ll have to stand up in Court and give evidence against me. Do you want that for your family? It would be much easier for you to stick the gun in the boot of your car drive off somewhere and hide it. But you’d better make your mind up fast, before they drive up and arrest us both.”

He often wondered why he’d taken it. Was it because he’d had sympathy for the man?He didn’t think so. Maybe it was the fear of being implicated, or like the man had said, being branded an informer. He wasn’t sure, but whatever the reason, it seemed like providence.

He heard his wife again. He heard her wheelchair go over the door saddle in the kitchen. He knew she was sitting there in the hallway looking up the stairs. He was safe upstairs, yet he always felt panic when he knew she was listening.

“Is that you love?” he called down.

“Yes, what are you doing up there?”

“I’m just checking my fishing gear.”

He hated lying to her but what could he say? That he was checking out his sniper rifle?

“Well I’m putting on a cup of tea, so finish up whatever you’re doing and come down and get it with me.”

“Right you are, just give me a minute. Cut up some of that Swiss Roll I bought yesterday.”

He pulled back the carpet, lifted the floorboards he’d loosened, and put the gun back in its hiding place. He felt a jolt of excitement. He’d already set his little plan in motion. They’re going to find out the hard way, that no matter who you are, you can’t escape justice.

• • •

Daithi Kavanagh lives in Trinity, County Wexford with his wife and two teenage children.

He has worked for several years as a musician.

In the last couple of years, after taking up adult education, he began writing.

Find Daithi Online:

Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/daithikavanaghwriter
Twitter - https://twitter.com/Daithik3
Blog - http://www.caroldaithi.blogspot.com
Tirgearr Publishing - http://wwwtirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Kavanagh_Daithi

For Your St. Patrick's Day Listening Pleasure

Three hours of traditional Irish instrumental music.  Enjoy!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lfvFQppio6U

The Irish Invade Canada!

There are three things I love most in my writing world: Ireland, Irish history, and mythology—specifically Irish mythology. So naturally, I was thrilled to be able to combine these elements with a little bit of little-known, but important, Canadian history, when I wrote Keeper of the Light (Wild Geese Series, Book II).

The Irish Invade Canada!

No, it's not a St. Patrick's Day parade, or even a ceilidh given by a local branch of the Irish Society. The Irish invasion of Canada actually happened, and it was one of several factors that contributed to the Confederation of Canada in 1867.

An Gorta Mor, Ireland’s Great Hunger of the min-Nineteenth Century, decimated the population of Ireland. Many fled to America, where anti-English sentiments (and Fenian beliefs) ran high. The Fenians believed that England might be turned away from Ireland if one of their colonies was in danger. So, in 1865, they threatened to invade Canada, then known as "British North America." The threats were taken seriously on both sides of the border, where troops were massed and ready for action.

 In April of 1866, a group of Fenians gathered at Campobello Island, near New Brunswick, but withdrew in the face of the Canadian Militia, British warships, and American authorities. A month later, about 800 Fenians crossed the Niagara River into Canada, occupying Fort Erie and cutting telegraph lines. The Buffalo and Lake Huron railroads were also severed before the Fenians proceeded inland. Again, the Canadian Militia countered the attack.

In June, the Fenians drove the Canadians back at Ridgeway, Ontario, and suffered many casualties. At Fort Erie, they took on another Canadian Militia and forced them back. The main Canadian forces entered Fort Erie, but the Fenians had already escaped back across the border to the U.S., where they were given a hero's welcome. Later that same month, about 1000 Fenians crossed the Canadian border and occupied Pigeon Hill in Missisquoi County, Quebec. They plundered St. Armand and Frelighsburg, but retreated to the U.S. when the American authorities seized their supplies at St. Alban's.

Thus ended the Fenian invasion of Canada.

Aftermath

Although the raids failed to end British rule in North America or in Ireland, they did have serious historical consequences. Canadian nationalism was promoted by the raids, and the fear of American invasion united Upper and Lower Canada in common defense. A few months later, the two provinces came together under the British North America Act of 1867 (also known as Canadian Confederation).

This is the background to Keeper of the Light.

When I first conceived The Wild Geese Series, I knew the heroes would be Irish. Five boys who met on a coffin ship grew up together in the New York City of immigrants and crime, and survived to fight in the American Civil War. Originally, I’d planned for each of their stories to take place in New York City.

Then I met Cathal Donnelly…

A story teller, a singer of songs, a dreamer of dreams, Cathal has a rebellious streak and a deep bitterness born in the far-off days of Ireland’s Great Hunger. A restless man, he’s never been able to settle down, and after the assassination of President Lincoln, he becomes involved with the Fenians, whose goal is to free Ireland from the British yoke.

That’s when I decided Cathal had to become involved in the plot to invade Canada.

Here’s a little bit about Keeper of the Light:

…Like the Wild Geese of Old Ireland, five boys grew to manhood despite hunger, war, and the mean streets of New York…

She was everything he despised…but he didn’t know it

Cathal Donnelly washed up on the shores of an Atlantic island one stormy night, with no memory of who he was or why he was there. But is his lovely rescuer his salvation…or his doom?

She dreamed of a very different life

Laura Bainbridge has spent her entire life on tiny Turtle Island, but she dreams of a Season in London and a presentation to Queen Victoria. Can a handsome Irish stranger with a golden tongue and a disturbing past change her heart and convince her to stay?

As Cathal’s memory slowly returns, both he and Laura must come to grips with his painful past…and fight for a future free of hatred and loss.

Excerpt:

We are a Fenian brotherhood,
Skilled in the arts of war,
And we’re going to fight for Ireland,
The land that we adore.
Many battles we have won,
Along with the boys in blue
And we’ll go and capture Canada
For we’ve nothing else to do.
~ Fenian soldiers’ song

Prologue

 Queenstown Harbor, Ireland, “Black ‘47”

“Cathal, lad, look at me. Look at me now, and tell me why ye’re here.”

Cathal Donnelly’s soul shrank as the priest grasped his chin between long, bony fingers and forced his reluctant gaze up to his face. Father O’Reilly’s black robe flapped and snapped in the chill spring wind that slashed Cathal’s own skin. The gulls screaming over the sea like banshees sent shivers down his spine. He caught his lower lip between his teeth, struggling to control his shameful tears. “We’re going to America, Father.”

“And do ye know why ye must go to America?”

“Because we’ve no food, Father.”

“Ah, now that’s where ye’re wrong, lad.” Father O’Reilly glanced over to where Cathal’s family huddled together on the shore with hundreds of other emaciated refugees waiting to board the Sally Malone. Then he knelt before the ten-year-old boy, his dark-blue eyes blazing, his hands biting into his flesh. “Ye must go to America because the English decided ye’ve no food, Cathal. England starved ye, abused ye, and when ye dared to cry out for help, she turned blind eyes and deaf ears. Where has all the grain gone? And the cattle and the pigs and the sheep? All gone to England.” The priest waved a bony hand toward the quay, where huge, many-masted ships filled with food and livestock waited to sail. “All of it sent over the water so England may grow fat while Ireland starves. Do ye realize that, Cathal Donnelly? Do ye, lad?”

“Aye, Father.” Cathal widened his eyes in awe, pride swelling his heart and puffing out his thin chest. No one had ever talked to him this way, as if he were grown up. As if he understood. He’d heard the whispers in the back room at Phelan’s pub, or when the men were digging the praties before they’d turned to black slime in the pit. But never had anyone told him why they must send their own food away. “I understand.”

“Remember it then, lad. Remember it all—the hunger, the evictions, the cruelty. Remember it, and tell yer children, and in time their children. Will ye do that for me, Cathal Donnelly?”

“Aye, Father, I will.”

“The English drove ye from yer land.” Father O’Reilly’s voice shook with emotion. Tears sprang to his eyes and rolled down his cheeks, and Cathal’s heart twisted for the priest’s grief. “Don’t ever forget that, lad. Keep the memories alive, so that one day, please God, the wrongs done to our people will be righted.”

Blinded by tears that had nothing to do with the sharp salt wind blowing off the sea, Cathal clenched his fists, his soul crying out for justice. For vengeance.

“I promise, Father.”

Wishing everyone at the Celtic Rose a happy St. Patrick’s Day!

One Night in Dublin by Kemberlee Shortland

ONE NIGHT IN DUBLIN
City Nights
Kemberlee Shortland
ISBN: 9781311609366
ASIN: B00RY20282
Length: Novella
Genre: Erotic Romance
Price: $2.99
Buy here: Tirgearr Publishing

  At her mother’s prompting (nagging) about grandchildren, Sive wonders if it really is time to settle down. She’s just finishing college so she should be thinking about her future. But is she ready to settle down? Is she ready for kids? And more importantly, which of the three men she’s been seeing does she want to spend the rest of her life with? Sive has a choice to make, and only 24 hours in which to make it.

• • •

Choices.

We all make them. From the moment we wake up, it's: “do I get out of bed now or hit the snooze button . . . again?” “shall I wear this outfit to work or that one?” “tea and toast or grab something on the way?”

It's all mundane bullshit. They’re all choices we make on the fly without even realizing we're making them.

Think about it. What choices do you make when you’re not thinking about them? Like going home from work. You get on the train, find a seat and wait for your stop. But when you get there, you wonder how the hell you got there because you don’t remember making the journey.

What I’m trying to say is that we often go on auto-pilot and just do what needs doing without any real thought, because there are usually more pressing things to think about—the important things. Or seemingly so. Like, what movie to see, what restaurant to eat in, where to go on holidays . . . and for some girls, this pair of sensible shoes on sale or another pair not on sale but immensely sexier?

For me, today, my choices aren't so mundane, and they’ll require a lot of conscious thought. I have an important decision to make. One that could change my life forever, pardon the cliché.

They—whoever 'they' are—say there is someone for everyone, that we all have a 'type' of person we're attracted to. I'm still figuring it all out . . . exploring to see what is my type . . . that someone just for me. And it doesn’t help that my mum’s voice is in the back of my head, asking . . . i.e. nagging (yes, I just said i.e.) . . . when I’m going to settle down and give her grandkids.

First, let me say this: I'm not a slut. I'm not loose, I don't carelessly sleep around, and I don't do one-night stands. I just love men and all of their vast differences.

What can I say about my boys that every other woman out there doesn’t already know about men? Charmers, every one of them. But they all give me something I need.

Tonight I need to decide what, or who, I need the most—Fitzy, Moss, or Sully.

• • •

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!

Kemberlee enjoys hearing from her readers. Please feel free to visit her on her social media sites, including Facebook and Twitter.

Find Kemberlee Online:
 Website - http://www.kemberlee.com
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/AuthorKemberleeShortland
Twitter - http://www.twitter.com/kemberlee
LinkedIn - http://www.linkedin.com/in/kemberlee
Hearticles - http://www.hearticles.blogspot.com
HeartShapedStones - http://www.heartshapedstones.blogspot.com
Tirgearr Publishing - http://tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Shortland_Kemberlee

HAPPY 2015!!!

A VERY HAPPY NEW YEAR FROM THE CELTIC ROSE!

LOVELY WISHES COMING YOUR WAY!