Blackburn
Castle
Tortured
Souls Series Book 2
by
R.C. Matthews
Genre:
Historical Romance, Paranormal
Victor
Blackburn is living on borrowed time. An ancient curse violently
claims the life of each Blackburn male on his twenty-seventh
birthday. As his approaches, his only hope of survival is a witch who
vanished long ago without a trace.
Mercy
Seymour eagerly counts down the days until the curse will claim
Victor’s life. She watched him murder her mother, and only his
death will free her of the hatred and anger she harbors.
When
fate throws them together in Devil’s Cove, desire simmers between
the handsome pirate and the spirited barkeeper’s niece until they
learn the truth about each other. Desperate for her cooperation,
Victor spirits her away to Blackburn Castle in the Scottish
Highlands, where forces of magic and mists from beyond the grave
weaken her resolve, opening her eyes to the truth of the past.
As
Victor and Mercy unearth the fabled stones needed to break the curse,
they discover that the only weapon powerful enough to destroy hate is
love. But will they have to sacrifice their relationship to save what
means the most to them?
RELEASE
DATE of April 10, 2017
Goodreads * Amazon
Fear cleaved Mercy’s heart in two, and she
lost all sense of decorum.
“What kind of monster are you?” she cried,
pounding her fists against his chest. “You would force me to lie with you and
bear your children? Have you no conscience whatsoever? You beast!”
His green eyes darkened into pools of
determination, and he shoved her aside, striding to her abandoned carpetbag. He
clawed through the contents, tossing her clothes absently onto the bed, until
he pulled out the wooden box containing her potions. Her heart stuttered a
moment when he opened it, revealing vial after vial.
“I have a conscience that batters me daily,”
he said, plucking one of the vials from the box. “But you leave me no choice!”
He held the cylinder to the light, and
although it appeared empty, Mercy knew better. The contents were expensive and,
by far, the most sought-after potion of meddling mamas of the ton.
“I do believe the gods are on my side,” he
said, reading the label. “Serum eau de Freya.” A vindictive smile curled his
lips up. “Freya is the Norse goddess of love and fertility.
Your love potion is amber, so methinks this little gem promises fertility. What
say you?”
She felt the blood drain from her face as he
sauntered back to her, his confident swagger back in full force.
He cupped her chin, rubbing his thumb over her
cheek. “Enough said.”
“You can’t force the serum down my throat.”
“No, I don’t suppose I can. But there are
other ways to gain your cooperation, and I’m quite motivated.”
He collected the Tome of the
Accursed and her wooden box. Striding to a davenport desk in the corner
of the cabin, he lifted the lid and stowed the spell book and her potions
inside.
“Come here, Mercy,” he said, crooking a
finger.
With clenched fists, she stomped toward him.
Oh, she had the courage to ignore his command, but he might make good on his
earlier threat and use her precious spell book for kindling.
He turned his hand palm up. “Empty your
pockets.”
She stepped back and tamped down the burning
desire to slip her hand inside her pocket and retrieve the vial of sleep serum.
“I beg your pardon! There’s nothing in my pockets.”
“You’re a terrible liar.” His hand shot out
lightning fast and captured her wrist, drawing her to him. “I felt something
hard when we kissed, and it wasn’t me. Either empty them yourself, or I’ll take
great pleasure in doing it for you.”
No doubt he would. She turned out her pockets,
securing the vial in the palm of her hand, and lifted her brow in triumph. But
he only grinned and snatched the vial from her. His jaw tightened as he read
the label. With a grunt of disgust, he tossed the vial into his desk and locked
the lid.
“This is the only key,” he said, turning to
face her. “Do not attempt breaking into my desk, or you’ll suffer the
consequences. I assure you the punishment will be severe and one you will not
enjoy, though I most certainly will.”
His fingers entwined in the simple ties of his
shirt at the base of his throat, and he tugged them loose. The shirt fell open,
revealing a thatch of black hair on his chest. He bent over and pulled off one
boot, and then the other, followed by his stockings.
“What are you doing?” she asked, backing away.
Was he offering her a glimpse of the type of
punishment he threatened?
“I’m undressing.”
He unbuttoned his trousers next as he walked
toward the bed.
“Cease this instant! You won’t gain my
cooperation this way.”
His trousers fell to the floor, and she
gasped, covering her eyes with her hands. Her heart thundered. Would he strip
naked before her? She had thought herself safe from his wicked plans.
“I’m immune to your rantings, witch. It’s
late,” he said, his voice muffled. “And I’m tired. It’s been a long day, the
storm rages on, and I must relieve the captain in a few short hours.”
Peeking through a slit in her fingers, she
caught sight of his round buttocks encased in snug-fitting long johns. She
studied his sleek leg muscles, so unlike any man she’d ever seen in the tavern.
His muscles flexed under the task of pulling his damp shirt over his head. When
he was free of the garment, her gaze traveled north, traversing the expanse of
his broad shoulders.
A painful knot lodged in her throat. His back
was an intricate web of thick scars from waistband to neck and shoulder to
shoulder. She dropped her hands from her face, taking in the full measure of
the damage.
Victor was a child of ten years, abducted and
tortured himself, and acting under duress of the Butcher.
Although Cecelia had often preached the same
as Eveline, Mercy had not given either woman’s claims an ounce of credence. But
the evidence before her was irrefutable. Victor had been savagely beaten. On
multiple occasions. A vague memory of the Butcher slashing a knife across the
boy’s back before he stabbed her mother assailed Mercy, and she heaved in a breath.
Victor glanced over his shoulder, and his
eyebrows knitted. There was a glimmer of comprehension in his eyes, and he
grunted. “Don’t waste your pity on me. I haven’t suffered anything I didn’t
deserve.”
“Did the Butcher do that?” she asked.
“Why do you care?” he growled, turning to face
her. “You would have me die a brutal death. Or have you forgotten?”
Why did her stomach quake so violently? He
spoke the truth. She wished him dead. Her gaze roamed over his chest and corded
stomach, unscathed and so utterly beautiful. He was a study in male perfection
from the front. But his back … She could not fathom the level of pain he’d
endured, nor what lie ahead of him under the Blackburn curse.
“You may hate me,” he said, his tone a smug
sneer. “But you want me between your thighs. The way you stare at me sometimes
… ” His heated gaze traveled the length of her body, devouring her inch by inch
as he settled onto the bed. “Like I’m a slice of apple tart and you haven’t
eaten dessert in a long while. Come here and eat, sweetheart.”
He patted the empty space next to him on the
bed. A lascivious grin split across his face, and he laughed.
The man was horrid! Pompous. Arrogant. Vain.
Why had she felt even a speck of sorrow on his behalf? Remaining in the same
quarters with him was out of the question. She stomped to the cabin door. The
knob rattled under her hand but would not open. Balling her hands into fists,
she pounded on the door.
Devil's
Cove
Tortured
Souls Book 1
Shrouded
in unspeakable horror and spoken of only in whispers, the abandoned
Devil's Cove Manor lures Captain Devlin Limmerick and his
unquenchable thirst for revenge to its doors. Feared as the Devil on
the high seas, the pirate's desire to avenge his past is matched only
by his hunger for the powerful young medium he has coerced to aid him
in his nefarious quest.
Blinded
from youth and touched with an ability to communicate beyond the
grave, Grace is both feared and revered by the uneasy town folk. Yet
she is powerless against the unrest brewing within the manor walls
and finds herself drawn to the Devil's darkness. Still, she refuses
to sacrifice her soul to set Devlin's unspeakable plans in motion.
But
an evil lurks within these walls, and their very souls are in
jeopardy. Grace's presence at the manor spurs inexplicable
happenings, forcing Devlin to believe nothing is as dead as it seems
- not even his heart. Plunged into the throes of passion and danger,
they discover the only way out is to search deep within and summon
the courage to believe in true love.
A gust of wind blew through Grace’s hair,
sending gooseflesh racing down her arms and reminding her why she despised
sitting close to the tavern entrance. Only this time it was different as a hush
settled over the boisterous room. Grace cocked her head to one side and
listened closely. Nothing but the hiss of the gas lanterns could be heard. Not
even the telltale squeak of the wooden floorboards as Mercy Seymour made her
rounds, racing from table to table in a never-ending attempt to keep the
tankards full. This was odd, indeed.
But even odder was the sense of foreboding
that crept into Grace’s veins. She inhaled a deep breath, and her nostrils
itched. Fear had a distinctive scent, and the air was rife with it. She
shivered.
Mercy shuffled past Grace’s table, mumbling
under her breath, and just like that, the muted voices resumed and the
unsettling moment passed. As the clanking of forks against plates grew louder,
Grace exhaled and tuned out every last speck of noise, homing in on the conversation
taking place at the entrance. Ever since she had gone blind at the age of
seven, her cochlear and olfactory nerves had sharpened to an astonishing level,
almost as if God mourned the loss of her sight as much as she had and gifted
her with heightened sense of sound, taste, and smell.
“Evening, sir,” Mercy said with the tiniest of
tremors lilting on her words. “I’ve a fine table for you this way. Please
follow me.”
The floorboards groaned under a heavy set of
boots, and a mixture of fresh sea air and sandalwood assaulted Grace’s senses.
She bit down on her lip when the footsteps paused, and her fingers tensed
around the fork and knife she held steady over her plate. His heavenly scent
enveloped her; he must be a fine fellow to smell so good. Her heartbeat thumped
painfully against her ribs, and she hated herself in that moment for falling
victim to vanity. However, she couldn’t help but wonder if the man stared at
her in disgust, drawn with a morbid curiosity to gawk at the sightless spheres
that rested in her eye sockets.
Her mother had gazed often into her eyes and
proclaimed their beauty when she was a child. Bluer than the bluest sky on a
bright spring morning. That was a long time ago and much had changed. The
brothers of the priory couldn’t afford much, but she was thankful for the
simple prosthetic eyes they’d procured. Brother Anselm assured her the
dark-brown shade was appealing.
She shoved the treasured memory to the back of
her mind and resumed cutting a piece of roasted beef on her plate. Let the man
stare if he must. Bowing her head, she pulled the fork toward her mouth and
welcomed the taste of the savory beef, seasoned to perfection. It melted on her
tongue, tender as it was.
The footfalls resumed against the wooden
planks, and the noise of the tavern reached its normal deafening pitch. Grace
lifted her head toward her supper mate as the tension left her body. She must
know about the newest patron of The Black Serpent. That he should bring the
entire establishment to dead silence spoke volumes about the man, yet she
yearned for specifics.
“Brother Anselm,” she began, licking her lips.
“Please.”
She needn’t say more. After living in each
other’s company for nearly fifteen years, he understood her plea. What she
didn’t know was whether he would comply and provide the details she sought.
A soft chortle from across the table was
enough to bring a smile to her face. Brother Anselm was amused, so the tale
must be a good one. As she waited for him to collect his thoughts, she fished
for a potato on her plate. They were always the largest pieces, and her fork
sank into them with ease. She speared a tasty morsel and bit into it,
delighting at the creamy gravy rolling over her tongue.
“It’s Captain Devlin Limmerick,” Brother
Anselm said in a hushed tone.
Grace stopped in midchew and her stomach fell
to the floor. “The pirate?”
“Privateer,” he countered. “Or at least that
is what he would have the good people of Devil’s Cove believe. He has taken
residence at Devil’s Cove Manor. Can you imagine?”
She forced the potato down her throat and
washed it away with a sip of ale. That was only one of many rumors she’d heard
about the man. A shudder ran through her. “No, I can’t imagine living there.
The man must be the very devil himself to reside in a mansion reputed to house
the gatekeeper of Hell. Pray tell, does he look like the devil?”
“Ah, my dear girl,” Brother Anselm said with
an amused lilt. “You cannot believe the nonsensical rumors whispered about the
gatekeeper. But the man … should you like to hear that his hair is black as
night, and that he sports a chiseled jaw capable of ripping his opponents to
shreds? Tall, with rippled muscles that will crush every foe? Eyes so dark and
sinister that to even look into their depths would send a man screaming in the
other direction?”
Grace’s lips twitched as the heat of a blush
rushed up her neck and into her cheeks. That was exactly what she wished to
hear. But from the sound of her mentor’s voice, it wasn’t entirely the case.
“Oh, that would be fine, indeed,” she said on
a sigh. “Is it not so?”
Brother Anselm laughed and pulled her hand
into his. “I would liken him to an archangel. Golden hair kept long and pulled
away at the nape of his neck. Quite unconventional. Chiseled jaw, that much is
true. But his eyes. From what I could see in this dim light, I believe they
must be as dark blue as the fathomless sea upon which he commands his ships.”
Not what she had been hoping for, but all was
not lost. There must be more to the man in order to command a room with only
his presence. Perhaps he towered over everyone and wielded an axe or sword.
Yes, that would do nicely. “Would you say he’s as big as Goliath?”
“Quite,” came the answer from an amused
baritone at the edge of their table, and Grace froze.
Good Lord, the pirate was standing right
there. Brother Anselm could’ve forewarned her, at the very least.
R.C.
Matthews’ debut book entitled Little White Lies, was conceived in
1997 while living in Cologne, Germany. However, marriage, children
and a day job that paid the bills put writing the book on the back
burner until 2012 when she discovered the folder with her research in
the basement while reorganizing! Determined to finally realize her
life-long dream of writing a book, R.C. Matthews spent 15 months
writing on weekends to complete the manuscript.
R.C.
Matthews was raised in the Metro-Detroit area by deaf parents along
with four siblings. She graduated from a liberal arts college with a
B.A. in Accounting and German and continues to work as a certified
public accountant. She enjoys traveling with her loving husband and
children, reading, down-hill skiing, and playing board games.
Talisman and LIFE are high on the list of favorites at her home.
R.C.
Matthews is the author of contemporary and historical romances
featuring bold, sassy heroines and magnetic alpha heroes. Warning!
The chemistry between her characters is off the charts hot, so read
at your own risk. She resides in the Midwest and is surrounded by
men: her husband and three sons. During her free time you'll find her
watching The Walking Dead, reading a fabulous book or hanging out
with her family.
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