~ Blurb ~
Daryl Devoré pens another hot read – the medieval romance –Branwyn’s Love.
The tale of a young woman sold as a courtesan in training. Branwyn arrives in a new land to begin daily lessons in the bewildering art of bedding a man.
The noblewoman chosen to be Prince Malacke’s bride rejects him by bedding his hated rival. Malacke turns his anger towards increasing the power and wealth of Black Dorn castle. And he succeeds until his attention is captured by the face of the woman who will be his queen.
Note: This book contains elements of domination, submission, and fetishes. If these concepts disturb you, please do not purchase or read this book. Branwyn’s Love was formerly known as Black Dorn and published by New Dawning.
~ Excerpt ~
“Stand.” He held out his hand. “We are alone.”
“I do not understand, Gon-Dra.” She gripped his hand and let him assist her.
“Call me Malacke. Use my name. Not my birthright.” He busied himself with his horse, loosening the reins and leading the animal to the river. While it drank, he opened a sack and pulled out a wineskin. He removed his knife, cut off a chunk of bread and cheese, then handed them to Branwyn. She accepted it then settled under a willow tree near the creek’s edge.
He sat beside her and ate his meal. Finished with her lunch, she sipped her wine in silence, admiring the sound of the creek and the birds. With quick glances, she studied Malacke. His eyes were the depth of some of the blue flowers in the garden. A faint scar marred his left cheek. His face was shorn of beard, but for the slight stubble of a new day’s growth. His features were pleasing— very pleasing— to her.
“Tell me where you come from? What is your land—your people—like?”
Why did his deep voice make her heart beat faster?
“My land is like Black Dorn but flat and not as beautiful. I have not seen so many rolling hills. Our languages are similar, but we each have words the other does not.”
He lay back and closed his eyes. “Such as?”
“Gon. I believe it to mean king—one who rules all. Gon-Dra has no match in our language. The son of a king is a prince, and the oldest is the heir to the throne.”
He opened his eyes. “Are all the women from your land as beautiful as you?”
Branwyn felt a flush run from her belly to her scalp. “My six cousins were not as…” She looked at the creek. Her voice softened. “Which is why I was sent to be trained.”
Malacke sat up. He moved closer— too close. “Standing beside you, even the most beautiful of cousins would be less so. Your green eyes are like the newly born spring—alive and full of hope. Your lips… there is a flower, a rose I believe, in the garden the same colour. If your lips taste as wondrous as the smell of that flower… may I kiss those lips?”
“You are the gon-dra. You take—”
A frown crossed his forehead. “I do not ask as gon-dra. I ask as Malacke. I wish to be granted the kiss.”
“I am sorry if I have offended you.” She placed her fingers on his forehead and smoothed his creased brow. “A kiss from you would—”
He did not let her finish her sentence. He reached behind her neck and pulled her face to his. His lips parted. She felt his breath, then nothing.
“Have you been kissed before?”
She lowered her eyes. “When I was being… trained, he…”
“Being instructed and being kissed are as different as day is from night. One is about tragor and the other is passion, lust and possibly love.”
She glanced up at the word love.
He pressed his lips on hers and grasped her so close her breasts compressed against his chest. She released him with a gasp. Her gaze did not leave his.
“More?” he whispered.
She pulled his face to hers and planted her mouth on his. He opened his lips. She did the same.
Minutes swam by in a blurred state of locked lips. Heat rose within Branwyn. She leaned away. Holding her hand to her chest, Branwyn gasped for air. “This is… I should not be doing this. You are not—”
“Did you like it?”
“Would you like more?”
“Yes.” It was a whisper. “But it is wrong.”
He kissed her cheek, her neck, her throat, then looked into her eyes. “A thing feels best when it is wrong.”
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~ About the Author ~
Daryl (@daryldevore) lives in an old farmhouse in Ontario, Canada, with her husband, two black cats – Licorice and Ginny-Furr Purrkins – and some house ghosts. Her daughter is grown and has flown the nest. Daryl loves to take long walks on her quiet country road or snowshoe across the back acres, and in the summer, kayak along the St. Lawrence River. She has touched a moon rock, a mammoth, and a meteorite. She’s been deep in the ocean in a submarine, flown high over Niagara Falls in a helicopter, and used the ladies room in a royal palace. Life’s an adventure and Daryl’s having fun living it.