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Free Sneak Peak at ‘How To Marry Your Wife’

bathhouse

Year of our Lord 1276

England, near London Towne

Prologue

Behind them, massive columns stood tall as their only chaperones in the ancient Roman bathhouse. Peepers croaked, night birds lamented, and water gurgled as it cascaded down from each of the three tiers. Sir Thomas led her deeper into the shadows made by blue moonlight. Tiny waves of light reflected off the pools and onto his beautiful Norman features.

The dark centers of his eyes widened as he brushed his lips over hers. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“You don’t want me?” Merry’s lower lip quivered. Thick black hair caressed the tender places between her fingers when she reached her hands to the back of his head. Warmth spread from where their lower halves met and she kissed him with all her being.

Her Templar knight groaned. “I’ve promised your liege that I’ll not lay with you until we’re wed. If we continue down this road, my honor will be questioned.”

Letting go of his silky wet locks, she reached into her purse and waved six colorful ribbons of yarn in front of his nose. “But I brought these.”

He leaned over to where he’d placed his sword, belt, and boots and came up with similar lengths of wool. “As did I.”

Her cheeks ached with the wide grin she sent his way. “Anon. Let’s do it.”

Rough palms cupped her face as the man she adored bore a hole into her soul with his gaze. “Lass. ‘Tis serious. We’ll be hand-fasted. Are you sure you want this?”

She covered his hands with her own and fell into the depths of those magnificent eyes. The drum in her chest beat faster and her lips parted. “I’m six and ten seasons. I know my own mind.”

A soft moan escaped his perfect lips and his kiss went deeper than any of the others they’d shared all summer. One of his hands slid to the back of her head and the other glided down her back and clamped her bottom globe. He pulled her tight to his hard want and her mind filled with lustful thoughts.

Warm breath met her ear. “We’ll have a proper wedding when I return from London Towne in a fortnight. Ready?”

She nodded and held forth her hand with the yarns.

Never releasing her from his fierce gaze, he clasped his sword arm to hers, tied them together with the yarn, and bound them forever. “I take thee as my wife.”

With eyes watering, her hand shook as she brushed a dark lock from his grey eye. “I take thee, as my husband, for all eternity.”

He flicked his cloak open and lay her down. Then there was only him; his scent, his tongue, and his hands pulling her so close that she mayhap died and went to heaven. He went to his knees with a small growl in his chest and removed his colors. Slivers of moonbeams danced across his glorious body. Strength bumps above his navel led down to small curls of black hair. The ‘V’ pointed a staff so large, surely it would never fit. Holy mother of God. Her mouth lost its liquid and she swallowed hard.

“Don’t worry, love, all will be well.” He leaned over and devoured her in gentle kisses. Their tongues danced and her heart soared. One knee lifted, he straddled her, and found the hem of her tunic. He muttered an apology as it tore when it caught coming over her head. Then his mouth dropped open, his hard pintle danced upon her navel, and he sucked in his breath.  “Bloody love of Christ. You’re perfect.”

She arched up so that the aching wet spot between her legs could rub against his length. His soft kisses started at her mouth, lowered to her breast, and he suckled.

“Please…” The lips between her legs swelled. She moaned at the sweetness of his hands kneading her breasts and his tongue licking the tips of her ever-hardening nipples.

He spread her legs wide with the outside of his knees and rasped, “We play with fire.”

A calloused fingertip rubbed the pebble between her legs, she closed her eyes, and prayed for release. Never had she experienced such need, such wanting. It was as if the gates of heaven were open and she but a foot away.

His wet tongue laved the perfect spot and she gasped. Heated breath from his hiss met her folds and she swelled. A gentle nibble and…oh dear God in heaven… She burst apart, bright lights flashed behind her lids, and her body shook in perfect release.

He slid up her naked body and kissed her fiercely upon the lips tasting of her. “Clamp your thighs around my rod.”

She did as told, and he rubbed it against her sensitive nub again and again but did not enter her. He thrust once more, she clamped him tight, and he shouted into her mouth. His release sent her over the cliff again and she went to holy bliss as sticky fluid lubricated her inner thighs.

“Mine.” He fell onto his side, panting.

She sighed and turned towards him. When their breathing calmed, she said, “I wish you didn’t have to go.”

“But I do and you should be off to your pallet. Soon we’ll lay together every night, then I shall breach you as a proper husband does his wife.” He reached across her body for her skin of wine lying on the mosaic tiles and drank deep.

A tiny squeak escaped her lips. “Wait, no. Thomas. Don’t!”

He looked at her askance and his eyes darkened with a fierce scowl. “What was in that draught?”

She shivered. “Just a foolish love potion from old Agatha. I wasn’t really going to use it.”

He moaned and his eyes rolled to the top of his head. “’Tis no love potion, ‘tis juice of the poppies. Quickly, get dressed and leave. You’ve no idea its affect upon me.”

“I won’t. This is all my fault.” Oh what have I done?

“Merry. Do as I say. Go.” His body convulsed.

Sobbing she held him, not daring to leave and not daring to tell a soul. He hardened again, and this time there was no stopping, no restraint, just his pure love inside her. He was fierce and hard and beautiful all at the same time. When his breathing became calm, and his moaning stopped, she dressed and ran back to her chambers, no longer a virgin. Already the cock crowed and pale orange of the rising sun lit the grassy knolls in the distance.

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An Interview with Ann and Marcus

I go back in time, to the year 1276 to have a short speak with Ann and Marcus. They insist we chat while soaking in their ancient Roman bathhouse and I have to agree, it’s heavenly.
bathhouse

It’s odd to get naked with my characters, but I am sitting so that I am mostly concealed under the water. I wish Marcus would do so as well, but every so often he pushes up with hands to the edge, and gracefully exits. I can’t help but stare at his magnificent warrior’s physique.

When he eases back in with the grace of a cat, I start my questions with Ann. “I hear you are with child?”

She beams and rubs her swollen belly. “Indeed I am. Do you know if it’s a boy or girl?”

I do, but won’t spoil the surprise. “No, no. We will find out together in book two.”

“Book two? You mean for us to have another adventure? I believe I would rather not” Her mouth purses and turns down into a pout.

Marcus glares at me. “I thought we were safe in happily-ever-after.”

I swallow hard. “Well, yes and no. That’s why I’m here. Sir Thomas is going to need your help, Marcus. Ann, I’m afraid you will be stuck minding hearth and home.”

Her eyes dart to Marcus, no doubt waiting for him to agree but he seems mollified for a moment. “That hardly seems just.”

I clear my throat. “I know, but you’ll be pregnant with your third child… and it doesn’t seem right to have you off on an adventure to Scotland. Besides, who’ll mind your villagers?”

She settles back into the water with a happy face and reaches for a clay pot. “Three children? Very well. As long as you agree that my husband will not meet with ill fortune.”

I nod and turn such that I face the tub wall, not wanting to show my body to my characters. After all, I am author-god. I should look a hell of a lot more… god-like. “There will be some perilous moments but not so much for him as for Thomas.”

Grabbing soap salts, she begins to scrub my back with a linen cloth. “Sir Thomas? I thought you sent him to parts unknown. To trade for the king.”

The lavender scent is heavenly. “I did, but I had to bring him home. You know the lovely maid he’s been eyeing all summer? I’m afraid she is with child.”

Marcus growls and glances at his sword lying beside the pool. “I shall gut him from chin to-. Bring him back this instant. First there must be a wedding.”

I turn, put my palms up in the air in supplication, then quickly duck back down. “Well that’s just the point of the story. It’s going to be five years before I can get him back.”
“Absolutely unacceptable. By God, I won’t have any knight of mine making a chit pregnant.”

“Be reasonable. I cannot. He’s south of Rome by now, and makes his way to the east where neither pigeon, nor messenger can catch him.”

“Oh my. Well, we’ll just have to make the best of it.” Ann hops out of the water, dons her tunic, and rushes out the door in bare feet.

Marcus follows at a slower pace, sparing one glance back at me. “There better be another happily-ever-after, or heads will roll”
I lean back into the heated baths and sigh. That went quite well.

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A New Author And Social Media

First… let me get your attention…..

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and a few more just to be sure….

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Awesome.

When Soul Mate Publishing approached me with a contract and told me I would be doing my own marketing, I almost didn’t sign.

WHAAAAA???? “I don’t know anything about marketing,” I said. “How in the world will I ever figure it out?”

My editor assured me I would do fine.

I’m one of those A+ overachiever types, so when I put my John Hancock on the dotted line, I challenged myself to learn EVERYTHING I needed to know about marketing in three months. That was my release date.

Some people have asked what I did to rise so high in the rankings so here goes.

I asked other writers what they were doing. I knew I only should’ve been asking VERY successful writers what they were doing but I didn’t know any very successful writers. In fact, I didn’t know any writers at all. Crap.

I researched online and hired a consultant for an hour. Enter Jane Friedman. We talked, she gave me a list of places to research, and I was off and running. I think I probably could’ve found everything she said on her website, but, it just felt SO GOOD to talk to someone.

“Most important,” she said, “you need reviews. Ask friends, go to review websites, and research.”

“Okay. I can do that.” I had no idea how hard that would be.

“What next?”

“Blog site, website, Goodreads, Pinterest, Facebook, Twitter Account.”

I remember thinking at that point, I could just hire all this out so I said, “No Problemo.”

Blithely I left that conversation thinking I had it all down until…I saw how much money these services cost to hire out. Wow.

Okay. I’m a programmer. How hard could it be? Hahahahahhaha. Famous last words. Did I mention I’m an overachiever? Over the next three months I ticked one thing after another off my list.

Realizing I needed some more help, I hired Hajni at Substance Books. I could tell you what she told me to do, but then I’d have to kill you. Seriously? She is SO WORTH the small fee she asks.

Her method, however, is very much show and tell at the basic level I pay for. She gives instructions and I do it.

Thusly armed, I thought I had it down, but I didn’t. I felt like a parrot. Buy my book. Buy my Book. Everything that I’d read not to do and say, I did.

Connect? Virtually? Sounds like an Oxymoron? Right? But on Mother’s Day, I saw this tweet. “Next person to tweet me, I will give a review to.”

I tweeted back, “Me Me ME. PICK ME! Oh oh oh.”

She virtually laughed. We’ve become the best of virtual friends and now I get it.

Connect with your fans.

That’s it. I have fun. I tweet out stuff that makes me laugh and feel positive.

I pin things on Pinterest that look like scenes or people in my book… and yea.. some other stuff too.

I still work 40 hours on my day job. I still write for 20 hours a week. I still work out for seven.

Most everything else, that adds no value to my life, I’ve had to let go.
Know what the coolest thing is?


I REALLY LIKE IT!

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Where do Writer’s Get Ideas for Their Novels?

Where do Writer’s Get Ideas for Their Novels?

I just finished my final change before my second book goes to my publisher and I’m already considering the plot for the next.
I would guess every author’s brain is different, but this is how mine works.

First, and foremost, my books start with “What-If”. Let me try to explain this odd phenomenon. It’s a thread that’s constantly running in the background of my consciousness; it never sleeps, it never turns off, and it never “blocks.” It’s a funny little troll that has always spoken at will in my mind’s eye.

It goes like this:

Example. What if one day I walk by the creepy house on the hill next door, a cardboard box is dropped onto their driveway during a UPS delivery, and hundreds of bottles of prescription drugs roll down to my feet?

Example. What if I’m sitting at my cube, writing software, and I’m called to the front office to receive delivery of a computer. I turn it on for the first time and a video plays that says to hide it and tell no one or die.

Example. What if I’m a scientist studying the effect of comforting sounds on the human psyche and place a microphone over a gurgling stream deep in the woods, and that night, overhear two guys burying a body? When I check it out with the cops the next day, there’s nothing there and I lose my credibility. I continue to listen in and hear much more than I should…

Example. What if I’m a Renaissance-thinking lady, leading a Medieval village into prosperity, and suddenly am forced to marry a hard-headed Templar knight?

Example. What if I have a five year old son, and his father, who I think is dead, shows up on my doorstep near London Towne? What if the year is 1278 and I’m forced to marry him and he lives miles away at the border with Scotland?

Look into your pocket or purse. Find an object. Make up your own What If.

Try it out. I’ll give you a start.

What if last night, at the bar, you picked up the wrong cell phone? It rings and you hear a recorded message not intended for you.

What if…a key…

What if…a receipt…

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Happiness

Last weekend I read and reviewed a book by a woman, about my age, who lives with Bipolar. We exchanged a few emails. The weekend before I tweeted to a woman who has been a ‘mum’ to a child who has grown into the body of a man, but with the mind of a toddler.

These are remarkable heroines with incredible strength and I am blessed to have their lives intersect with mine, even so briefly. I am changed just by knowing them.

Everyone knows that likes attract so I humbly pondered how I got here.

Long ago, I remember my first foray into goal-setting. I had chastised a younger worker for his shoddy work on the repair of a video tape machine. My boss figured I needed a few lessons in how to deal with people and sent me off to a Dale Carnegie course. About the same time, the company decided we needed to be more productive, and a few of us headed off to NYC for a course in Time Management.

Of course, they sent me home with brochures to buy tapes, (it was the eighties), and more self-help tapes. I gobbled everything down because I was starving. I was thirty, stuck in a job I hated, had two young kids, a mortgage, and no way out. I cried a lot.

It took a lot of hard work to change my thoughts but I did. After my thoughts changed, my life changed, and here I am.

Believe

Where am I? Content. Not complacent, by any means, but most of the time, pretty happy.

When I need to ‘pay it forward,’ I write about strong women, facing adversity. A romance is the perfect place to do it. If thoughts become reality, (and I believe they do), then my life’s goal is to empower women as they imagine themselves as my heroines.

That makes me happy.

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Lady Ann Defends Damaged Heroines

As a dutiful author, this morning I did a Google search using the key words: ‘Romance Novel Review Requests 2015.’ ‘How to Train Your Knight’ needs to get to fifty reviews to gain in the Amazon rankings.

I read through one reviewer’s likes and dislikes, and she fumed inside my head. “What does that mean, she doesn’t like damaged heroines?”
I tried to calm her down and stopped typing. “I’m sure she meant no offense. There’s lots of other-”

“Stop right there, Stella, Put me down for review. I am not damaged.”

I sighed and went to make my oatmeal. This could be a long conversation. “Technically, getting abused by your first husband, almost to the point of death, counts as damaged.”

“Not so. I am completely healed. And happily married with two children and one on the way.”

“Yes, yes. I agree, but not at the start of the book. Don’t you remember?”

“Well I think that’s just wrong. Characters who grow strong through the course of a novel should not be called damaged.“

“I agree.” I read forward a bit on that same page, glad we’d settled the issue

“Wait a second… She likes damaged heroes? How in God’s Blood is that fair?” She virtually screeched inside my brain.

“Listen, everyone’s entitled to an opinion.” I quickly went to the next site and began the process of filling in a form.

“But it’s downright insulting. She allows Marcus his bad dreams but not me?”

“Now, now. You’ve got lots of excellent reviews, Ann. Many women applaud your endless energy, devotion to your town, and the way you handle Sir Marcus. We’ll find some more accommodating and understanding reviewers, okay? Some people just don’t get the courage it takes to be truly happy and content despite adversity in the past, but I do.”

I looked at the clock. I still had to get dressed and ready for work.She snorted and left my head.

Thank God.

Read about Ann in ‘How To Train Your Knight’

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Midwest Book Review

MidwestBookReviewHow To Train Your Knight
Stella Marie Alden
Soul Mate Publishing, Macedon, NY 14502
ASIN: B00WRNKOOU $2.99 Free with Kindle Unlimited
www.stellamariealden.com http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00WRNKOOU

D. Donovan, Senior Reviewer, Midwest Book Review

Most medieval novels don’t offer up a steamy romance theme; but then, How To Train Your Knight isn’t your usual historical novel, but offers a gripping love story set in 1276 that opens with the bang of a screaming woman accosting Sir Marcus Blackwell, a holy crusader forced into a marriage with a foul-tempered widow.

Lies, ladies, she-witches, murder and love are vividly portrayed as characters are well-developed and dialogue and description nicely done to capture the sounds, scents, feel and lingo of Medieval times (without resorting to confusing vernacular, which makes for an exceptionally smooth read).

Where other romances would fall into modern description, How To Train Your Knight stays true to its times, tailoring its graphic sexual encounters with a sense of the decorum and trappings of Medieval times. From the period clothing of the era which is removed with a different touch (“…finally he undid the leather ties holding the three sheaves, and her knives clunked to the floor.”) to a woman’s acceptance of the pleasure involved in making babies (which doesn’t translate to the usual confession to a priest if a husband is involved), Stella Marie Alden excels at presenting powerful protagonists who both express their sexuality and discover riches of the heart in the process.

Because romance is the key, binding factor in How To Train Your Knight, audiences should be genre readers looking for a healthy dose of history to spice the steamy interludes. These factors contribute to a powerful story line that is as much about sexual awakening and love as it is about the process of becoming a powerful partner and surviving the medieval world.

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Writing and Yoga

Yoga becomes art.

 

My good friend, Jennifer, is a yoga instructor, we’re both about the same age, and have a lot in common. She stopped me as I walked by her cube, and said, “I was just talking about you.”

“Oh yea?” I raised my eyebrows and smiled. “All good I hope.”

“I was remarking with Jean how much we admire you.” Her eyes were direct as always, unashamed to be sincere.

I tried to be the same, but blushed. “Thank you. Truly? But why?”

“We were talking how dedicated you are…getting up every day at five thirty to write, entering contests, and finally getting published.” She knows of my yoga journey. How when I started, my toes were so far away, I thought them another universe. Now I can put my hands flat to the floor, even after recovering from a herniated disc.

“What is harder, to do your first backbend in your forties or write a book?”

“Some would argue the latter.” She swiveled in her chair so as to turn and face me more.

“But it is the mindset. The idea of change, of growth that yoga brings that is so important. Yoga has taught me that all things are possible with practice, and belief, and incremental change; to try new things, whether watercolor painting, or replacing windows in my house, or writing. Our possibilities are unbounded. How can you know what you might be good at if you never attempt new things?”

She laughed. “So many people practice yoga for the exercise, or to relax, or for a myriad of other reasons. But you know? It doesn’t matter. Because eventually, if they stick with it, they will reap that benefit, whether they intend to or not.”

“So true.” I walked back to my cube, my day job, and dreamed of more possibilities.”

 

yoga

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Writers must write

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Oh my God. What have I gotten myself into?

I started writing a novel about three years ago for my own amusement. I didn’t want to be rich, well-known or famous. I just wanted to have a little fun in my mind’s eye; a challenge, if you will.

When I let my husband read what I was doing, he encouraged me to do more. What more? At one point in my life I had written several small things and sent away to editors in high hopes only to be dashed by hundreds of rejections. I remember thinking I would never go to that place again; slush pile hell. The place where all manuscripts go to die and egos get crushed into tiny bits of dust.
But, it would be nice to have someone besides a few friends to read my work. But how? I certainly didn’t know any writers. Contests. Hmmm… Sounds kind of fishy, doesn’t it? You pay some money and win? Big deal. That was how my thought process went. No insult intended. My mind runs with constant conspiracies.

I don’t know where or how I came across the RWA,(Romance Writers of America), contests online. Well that looked more interesting. Critical reviews that came as a result of entering the contest. Makes sense. I could get someone to read my work, and tell me if I was full of sh*t or if I might be a writer. Thus my thoughts ran. I really didn’t believe I had the right to call myself a writer. I still have a hard time with it. Even after being an Amazon bestseller.

I placed in two out of three of my first contests. Wow. Talk about validation. I did everything that the contest people recommended, ruined my writing, and stunk big time for almost a year. It didn’t really matter, though because I was having lots of fun and little by little figured out what happened to my voice.

By year three, I had three manuscripts that were pretty solid, and another on the way. On my summer vacation, I entered perhaps ten contests, with my two best works. One was a winner. It won the molly, the show me the spark, and was a finalist in three others.
Several editors asked for full manuscripts, but none more serious than Cindy Brannam with Soul Mate Publishing. She got back to me in less than two weeks and I had a contract.

I have to say, I was more frightened than ecstatic. I have a fulltime job. What do I know of marketing? Now my playing at writing was going to be real. Would it ruin everything? Would fun turn into work? What if no one liked it or bought it? Jeesh, and I didn’t know a tweet from post.

Fast forward to May 25th. My book has been on Amazon for almost three weeks. I did make the Best Seller lists for about two weeks, and its ranking is still in the top ten percent of all books. Not bad for a first book.
Do you know what the hardest thing is? To focus on book two. Not Facebook, Not twitter, Not Pinterest, Not Tumbler Not to a myriad of posting on blogs. To write. Because that is what I love to do. That’s how all this started. I’m not a rock star. I’m not a marketing genius. I am a writer.

And writers write.

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Sneak Peak “How to Train Your Knight”

Marcus was up and comfortably saddled before dawn the next day. When his wife appeared from out of the bathhouse, the sun had not yet appeared, but a soft yellow light had spread across the sky.

“Not a word from you.” He eyed Charles with suspicion. The stable lad responded with a wide-eyed nod, just as she ran across the green and into the church.

“I’ll be right back. Keep Midnight in readiness.” He dismounted and gave his disappointed horse a pat on the rump. Entering the stone abbey by the back door, he was surprised to land in the monk’s quarters. The sparse room held a table, a clay lamp, two pallets, a hearth, and some furs. James, kneeling quietly in prayer, stood slowly, frowned, and regarded him with a furrowed brow.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’d like to join the mass unseen.” Marcus held palms open and up.

“What’re you up to, Blackwell? I’m not sure we’re on the same side. Lady Ann has been like a daughter to me and the manner of your wedding pleased me not.”

“Truly?” He raised his eyebrows. “I’ve yet to even enter relations with her. I’m the one who should be affronted. She’s the one who’s dressed as a lad, running about like a wild hellcat. I’m merely watching out for her safety. How does the church allow it?”

James regarded him for a moment more and gave a quick nod. He led him down a narrow stone hallway to a pew set up behind the altar and out of view of the congregation. “Blessings upon you, my son. And good luck.”

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