Scent
of the Soul
Julie
Doherty
Genre:
Historical Romance
Publisher:
Soul Mate Publishing
Date
of Publication: February 11, 2015
ISBN:
978-1-61935-705-1
ASIN:
B00SZ0SKUE
Number
of pages: 288
Word
Count: 91,000
Cover
Artist: Leah Suttle
Book
Description:
In
twelfth century Scotland, it took a half-Gael with a Viking name to
restore the clans to their rightful lands. Once an exile, Somerled
the Mighty now dominates the west. He’s making alliances, expanding
his territory, and proposing marriage to the Manx princess.
It’s
a bad time to fall for Breagha, a torc-wearing slave with a
supernatural sense of smell.
Somerled
resists the intense attraction to a woman who offers no political
gain, and he won’t have a mistress making demands on him while he’s
negotiating a marriage his people need. Besides, Breagha belongs to a
rival king, one whose fresh alliance Somerled can’t afford to lose.
It’s
when Breagha vanishes that Somerled realizes just how much he needs
her. He abandons his marriage plans to search for her, unprepared for
the evil lurking in the shadowy recesses of Ireland—a lustful demon
who will stop at nothing to keep Breagha for himself.
Excerpt:
As
Godred’s oarsmen shoved off from the jetty, Somerled wondered if
there was any man less suitable to deliver a marriage proposal.
Godred of Dublin was coarse, marginally Christian—indeed,
marginally sane—and easily riled. Nevertheless, King Olaf liked
him, and for that reason alone, Somerled had selected him as his
envoy.
“No
side trips,” Somerled shouted before Godred was too far away to
hear. “Ye have three places to go and that’s it: the Isle of Man,
your clan, and back here.” Godred was prone to unscheduled detours.
Unless
bad weather or the scent of easy plunder pulled Godred and his thirty
oarsmen off course, Somerled would have Olaf’s answer in a few
days. If Olaf agreed to the marriage, Somerled would add a wife to
the items decorating his new castle at Finlaggan and eventually, the
Isle of Man to his expanding area of influence.
The
nobles would respect him then. Half-breed or not.
Behind
him, a door squealed on one of the two guardhouses standing sentinel
over the Sound of Islay. The small building spat out Hakon, his chief
guard, another man of Dublin birth and temperament. Hakon strode the
length of the jetty to join him. “I have every confidence the Norns
will weave Godred a successful journey, my lord king,” he said, his
words puffing white clouds above his tawny sheepskin cape.
“If
your goddesses have woven anything, it’s an unfortunate headwind,”
Somerled said. “Godred is forced to tack.” He closed his cloak
and secured it at his throat with a brooch he once plucked from a
Viking who no longer needed it. “The wind promises hail. My
proposal will be delayed.”
“Aye,
likely,” Hakon said, his hair and beard whipping into copper
clouds, “but it will hasten Olaf’s reply. Do not despair, my
lord. Ragnhilde will marry ye soon enough.”
Despair?
Somerled stifled a laugh. Did Hakon think he had feelings for a
lassie he had never met? He was about to tease his guard about being
a romantic when Hakon stiffened.
“Another
ship,” Hakon said, looking past Somerled’s shoulder.
Somerled
spun around to inspect the northwestern waters of the channel
separating Jura and Islay—the jewel of the Hebrides and the island
that served as the seat of his burgeoning kingdom. “Where?” he
asked, squinting.
Hakon
thrust a finger toward the fog bank blanketing the horizon. “There,
at the promontory, in that pale blue strip of water. See it?”
At
first, Somerled saw nothing but swooping terns and ranks of swells.
Then, an unadorned sail appeared. It crested on a wave, dipped low,
and vanished.
“Should
I sound the horn?” Hakon asked.
Somerled
raked his fingers through the coarse, wheaten mess slapping at his
eyes and held it at his nape while he considered his response. Behind
them, the signal tower on Ben Vicar was smoke-free. Across the sound,
the towers on the frosty Paps of Jura were likewise unlit, although
clouds partially obscured their peaks. The Paps had a commanding
view. If a signal fire blazed anywhere, the men stationed there would
have seen it and lit their own.
“My
lord king, should I sound the horn?” Hakon impatiently palmed the
battle horn dangling at his broad chest.
Men
began to gather on the jetty.
“Let
us wait. It is only one ship, and it looks to be a trader. The signal
fires would blaze by now if it were someone worthy of our concern.”
Somerled glanced back at the mud and thatch cottages shouldering
against one another. At their doors, the bows of half his impressive
fleet rested on the shoreline, a sandy slip extending well into the
distance. The rest of his ships sheltered at the far side of Islay,
in Loch Indaal. A signal fire would deploy them quickly and, perhaps,
needlessly.
“Alert
the village. Have Cormac ready Dragon’s Claw,” he said, “but
send only the nyvaigs for now.” The nyvaigs were smaller, but no
less deadly. They would be out and back quickly.
Hakon
sprinted through the gathering crowd and past the guardhouses. He
leapt over a pile of rocks with surprising agility for a man of his
years and size. In no time, specialized warriors and oarsmen were
boarding the boats. A pony thundered inland, its rider instructed to
warn, not panic, the people of Finlaggan.
Though
Somerled carried his mighty sword, he had dressed for warmth, not
battle. His mail shirt, aketon, and helmet hung in his bedchamber,
two miles away in Finlaggan. He singled out a boy in the crowd. “Lad,
find me a helmet and a shield, and be quick about it.”
The
boy shot like an arrow toward the cottages.
Somerled
held his breath as he watched the nyvaigs head out. At the first
flash of steel, he would blow the battle horn. His men would light
the towers and he would board Dragon’s Claw. The foreigner would be
sorry he entered the Sound of Islay.
The
ship’s features were barely discernible, but he could see that its
high prow lacked a figurehead. He was trying to identify the banner
fluttering on its masthead when the ship’s sail dropped and
scattered gulls like chaff in the wind. His heart hammered against
his chest as he waited for the foreign vessel to sprout oars; it
didn’t. It stalled—a sign its crew had dropped anchor.
Dragon’s
Claw bobbed next to him at the jetty, her top rail lined with
colorful shields and her benches holding sixty-four of his savage
warriors. Cormac gripped the tiller, but he would move aside when
Somerled barked the order to do so. He would serve as his own
shipmaster in the face of an enemy.
Low
and curvy with a dragon’s head exhaling oaken flames from her prow,
Dragon’s Claw was his favorite vessel, not because she was new or
particularly seaworthy, but because he had wrenched her from the last
Viking to leave his father’s lands.
The
memory of that battle warmed him and occupied his thoughts while the
nyvaigs swarmed around the foreigner. Then, they swung about, furled
their sails, and rowed for home like many-legged insects skittering
on the water’s surface.
When
the boats reached the beach, Hakon jumped from his nyvaig and jogged
through ankle-deep water, apparently too impatient to wait for his
men to haul the vessel’s keel onto the sand. “Well, my lord
king,” he said, “it seems to be the day for marriage proposals.
It is an envoy from Moray, who comes at the behest of Malcolm. He
asks to speak with ye regarding Bethoc.”
“Malcolm
MacHeth . . . the Malcolm MacHeth . . . wants my sister?”
He
had met Malcolm MacHeth only once, at King David’s court, on a
night spoiled by ill-bred lassies who had mocked his foreign garb and
speech. Malcolm, a bastard nephew of the Scots king, had observed his
humiliation and pretended not to notice.
Yet
here was Malcolm of Moray, a claimant to the Scottish throne and a
known rebel, seeking Bethoc’s hand in marriage. Tainted bloodline
or not, Somerled was apparently worthy of notice now.
About
the Author:
Something
magical happened in the musty basement of Julie Doherty’s local
courthouse. She went there intending to research her ancestry, not
lose herself in a wealth of stories, but the ghosts of yesteryear
drew her into the past and would not let her go. The trail left by
her ancestors in those yellowing documents led her from rural
Pennsylvania to the Celtic countries, where her love of all things
Irish/Scottish blossomed into outright passion.
She
became particularly interested in Somerled, self-styled "King of
Argyll" and progenitor of the Lords of the Isles. In 1164, he
led a fleet of 164 galleys up the River Clyde in an all-or-nothing
attempt to overthrow the Scottish crown. What would lead a man of his
advanced years to do such a thing?
Of
course, history records he did so because the king demanded
forfeiture of his lands. But the writer in Julie wondered ...what if
he did it for the love of a woman?
Those
early ponderings led to SCENT OF THE SOUL, Julie’s first novel,
coming soon from Soul Mate Publishing.
Readers
will notice a common theme throughout Julie’s books: star-crossed
lovers. This is something she knows a bit about, since during one of
her trips to Ireland, she fell in love with an Irishman. The ensuing
immigration battle took four long years to win. With only fleeting
visits, Skype chats, and emails to sustain her love, Julie poured her
heartache into her writing, where it nourished the emotional depth of
her characters.
Julie
is a member of Pennwriters, Romance Writers of America, Central PA
Romance Writers, The Longship Company, Perry County Council of the
Arts, and Clan Donald USA. When not writing, she enjoys antiquing,
shooting longbow, traveling, and cooking over an open fire at her
cabin. She lives in Pennsylvania with her husband, who sounds a lot
like her characters.
5 Kindle Gift Copies of Scent of the Soul
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