I let the characters write the sex scenes. This sounds ridiculous, I know, but it is true. I only write these types of scenes where they have an impact on the story. Forwarding the plot or somehow giving the reader an insight into the character, or the character an insight into himself. Consequently I tend to let the scene play out around what I want to be revealed, and let the guys fill in the gaps as the scene develops. This could explain why sex scenes take me three times as long to write as a regular scene. Luckily I tend to only have one or two such moments in each book.
Tetley's or PG Tips?
Neither. I haven’t willingly had milk in tea for several years and neither of those taste particularly palatable black. I drink Lady Grey. A black tea with hints of orange and lemon.
Do you take a notepad with you wherever you go?
Absolutely, show me an author who doesn’t. I always have a notepad and a pen, because you never know when an idea will strike or that perfect sentence you’ve been struggling with will suddenly pop into your head. Normally when you are in the middle of the drive to work and can’t get to a piece of paper. Then I have to keep repeating it over and over, and just hope nobody speaks to me before I have a chance to scribble those elusive lines down. Once they’re gone, they’re gone and you never get them back in quite the same way again. I have tried a voice recorder but I find speaking my words aloud unnatural and they hit a wall somewhere between brain and voice in a way that doesn’t happen between brain and fingers.
I don’t just use the notepad for ideas and wayward sentences. I use it for descriptions of places and things I could fit in a story, maybe a sketch (although my drawing is awful) or the names of books, programmes and websites that could in some way help. I’ve also been known to scribble down unusual names that I’ve overheard.
Ewan is one of Boston’s leading genealogy experts. When a would-be bridegroom comes looking for confirmation that there are no skeletons in his ancestral closet, Ewan considers turning the job down. Trey is a jerk of the highest order and yet Ewan experiences an infuriating attraction that’s easy to justify. Trey’s exactly his type—a carbon copy of the man Ewan’s been looking for his entire life.
Harder to explain is the sense of recognition that leaves Ewan speechless the moment Trey steps into his office. Or the stomach-churning sensation at the thought of casting the job aside.
Trey gets more appealing by the day, leaving Ewan struggling with forbidden desire for his client. Desire not helped by strange voyeuristic dreams that have started to haunt his sleep. Dreams that appear to be an echo of the past…
His gaze flicked over the remaining regiments, scores of them yet to be explored. It would make sense to do them in order. He normally worked methodically in these matters when he had no clues to go on. It saved time in the long run.
“The Royal Lancashire Regiment”. He read the next name on the list, but his eyes kept drifting down a few lines to Highland Light Infantry.
He had no reason to suspect Tristan had taken up residence in Scotland, but he shifted the mouse, allowing the cursor to hover over the link that would take him to the Glasgow regiment.
The records page rolled across the screen before Ewan even realized he had clicked on the link. He was there now, he might as well take a look.
Typing Capell into the site’s internal search engine, Ewan narrowed the parameters to cover the decade that encompassed the First World War and hit enter with a degree of force born from tiredness.
Running his fingers up either side of his nose, he eased his glasses up until they wedged on his forehead, catching against the dark curve of his eyebrows with eye-watering intensity. Wearily, Ewan rubbed at his tired, burning eyes while he waited for the page to load.
Search has resulted in one match.
Blinking rapidly to clear the film that had settled in a thin layer over his eyeballs, Ewan read the screen again just to be certain he wasn’t hallucinating.
Search has resulted in one match.
Lt. Tristan Capell.
A completely random punt and it appeared he’d found him. After all, how many Tristan Capells could there possibly be?
Clicking on the link, he watched closely as the details appeared onscreen. If he was lucky, there would be attached original documents, but it was late and for now he was only interested in ensuring he had found the correct person. Date of birth matched and he couldn’t stop the tremor of excitement that ran through him as he read confirmation of the declared birthplace. Boston, Massachusetts.
That thrill which always accompanied finding another piece of the puzzle sparked his tired synapses into delving further. For a brief second, he considered checking out the additional documentation, but from experience he knew that most of it would be handwritten and difficult enough to read when his eyes were fresh and mind alert. Right now it would be damn near impossible.
Before he could change his mind, he bookmarked the page, scribbled down the details in his notepad—in case the unimaginable should happen—and shut down the system.
He would grab a sandwich on the way home to save cooking and have a shower to hammer out the aching muscles in his shoulders. Then he would choose some light reading material to take to bed.
As he locked the office door and took the elevator down to the parking lot, Ewan wondered if he could download a book on the history of the Highland Light Infantry to his e-reader.
* * * * *
More buttons opened to reveal a white cotton undershirt, backs of fingers brushing against the thin layer of material that separated skin from skin. An audible sigh drifted between the two men, ruffling the dark hair of the man whose head was bowed in supplication.
The last button was slipped free and the man ordered, “Arms out.”
Obeying without question, hands, which had previously been stuffed casually in pockets, were pulled free. They hung by the officer’s sides, fingers curled just sufficiently to graze against his garish tartan pants. Palms smoothed over the material of the undershirt, flat strokes that eased the material of the jacket off over broad shoulders. Hands were gone long enough for the batman to move around behind his officer before they returned to peel the jacket down his arms.
The slow, lingering movements of disrobing became purposeful and more hurried now that there was no contact. The willowy dark-haired man strode to the wooden valet, molding the material over the body-shaped dummy. He reached for the brush, which was laid out with other cleaning materials on the top of a large trunk and, with definite, precise movements, started to swipe it over the dusty material.
If he was aware of the way the officer swiveled on the balls of his feet to follow his path across the large tent, which acted as barrack room for the officer and his batman, then he gave no indication. He certainly seemed unperturbed by the intensity of the pale-blue gaze that watched his every movement from under a mess of auburn eyebrows. Eyebrows, which coupled with the reddish-brown moustache, gave a true indication to hair color which the slicked cropped cut couldn’t.
“When this war is over,” the officer began, his American accent a shocking contrast to the British style of the uniform he wore. A shock to the voyeur at least, the batman didn’t so much as blink, continuing the soothing whisper of bristle over fabric without even raising his head. In a tone commanding, but fond, the officer continued, “You will stay with me, won’t you?”
“If you feel you have need of my services, sir,” his batman answered deferentially, barely pausing in his work.
The sigh was scarcely audible, but it drifted off into a name. “Owen.”
It was admonishment and question all rolled into one and it had the desired effect. The batman, Owen, glanced up from his task, fingers rubbing reverently over the two stars on the jacket’s epaulette. A small smile quirked at his lips, making his eyes dance and lighting up his pale features. Features all the more pronounced by the dark hair that framed his face.
“With respect, who else would put up with you, sir?” The honorific was uttered in a tone so soft that it almost appeared to be an endearment.
“We had cake in the officer’s mess today. Clifden got a parcel from home. How it made it here in one piece, I’ll never know.”
“An extremely clever and sneaky Battalion Quartermaster, I suspect,” Owen said, throwing the comment over his shoulder as he gave the jacket one last swipe with his brush.
The Lieutenant snorted in amusement and then nodded toward a battered trunk. “I smuggled out a piece for you. It’s gingerbread, your favorite. I put it in with your stuff.”
“You shouldn’t have.” Owen’s softly spoken words were an admonishment, but the smile on the younger man’s face said he was more than happy with his gift.
“Why not?” the officer muttered, his voice gruff and belligerent. “I was an ass to you earlier.”
“I know you didn’t mean it how it came out. You speak before you think.” Owen shrugged. “I know you, sir, better than anyone.”
“I don’t know why you put up with me.”
Owen turned and placed the brush on top of the larger of the two trunks. “Yes, you do.”
“Doesn’t make it right.” The officer shook his head. “Anyway, you need feeding up. You’re too skinny.”
The Lieutenant dropped into a rickety canvas chair with more force than the furniture was possibly designed for, and the sigh that escaped his lips was almost certainly intended to be heard. It filled the canvas room with anticipation and something heavier than the sum of its parts, something a watcher could have no hope of understanding.
The batman’s smile grew melancholy and he made his way back toward his officer, dropping to his knees on the thick colorful rugs, indigenous in nature, which appeared to be layered to keep out the worst of the dust and the sand. Reaching for the right boot first, Owen swiftly unfastened it, tugging it free. He paused, his hand cradling the ankle with the officer’s socked foot resting on his thighs. When Owen looked up, his gaze was serious, eyes shimmering pools of green and gray, and he focused all his attention on the man in front of him.
“If we make it home, then I’m yours for as long as you want me,” he paused for barely a heartbeat, “Tristan.”
“It may be difficult to word on a contract of employment,” Owen said with a laugh in his voice, the emotion accentuating a previously barely registered Scots brogue, “but always seems satisfactory to me.”
The laughter caught in his throat, turning into a dry cough that left him breathless.
“I wish you would see the medic about that cough.” Tristan didn’t bother to conceal the concern in his voice and he leaned forward, hand reaching out…
* * * * *
Throwing back his comforter, he rolled from the bed and padded into the bathroom, fingers idly scratching against the material of his boxers. He’d take a piss in a minute. Right now, the urge for a drink was overwhelming. Opening the cold tap, he cupped his hand beneath the running water, allowing it to flow, cool and clear, over the edge of his palm. Bring his face down to meet the gushing water, Ewan slurped the liquid noisily and vigorously into his mouth, drinking his fill greedily.
Sated, he splashed the water onto his face, remnants of the dream returning as his head cleared. Lifting his gaze to the mirror, he watched as a droplet of water collected on his eyelashes before dripping down to join the swirling water in the sink. The distraction focused his gaze on the reflection of his irises, hazel eyes suddenly breaking down into slivers of green and gray.
The shock of recollection hit him, and with a gasp, he recoiled from his own reflection. He blinked, once, twice. Long, drawn-out pulls of eyelid over eyeball, and when he finally dared to look again, his eyes were the green that predominantly made up his irises, together with the more familiar flecks of blues and browns. More importantly, they were most definitely his and not some random soldier’s from a random dream.
Maybe a history book wasn’t such a good choice of bedtime reading after all.
Lovers Entwined is published by Ellora’s Cave.
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