Linda grew up with a love of history fostered by her paternal grandmother and an incurable case of wanderlust inherited from her father. She has traveled extensively within the United States and has visited Mexico, Canada, & Australia. A lifelong dream came true with a trip to England where she was able to combine sightseeing and theater with research for her novels. A native of Pittsburgh, she now lives in Southern California with her husband.
Linda writes historical and Regency romance. She loves transporting her readers into the past where her characters learn that, in the journey of life, love is the sweetest reward.
She also writes erotic romance under the name Lyndi Lamont, and is one half of the writing team of Lyn O'Farrell. 4 ½ stars and a Top Pick from Romantic Times!
Linda writes historical and Regency romance. She loves transporting her readers into the past where her characters learn that, in the journey of life, love is the sweetest reward.
She also writes erotic romance under the name Lyndi Lamont, and is one half of the writing team of Lyn O'Farrell. 4 ½ stars and a Top Pick from Romantic Times!
Romantic Times Nominee—Best Small Press Romance of 2003!
2nd Place - Lorie Awards - Best Historical Romance!
She's done OK so far--now read about ROGUE'S HOSTAGE: from the wilderness of Pennsylvania to the fall of Quebec, Mara and Jacques are thrust into the tumult of war and passion, relying only on their feelings for each other to stay alive. Before the war ends, they will risk death, embrace life, and discover love that transcends all bounds.
His hostage...
In 1758 the Pennsylvania frontier is wild, primitive and
dangerous, where safety often lies at the end of a gun. Mara Dupré's life
crumbles when a French and Indian war party attacks her cabin, kills her
husband, and takes her captive. Marching through the wilderness strengthens her
resolve to flee, but she doesn't count on her captor teaching her the meaning
of courage and the tempting call of desire.
Her destiny...
French lieutenant Jacques Corbeau's desire for his captive
threatens what little honor he has left.
But when Mara desperately offers herself to him in exchange for her
freedom, he finds the strength to refuse and reclaims his lost self-respect. As
the shadows of his past catch up to him, Jacques realizes that Mara, despite
the odds, is the one true key to reclaiming his soul and banishing his past
misdeeds forever.
(Previously published by Amber Quill Press)
An excerpt from ROGUE'S HOSTAGE:
Holding the towel to his shoulder, he walked over and stood by the bed to check on the woman, who was still in a faint. Despite her pallor, he noted that her skin was fine, her nose straight and thin. She had a lower lip just full enough to entice a man to taste it, and a stubborn chin that dared him to try. Under different circumstances….”
She was perhaps not as lovely as he’d thought when he first saw her standing in the clearing—her hair, the color of corn silk, shining in the sunlight. Still, she was tall and fair, with slender curves and shapely ankles visible beneath the short skirts of a farm wife. .”
And now she was a widow. He stared down at the woman and silently vowed to see that no more innocents died today. .”
The woman gave a soft moan and opened her eyes. When she spotted him, she shrank back against the wall, arms folded defensively across her breast. His gut tightened. He didn’t enjoy terrifying women, but fear should make her easier to control. She had already proven unpredictable. .”
Terror, stark and vivid, glittered in her eyes. "Who are you?" .”
"My name is Jacques Corbeau, lieutenant in the army of France. And you are my captive."
* * *
Mara inhaled sharply, panic building inside her. This couldn’t be real. It was all a bad dream. She would wake up soon and tell Emile about it, and they would laugh. And laugh and laugh and…. She swallowed the hysteria engulfing her.
"Madame, are you listening to me?"
The Frenchman’s voice, sharp and insistent, demanded her attention. "There is not much time. My companions are not patient men. We must leave soon, but first I want you to bind my shoulder. Where do you keep bandages?"
Her mouth and throat were dry when she swallowed, but she choked out an answer. "The trunk. Under the bed."
He squatted beside the bed, pulled out the trunk and rummaged through it. She watched his every move, unable to take her eyes off him, alarmed by the physical threat he represented.
He was a tall man who dominated the cabin as Emile never had, and his state of undress revealed nearly every inch of his lean and powerful form. Not only was he bare to the waist, but his breechclout and leggings failed to completely cover his thighs and buttocks. He had a wide-shouldered, rangy body and long, sinewy legs. He looked strong, virile, and infinitely dangerous.
A cold knot formed in Mara’s stomach. The French had killed her father and now her husband. What would they do to her?
She wrapped her arms around her waist. Her grandfather would say whatever happened was God’s will, but she rejected that idea. What kind of God allowed such awful things to happen?
Fearfully, she watched as the Frenchman shoved the trunk back under the bed and stood. He held out the bandages, and she froze. She couldn’t touch him, she just couldn’t.
The man’s heavy black brows drew together in a fierce frown, but his voice was without emotion. "Madame, I am all that stands between you and the men who killed your husband. I can be persuaded to act as your protector. It is to your advantage to do what I command."
Holding the towel to his shoulder, he walked over and stood by the bed to check on the woman, who was still in a faint. Despite her pallor, he noted that her skin was fine, her nose straight and thin. She had a lower lip just full enough to entice a man to taste it, and a stubborn chin that dared him to try. Under different circumstances….”
She was perhaps not as lovely as he’d thought when he first saw her standing in the clearing—her hair, the color of corn silk, shining in the sunlight. Still, she was tall and fair, with slender curves and shapely ankles visible beneath the short skirts of a farm wife. .”
And now she was a widow. He stared down at the woman and silently vowed to see that no more innocents died today. .”
The woman gave a soft moan and opened her eyes. When she spotted him, she shrank back against the wall, arms folded defensively across her breast. His gut tightened. He didn’t enjoy terrifying women, but fear should make her easier to control. She had already proven unpredictable. .”
Terror, stark and vivid, glittered in her eyes. "Who are you?" .”
"My name is Jacques Corbeau, lieutenant in the army of France. And you are my captive."
* * *
Mara inhaled sharply, panic building inside her. This couldn’t be real. It was all a bad dream. She would wake up soon and tell Emile about it, and they would laugh. And laugh and laugh and…. She swallowed the hysteria engulfing her.
"Madame, are you listening to me?"
The Frenchman’s voice, sharp and insistent, demanded her attention. "There is not much time. My companions are not patient men. We must leave soon, but first I want you to bind my shoulder. Where do you keep bandages?"
Her mouth and throat were dry when she swallowed, but she choked out an answer. "The trunk. Under the bed."
He squatted beside the bed, pulled out the trunk and rummaged through it. She watched his every move, unable to take her eyes off him, alarmed by the physical threat he represented.
He was a tall man who dominated the cabin as Emile never had, and his state of undress revealed nearly every inch of his lean and powerful form. Not only was he bare to the waist, but his breechclout and leggings failed to completely cover his thighs and buttocks. He had a wide-shouldered, rangy body and long, sinewy legs. He looked strong, virile, and infinitely dangerous.
A cold knot formed in Mara’s stomach. The French had killed her father and now her husband. What would they do to her?
She wrapped her arms around her waist. Her grandfather would say whatever happened was God’s will, but she rejected that idea. What kind of God allowed such awful things to happen?
Fearfully, she watched as the Frenchman shoved the trunk back under the bed and stood. He held out the bandages, and she froze. She couldn’t touch him, she just couldn’t.
The man’s heavy black brows drew together in a fierce frown, but his voice was without emotion. "Madame, I am all that stands between you and the men who killed your husband. I can be persuaded to act as your protector. It is to your advantage to do what I command."
Holding the towel to his shoulder, he walked over and stood by the bed to check on the woman, who was still in a faint. Despite her pallor, he noted that her skin was fine, her nose straight and thin. She had a lower lip just full enough to entice a man to taste it, and a stubborn chin that dared him to try. Under different circumstances….”
She was perhaps not as lovely as he’d thought when he first saw her standing in the clearing—her hair, the color of corn silk, shining in the sunlight. Still, she was tall and fair, with slender curves and shapely ankles visible beneath the short skirts of a farm wife. .”
And now she was a widow. He stared down at the woman and silently vowed to see that no more innocents died today. .”
The woman gave a soft moan and opened her eyes. When she spotted him, she shrank back against the wall, arms folded defensively across her breast. His gut tightened. He didn’t enjoy terrifying women, but fear should make her easier to control. She had already proven unpredictable. .”
Terror, stark and vivid, glittered in her eyes. "Who are you?" .”
"My name is Jacques Corbeau, lieutenant in the army of France. And you are my captive."
* * *
Mara inhaled sharply, panic building inside her. This couldn’t be real. It was all a bad dream. She would wake up soon and tell Emile about it, and they would laugh. And laugh and laugh and…. She swallowed the hysteria engulfing her.
"Madame, are you listening to me?"
The Frenchman’s voice, sharp and insistent, demanded her attention. "There is not much time. My companions are not patient men. We must leave soon, but first I want you to bind my shoulder. Where do you keep bandages?"
Her mouth and throat were dry when she swallowed, but she choked out an answer. "The trunk. Under the bed."
He squatted beside the bed, pulled out the trunk and rummaged through it. She watched his every move, unable to take her eyes off him, alarmed by the physical threat he represented.
He was a tall man who dominated the cabin as Emile never had, and his state of undress revealed nearly every inch of his lean and powerful form. Not only was he bare to the waist, but his breechclout and leggings failed to completely cover his thighs and buttocks. He had a wide-shouldered, rangy body and long, sinewy legs. He looked strong, virile, and infinitely dangerous.
A cold knot formed in Mara’s stomach. The French had killed her father and now her husband. What would they do to her?
She wrapped her arms around her waist. Her grandfather would say whatever happened was God’s will, but she rejected that idea. What kind of God allowed such awful things to happen?
Fearfully, she watched as the Frenchman shoved the trunk back under the bed and stood. He held out the bandages, and she froze. She couldn’t touch him, she just couldn’t.
The man’s heavy black brows drew together in a fierce frown, but his voice was without emotion. "Madame, I am all that stands between you and the men who killed your husband. I can be persuaded to act as your protector. It is to your advantage to do what I command."
Holding the towel to his shoulder, he walked over and stood by the bed to check on the woman, who was still in a faint. Despite her pallor, he noted that her skin was fine, her nose straight and thin. She had a lower lip just full enough to entice a man to taste it, and a stubborn chin that dared him to try. Under different circumstances….”
She was perhaps not as lovely as he’d thought when he first saw her standing in the clearing—her hair, the color of corn silk, shining in the sunlight. Still, she was tall and fair, with slender curves and shapely ankles visible beneath the short skirts of a farm wife. .”
And now she was a widow. He stared down at the woman and silently vowed to see that no more innocents died today. .”
The woman gave a soft moan and opened her eyes. When she spotted him, she shrank back against the wall, arms folded defensively across her breast. His gut tightened. He didn’t enjoy terrifying women, but fear should make her easier to control. She had already proven unpredictable. .”
Terror, stark and vivid, glittered in her eyes. "Who are you?" .”
"My name is Jacques Corbeau, lieutenant in the army of France. And you are my captive."
* * *
Mara inhaled sharply, panic building inside her. This couldn’t be real. It was all a bad dream. She would wake up soon and tell Emile about it, and they would laugh. And laugh and laugh and…. She swallowed the hysteria engulfing her.
"Madame, are you listening to me?"
The Frenchman’s voice, sharp and insistent, demanded her attention. "There is not much time. My companions are not patient men. We must leave soon, but first I want you to bind my shoulder. Where do you keep bandages?"
Her mouth and throat were dry when she swallowed, but she choked out an answer. "The trunk. Under the bed."
He squatted beside the bed, pulled out the trunk and rummaged through it. She watched his every move, unable to take her eyes off him, alarmed by the physical threat he represented.
He was a tall man who dominated the cabin as Emile never had, and his state of undress revealed nearly every inch of his lean and powerful form. Not only was he bare to the waist, but his breechclout and leggings failed to completely cover his thighs and buttocks. He had a wide-shouldered, rangy body and long, sinewy legs. He looked strong, virile, and infinitely dangerous.
A cold knot formed in Mara’s stomach. The French had killed her father and now her husband. What would they do to her?
She wrapped her arms around her waist. Her grandfather would say whatever happened was God’s will, but she rejected that idea. What kind of God allowed such awful things to happen?
Fearfully, she watched as the Frenchman shoved the trunk back under the bed and stood. He held out the bandages, and she froze. She couldn’t touch him, she just couldn’t.
The man’s heavy black brows drew together in a fierce frown, but his voice was without emotion. "Madame, I am all that stands between you and the men who killed your husband. I can be persuaded to act as your protector. It is to your advantage to do what I command."
Summer Questions & Linda’s Answers:
Ice Tea or Lemonade? Iced coffee
Lake or ocean? Ocean
Sandals or Flipflops? Sandals
Sit in the shadow of a tree or on the front/back porch?
Shade of a tree since we don’t have many porches in southern California
Ball cap or floppy hat? Floppy hat
Writing Questions:
Q: Which comes first, characters or plot?
A: Characters, always.
Q: Plotter, Pantser, or somewhere in between?
A: Somewhere in between. I’ve heard it called being a
Puzzler.
Q: Among those that you’ve written, which is your favorite
book and why?
A: Rogue’s Hostage is my favorite. It’s the most personal,
in a couple of ways. The first half is set in the area of Pittsburgh, PA., my
home town. It’s also the book I was writing when my mother died, and when I
finished, I realized that the heroine, Mara, is much like my mother. I just
wish she had lived long enough to read the book.
Q: Have your characters ever taken over the story and moved
it in a direction totally different than you had in mind? What did you do?
A: Sometimes that happens, and sometimes it’s a good thing.
If not, I have to rein them in. Most often it’s one of the secondary characters
trying to take over the book.
Q: Do you have a "must have" book for writing?
A: Every book requires different research, but my baby name
books are always needed. I especially like the ones that include historical and
ethnic background information.
Purchase ROGUE'S HOSTAGE from:
Amazon, All Romance eBooks,Barnes & Noble, iBooks, Kobo and Smashwords.
Contact Linda at:
http://lindalyndi.com/
https://twitter.com/LyndiLamont @LyndiLamont
Thanks for hosting me, Diana. Rogue's Hostage is the book of of my heart and I always love sharing it with readers.
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