The Thornless Rose
An Elizabethan Time Travel Novel
Morgan O’Neill
Publisher: Entangled Publishing, LLC
Publication Date: December 29, 2014
Genre: Historical Fiction
About the Book:
No one ever knew what really happened to Dr. Jonathan Brandon back in 1945. He simply disappeared from a London pub, leaving behind an unsolved mystery and his fiancée—Anne Howard's grandmother. Seventy years later, Anne herself is haunted by the strange tale, along with inexplicable hallucinations straight out of Elizabethan England. Including a scarred, handsome man whose deep blue eyes seem to touch her very soul....
Anne wonders if there isn't something more to the story. Is it even possible that Jonathan disappeared into England's dark past? And why does Anne keep hearing him whisper her name? Because now she too feels the inexorable pull of the past, not to mention an undeniable attraction for a man she doesn't even know.
It's just a matter of time before Anne will step back into history, and face a destiny―and a love―beyond imagining...
Excerpt:
In
this scene, time travelers Anne Howard and Dr. Jonathan Brandon are thrown
together for the first time.
Anne felt a tingling, a creeping of skin on the back
of her neck and arms. She closed her eyes, suddenly feeling faint, when the air
stilled beyond anything she had ever experienced.
What the––? From darkening shadows, she
gazed out. Oddly, the chapel was brilliantly lit by dozens of candles.
Black-clad monks knelt on wooden misericords, praying.
Their soft, collective droning was a counterpoint to
her heart’s fierce drumming.
“Wh—what just happened?” Anne stammered, trying to
keep the shrill edge out of her voice. “Where’d you come from?”
The monks turned. To a man, their gazes cut through
her, sharp and deeply suspicious.
She swallowed in fear. “Where am I? There were
tourists. What happened to them?”
Eyes widening, a young monk held up his crucifix.
“Woman,” he said, straining to see Anne, “why dost thou speak gibberish? Hast
thou no wits?”
“But this is Westminster Abbey, isn’t it?”
“Aye. But if thou seeketh absolution, thou must find
the bishop, for we are at prayer.”
Anne took a deep breath and crossed into the light.
Gasps exploded from the monks as they gaped at her shorts and bare legs.
“Strumpet! For shame!” a monk shouted.
“Princess of Sodom
Anne backed up, anxious to escape, and quickly turned
to avoid the royal tomb directly behind her. She stopped and stared. The place
looked nothing like before. Instead of a marble sarcophagus, there was a pile
of broken stones heaped on the floor.
She spun toward the monks, still frozen against their
misericords. “Where’s the tomb? Queen Elizabeth’s tomb?” she croaked.
“Elizabeth
“Brother Daniel, silence!” shouted another monk. “If
the queen’s men hear thy words of sedition...”
But the young monk, Daniel, shook his head, eyes
blazing. “Witch, I’ll send thee back to hell!” He lunged at Anne.
Instinctively, she put up her arms, covering her face
in a defensive posture. Then, in disbelief, she realized she felt nothing, no
contact with her attacker. She turned just as Brother Daniel tumbled behind her
onto Mary Tudor’s grave.
Anne looked down at herself, realizing for the first
time she was fading away. Her body looked transparent! “Oh, help!” she shouted,
panicked. “Help me!”
She started, blinked, and stared. The monks had
vanished, the crowd of tourists surrounding the queens’ tomb the same as
before. She held out a trembling hand. Her skin looked as it’d always been—she
was whole again.
It took her a moment to get her bearings, to steady
herself, but then a voice brought her fully around.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” a woman said. “Are
you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Anne muttered, even though she knew she
wasn’t. Shocked, she looked at her shaky hands, again solid, part of the here
and now. She shoved them into her pockets and walked on. What just happened?
She picked up her pace, intent on leaving. She
shouldn’t have had that shandy on an empty stomach.
The lights suddenly dimmed, the atmosphere hushed,
expectant. Just like before!
She halted in her tracks. Flickering candlelight and
deep shadows, no tourists. The Abbey was even darker than it had been when
she’d seen the monks.
What the hell
is going on?
“Anne! Anne!”
Stunned, she turned. A man in costume ran toward her.
“Go back,” he shouted, “back where it’s safe!”
She stood transfixed. As he came closer, she
recognized him—his eyes, the scar.
He halted and pulled her tight against him. “I love
you, Anne,” he whispered into her hair, “but you have to go with him. Save
yourself.”
“But––”
He stilled her confusion with a tender brush of his
lips, and she responded instinctively, their kiss deepening as her body arched
against his, her blood ablaze with sudden desire, until the rest of the world
seemed very far away.
When he finally drew back, he stared into her eyes,
and Anne’s heart seized when she saw his pain, the sheer desperation in his
gaze.
The feeling was apparently mutual, because he pulled
her close and swore under his breath, “Bloody hell, the bastard will pay for
this.”
I don’t
understand.
He opened his eyes and stared at something in the
distance. “Anne, go now,” his voice cracked, “because I can face anything if I
know you’re safe.”
His fingers gently cupped her chin, his touch
unleashing more heat. He lifted her face for another kiss, and then—nothing. He
was gone. She fought for control, her breathing erratic, her legs threatening
to crumble. She touched her lips, still feeling his caress, his soft breath on
her skin, but he was gone.
The lights flashed on, the tourists once again milling
about, unaware.
“Mummy, they were kissing!”
A small boy pointed at her, but his mother paid no
attention.
He saw us! Anne plastered a fake smile
on her face until the boy disappeared into the crowd. He saw us, and that means I wasn’t hallucinating. But how? How could
Dr. Brandon be here? She touched her lips once more. The way he’d held her,
spoken to her, whispered her name, made her believe he was real—and he...
He knew me.
But how? A
chill enveloped her as the memory of the monk’s stare supplanted Brandon
Trembling, she left the Abbey.
Author Bio:
Cary and Deborah's backgrounds are uniquely suited to writing stories steeped in atmosphere and history: Deborah has a Master's Degree in history and is a dedicated genealogist; Cary is a talented linguist in French and is currently a student of Latin. They've traveled to Europe's ancient and medieval sites many times, with Cary living on the Continent for five years.
The Morgan O'Neill time travel novels have received a number of literary awards, including two finalist wins in the Booksellers' Best Awards, two semifinalist wins in the William Faulkner-William Wisdom Creative Writing Competition, first, second, and third place wins for the Mainstream Novel with Strong Romantic Elements category of the Golden Rose Contest, a top ten finalist award in the Pacific Northwest Writers' Conference Zola Awards Literary Contest, and a top ten finalist win in the Orange Rose Contest.
Author Links:
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