I would have enjoyed the Frankfurt airport a bit more had I not arrived late morning after leaving Chicago after midnight. The original plan was to fly direct from Chicago to Edinburgh, arriving in Scotland a bit after 7am. But bad weather grounded my originating flight to Chicago, and all the dominoes fell in scattered disarray. A kind young man rebooked me ASAP (I could have spent the next 24 hours in Chicago O'Hare airport waiting for the next direct flight to Edinburgh!), giving me a bit of a detour over Europe. The photos above are of the area near Frankfurt as the plane took off for Edinburgh.

The Edinburgh Airport! At last! By the time I realized my luggage had not made the trip with me, discussed my plight with several kind people (which got the ball rolling to find it, but didn't come up with it magically from some back room), and got a taxi, it was late evening. However, the hotel had set a plate aside for me and I was able to relax amid my new friends with a glass of wine and many offers of help from their own suitcases. How kind!!
I brought a complete change of clothing with me as well as all my general necessities, so I should be fine for a day or so.

Jenna Jaxon gives us a knight with the knowledge of the language of flowers and his wife who longs for the language of love in her book, Time Enough to Love.

EXCERPT:
 
Snipping the stems of a sweetly-scented pale lavender Apothecary’s rose, she started when a shadow fell over the flower in her hand. She looked up to find Thomas standing before her, smiling at her basketful of blooms.
“You wish to take a part of Knowlton’s Keep with us when we leave, my lady?”
Her answering smile masked the strange thumping that became the beat of her heart. “I hope you approve, my lord. I would dry the petals and use them to remind us of home while we journey so far from it.”
“Of course, my sweet. Whate’er your heart desires is yours.” He took a dark pink blossom from her and held it to his nose. “Sweet.” The warm brown eyes held her blue ones. “Thank you.”
Alyse stared at him, uncertain what he meant. “I beg pardon, my lord?”
He placed the rose in her basket. “’Tis what the dark pink color means. In the language of flowers. Thank you. At least,” he grinned at her, “according to my mother that is what it means. I am not sure how she came by this knowledge.”
Curious idea. “What do the others mean?”
He drew her arm through his and led her to a bush with snowy-white double blooms. “This is the Cheshire rose. The white blooms stand for purity.”
Alyse bent to smell the delicate scent. “I suppose that would be expected.”
Thomas took her shears and snipped the bloom, adding it to her basket. “Purity, for a pure heart.”
Beside the Cheshire grew a large bush of clear pink blooms. “And this?” She could not contain her eagerness. The names and meanings of the roses had stirred up the banked embers in her soul. Or perhaps the nearness of Thomas’s masculine body excited other, more passionate yearnings. Suddenly, the feel of his arm in hers filled her senses.
What was happening? Why this sudden lift in spirits?
She had been more melancholy of late, ever since Thomas had abandoned her bed. But it made no sense.
Did she not still love Geoffrey, heart and soul?
The thought sobered her. The sharp pang of sorrow that always stabbed her heart at the thought of him had dulled. Was she coming to regard Thomas as her husband and long for him as such?
“This is my favorite.” He clipped another pink bloom and held it under her nose. “What do you smell?”
Puzzled, she sniffed the showy pink blossom, but he moved the stem and leaves for her to smell instead. A wonderful scent assailed her, but one she did not associate with roses.
“Apples?”
A smile lit his face as he placed an entire stem of the flowers, leaves and all, into her basket.
“But what is it called?”
“Eglantine or Sweet Briar Rose.” He looked down at his thumb where a fat drop of blood welled. “The latter is probably the more apt name.” He smiled ruefully.
Seeing his glance, she took his hand and, without thinking, raised the injured thumb to her lips. She gently kissed the drop away, and he gasped. Their gazes met, his frankly searching hers for an answer.
 
 
BLURB FOR TIME ENOUGH TO LOVE
When Lady Alyse de Courcy is betrothed to Sir Geoffrey Longford, she has no choice but to make the best of a bad bargain. The hulking knight is far from her ideal man, and although he does possess some wit and charm, he is no match for the sinfully sensual man she secretly admires, Thomas, Earl of Braeton, her betrothed’s best friend. 
From the first, Sir Geoffrey finds himself smitten by Lady Alyse, and, despite her infatuation with his friend, vows to win her love. When Geoffrey puts his mind to wooing Alyse, he is delighted to find her succumbing to his seduction. But when cruel circumstances separate them, Geoffrey must watch helplessly as Thomas steps in to protect Alyse—and falls in love with her himself.
As the three courtiers accompany Princess Joanna to her wedding in Spain, they run headlong into the Black Plague. With her world plunged into chaos, Alyse struggles with her feelings for both the men she loves. But which love will survive?
 
BUY LINK:
AMAZON: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B01ACF9L98?*Version*=1&*entries*=0
 
 

I'm so excited to announce my latest project! I was invited to participate in Kathryn le Veque's relaunch of her World of De Wolfe Pack!
My book, The Saint, pairs William de Wolfe's nephew, Geoffrey de Wylde, known as The Saint, with Scottish lass Marsaili de Ville, on the run from a dark past. 
The books are scheduled to release in Amazon's Kindle World on September 6!

A storm frightens Lady Emelin's horse and conjures a monster in Barbara Bettis' tale, Silverhawk.
 
EXCERPT:
 
(Lady Emelin has chosen a stormy night to launch an escape from her tempting kidnapper, Sir Giles)
 
She shivered against the increasing cold and hunched forward to search the path ahead. Why hadn’t she thought to bring one of the blankets? Clouds scudded across the sky. Still she urged the horse onward. She had come too far to turn back now.
 
Had Silverhawk regained consciousness? Discovered her absence? Imagine the surprise, when he awoke alone. She’d shown him she was not helpless. Satisfaction lightened the oppression she was feeling—from the approaching storm; that had to explain the growing dread.
 
Then, carried on bursts of wind, came voices. At last. She’d found them. She straightened, the discomfort of the cold and riding bareback forgotten as she urged the mare forward. Onward down the trail she rode. Once she called out, “Lord Osbert, Garley, I’m here.” No answer came.
 
In the distance, thunder rumbled, and white light knifed across the ominous sky. Please, not rain. Surely the good Lord wouldn’t be so cruel. Her throat constricted. She gulped. She would not panic.
 
Concentrate on deep breaths. If only her heart would stop clamoring to get out. A cold, fat drop struck, followed by two more, a dozen. Then the downpour hit.
 
A jagged streak snapped in front of her. A rolling crash shook the earth. The mare tossed its head, danced aside. Emelin murmured, petted the animal’s neck in an attempt to calm it. But at the next sharp crack, it reared, and shot down the path.
 
Fisting the reins, she clung to its mane as the mount veered through the underbrush, away from the sharp zigzags of light. Branches struck her face, snatched at her skirts, nearly dragged her off. How she managed to keep her seat, she didn’t know. All she could think was, Don’t fall. Don’t fall. Don’t fall.
 
At last the mare slowed. Emelin squinted through wet eyes, reached out to knock aside a soggy branch, dripping leaves. Finally, the animal stopped, blowing hard, trembling. Emelin shook.
Breath came in gasps. Her mind could not form a coherent thought as cold wetness dripped from her hair to ooze down her back. The frightened flight of the horse had carried her far from the path. She was hopelessly lost.
 
All around, wind-whipped shadows dipped, lunged forward, then back. Another spear of lightning wrenched into a nearby tree. Her shout of surprise was swallowed in the earth-shaking
roar that followed. The winded mare only shook harder.
 
Could they survive this nightmare?
 
Then through the rain-drenched night a huge black object hurtled up, rearing as it just missed her. Emelin screamed.
 
The monster swung around. Wet black tentacles wrapped around her, dragged her off the exhausted mare. She tried to struggle, but the iron hold wouldn’t allow it.
 
At last her feet touched ground, and the tentacles embraced her until she couldn’t breathe. It took a moment for the roar to dissolve into understandable words. “Are you hurt? Are you hurt? Tell me if you’re hurt.”
 
Silverhawk.
 
Her arms flew around his waist and she nodded against his soaked tunic. Thank God, thank
God. She was safe.
 
BLURB:
He’s everything a proper lady should never want; she’s everything a bastard mercenary can never have.
Sir Giles has come to England to kill his father, who seduced and betrayed his mother. First, however, he’ll seek sweet revenge—kidnap the old lord’s new betrothed. But when Giles uncovers a plot against King Richard, he faces a dilemma: take the lady or track the traitors. What’s a good mercenary to do? Both, of course.
Lady Emelin has had enough. Abandoned in a convent by her brother, she finally has a chance for home and family. Yet now she’s been abducted. Her kidnapper may be the image of her dream knight, but she won’t allow him to spoil this betrothal. Her only solution: escape
Rescuing the intrepid lady—while hunting traitors—is a challenge Giles couldn’t anticipate.  But the greatest challenge to Giles and Emelin is the fire blazing between them. For he’s everything a proper lady should never want, and she’s everything a bastard mercenary can never have.
Buy Link: https://www.amazon.com/Silverhawk-Barbara-Bettis-ebook/dp/B015QIK9CE?ie=UTF8&keywords=silverhawk&qid=1464742126&ref_=sr_1_1&sr=8-1