Story Snip from Larksong: Chapter 7 and Summer Fire Contest Ongoing!

hapter 7!


Larksong is set in Montreal, July 1914.

In chapter 1, Alice, after her grandmother's funeral, arrived at the family cottage to take care of her grandmother's aviary, only to find that her parents had already leased the cottage to another family for the summer.

The only way she could have one more summer in her favourite place was to surreptitiously take on the role of governess to the two young girls...

In chapter 2, we met George, laid up at the hospital with a broken leg. Instead of joining his friends on a Grand Tour of Europe, he's being sent off to recuperate at a rented cottage in the country...

In chapter 3, we returned to Alice's point of view, and saw her bonding with George's younger sisters. Then she got a surprise -- George was arriving at the cottage that very day!

In chapter 4, we get a hint that Alice finds George attractive and interesting -- but also unbearably rude.

In chapter 5, they had their first argument.

In chapter 6, they argued once more, but the stakes were higher: war is on the horizon.

Now, in chapter 7, which is slightly longer, George attempts a rapprochement...

George busied himself with the last of his fruit and cream as his sisters bustled about, ostensibly helping Elsie and the governess. True, they had no lady's maid. He'd have to write James and ask whether there was one in the offing. Especially if Albert was heading down on the weekend, likely trailed by half his friends, as was his brother's wont.
George didn't want to see the governess worn to a frazzle after all.
Though if he admitted the truth to himself, it was more the thought that, between daily chores and laundry and trying to corral his flibbertigibbet sisters, she'd be underfoot all the time. He wanted–no, needed–peace and quiet.
He clanked his spoon into the empty bowl. All right, full honesty. He found her attractive. That looseness she had, with her escaping curls and her free mouth and her relaxed but self-assured manner of taking care of things. Sweeping under daybeds, in dresses that moulded to her curves.
Idly, he gathered up his spoon again and sucked on it, drawing out the last of the lingering sweetness of the cream.
Lucy skipped in, gathered his bowl, and skipped out.
He leaned back, staring at the seat from which Alice had disagreed with his every word.
She'd drawn his eye time and again over dinner. Her manners were impeccable. He'd always thought of governesses as older spinsters, mired in the Victorian age, of the type to eat dry toast far away up in a dusty attic room. Alice was so alive.
He could hear her now, chattering to the birds in the aviary. Squawks and chirps and various calls echoed around the house all day long. How was he to get any sleep with that sort of unending racket?
The thought of sleep recalled him from images of Alice, to the forlorn dining room and the ache in his hip. He'd sat in one position for far too long and his toes were numb with cold. But it was damned hard to move!
Hoisting his useless leg with both hands, he maneouvred it off the chair, got his feet under him by grasping the side of the table, and managed to right himself on the crutches, and even pick up the spoon and napkin Lucy had left behind.
The washing up all done, Elsie appeared to have retired. No one was in the kitchen to see him swing across the slates, drop the spoon in the sink and the napkin on the draining board, and swing back out the door without needing to pause for a rest. No one to praise him. No friends, no one to chat with and, anyway, no telephone not on a party line.
Nothing to do.
He couldn't throw a football, couldn't swim in the lake, couldn't bloody walk into town and pick up his own newspaper.
He thumped out to the porch and around to the aviary. Alice was still there, watching the birds pecking at seed scattered on the ground as she softly pet the feathers of one–a budgie?–that sat on the untanned skin of her shoulder, toying with the thin strap of her evening dress. She'd shed her cardigan along the way, and her auburn hair gleamed in the lantern light, dark against pale cheeks.
"What do you feed them?" he asked by way of greeting.
She jumped, as if he'd barked at her, and the budgie-thing flew off, chittering, up into the nearest branch of a potted tree.
She cast him a bewildered look. She'd just have to get used to his ways, that was all, if they were going to be in the same house all summer. He'd never had time for small talk and introductory niceties.
Yet she answered readily enough. "It's a mixture of seeds, suet, and honey." She shook her hands over the floor, dislodging a final handful of feed, and made for the door as a small flock swooped down into the midst of the treat.
"What're their names?" he asked, and she paused.
"Why do you ask?"
"I've never seen an aviary before. Seems like it'd be a lot of work for very little reward. Did you know there was one here when you took on this job?"
She hesitated, looking down at her hands and flicking off a stray seed. He ought to stop acting so gruff; even his sisters had been appalled by his manner.
If he hadn't fallen during that game! He'd be well away from Montreal, in London or Paris with Guigsy and Gallagher, living it up.
Instead of lost in the Townships, holed up with his kid sisters and the family maid and governess. Worse, suffering looks of pity from said governess, who continued to be irritatingly attractive and mysterious at the same time. She still hadn't answered him.
"Where are you from?" he asked abruptly.
"Montreal," she replied, matching his curtness exactly. "And to answer your other question, I've been asked by the...er, the previous owners, to sell these birds."
"Sell?" He couldn't imagine what value they could possibly have.
"Yes. If your family doesn't wish to keep them–and I am given to understand that they do not–then it is my duty, or part of my duties, this summer to disassemble the aviary. I have one prospective buyer coming at the end of the week."
She made for the door again and this time he let her pass.
There were two doors off the aviary, leading to the porch and the kitchen. George hobbled after her as she made for the kitchen, trying to decide whether it was his own brusqueness that had her acting so cold or whether that was her nature.
Each night was going to last as long as a month in this place.
He lumbered into the kitchen, where she was in the act of setting the kettle on the stove. She'd donned her cardigan once more. "Your sisters are tucked up in bed. There's a less formal sunroom at the back, but you may use the front parlour , if you like," she said, as if she owned the place, then added, "if that's what you've decided, of course. Would you like tea or cocoa or–"
"Is there a fire in there?"
"Yes, it's laid, but I hadn't lit it–"
"Don't bother, then." He shoved his crutches aside and landed heavily in the nearest chair. "I'll take tea."
"Right, of course."
She turned her back on him and began assembling a tray, fingers swift and lithe. Without raising her eyes in his direction, she moved a sewing basket off the table and placed it by the door, then lit a second lamp for the table. The golden light seemed made for her, the soft glow burnishing her neck down to where warm skin disappeared into the depths of her collar.
"Were you planning to work in here?" he asked.
"No bother," she echoed, lifting the whistling kettle and tipping hot water into a teapot. She swirled it, dumped it into the sink, then measured tea leaves into the pot and covered them with the boiled water.
Her movements were elegant and adept, her back straight as a goal post and her shoulders set back, as though she wore not a simple linen dress but a tightly bound ball gown.
He'd been staring at her. He dropped his eyes and hastily pretended to adjust his broken leg on the chair he'd rested it on.
Already his arse was sore, both from the kitchen chair and the ones in the dining room, not to mention the jolting car ride earlier. The day bed in the sunroom, and especially the one on the porch, looked inviting, soft and yielding. If he were alone and could lounge about as he pleased – but perhaps if the governess went about her duties upstairs, whatever it was she might need to do before retiring, he might find a book and settle comfortably. He hadn't seen so much as a phonograph when he'd peered into the parlour, though there were books in plenty. Yet the time would pass quicker with someone to talk with.
He accepted a mug of tea, and acknowledged with a nod the plate of biscuits she placed before him.
"Why don't we both go sit in the parlour?"

Meanwhile...

ello, it's contest time!

Summer Fire is out in the wild

and the anniversary of publication month is coming up!

Summer Fire by Deniz Bevan
The Dirty Bits from Carina Press "give you what you want, when you want it. Designed to be read in an hour or two," these "microromances are guaranteed to pack a punch and deliver a happily-ever-after."

"'You know how it is with Canadians. We come alive in the summer.'

Ayse had resigned herself to an interesting—but in the end unromantic—trip visiting family in Istanbul. Great-aunts, touristy sites and endless meals…until she meets fellow doctor Hakan.

All tanned skin and defined muscle under his polo shirt, his kisses cut off her breath, making her dizzy. His every touch is a thrill.

Ayse wants all of Hakan at once. His sweet mouth, the heat of his body against hers, their heartbeats slowing together.

A holiday romance might give her some blazing memories come the lonely winter, but maybe, just maybe, the fire between them doesn’t have to be as fleeting as the summer.

For those times when size does matter. The Dirty Bits from Carina Press: quick and dirty, just the way we like it.

One-click with confidence. This title is part of the Carina Press Romance Promise: all the romance you’re looking for with an HEA/HFN. It’s a promise!"

Here's a lovely shot of Heybeliada, one of the Princes Islands, which features in part of the story.

I've also got a playlist for the story!

Summer Fire playlist, featuring
Whisky Trench Riders, Idlewild, Yaşar, Blue Rodeo, Sezen Aksu, Mes Aieux, Duman, and the Divine Comedy!

Book links:
Carina Press
Amazon.ca
Amazon.com
Amazon.de
Amazon.co.uk
Barnes & Noble
Kobo
Goodreads

Thank you to every one of you in the blogging community whose supported me over over the years!

If you'd like to enter the contest (cue flashing lights!):
Please leave a review on any one of the sites above,

and share a link to the review in the comments here.
That's it!

All names of reviewers will be entered into a draw for a $25 gift card at the retailer of their choice!

Names on slips of paper may or may not be chosen by this happy fellow:

Mountie says hi!

The contest remains open!
Hope you enjoy the book and if you're reading along, hope you're enjoying the story!