Well we're right smack dab in the middle of the #Egg-cerpt Exchange blog hop and today's guest is Kim Headlee!
Here's more about her and her book.....
Roman by his father, Brytoni by his mother, and denied hereditary rulership of his clan because of his mixed blood, Arthur is the supreme commander of the northern Brytoni army. The Caledonians, Scots, Saxons, and Angles keep him too busy to dwell upon his loneliness...most of the time.
When Gyan and Arthur meet, each recognize within the other their soul’s mate. The treaty has preserved Gyan’s ancient right to marry any man—but Arthur does not qualify. And the ambitious Urien, Arthur’s greatest political rival, shall not be so easily denied. If Gyan and Arthur cannot prevent Urien from plunging the Caledonians and Brytons back into war, their love will be doomed to remain unfulfilled forever.
Arthur chuckled. More twigs pattered onto the tiles. “You seemed to enjoy yourself in St. John’s, my love.”
“Of course. Why shouldn’t I?” He pulled the last laurel leaves from Gyan's hair, and she turned toward him.
“I thought you might not understand everything. I don’t mean the words,” he amended, silencing her protest with a finger to her lips, “but the symbolism.”
Smiling, she clasped his hands, glad for the chance to share this secret. “The man who taught me your tongue taught me about…my God.”
He didn’t hide his astonishment. “But the candle-lighting?”
“I asked Merlin to add that Caledonian custom for the benefit of Father and the rest of my clansmen, not for myself.” She recalled the private conversation in the bishop’s workroom, scant minutes before riding to the bonding ritual. Swept along by the tide of events, she hadn’t noticed anything odd at the time. Hindsight was telling a different tale. “I’m amazed he agreed so readily.”
“Maybe it was his way of apologizing for advising me against accepting your clan-mark.”
Self-doubt, planted by Merlin, grew within her. She disengaged her hands, stood, and walked to the window overlooking the inner courtyard of the praetorium, but from the mental tirade there was no escape.
“Does the One God care so much about a mark on the skin?” With the hand of her sword arm resting over her heart, she slowly stroked her clan-mark. She couldn’t raise her voice above a whisper: “Does this mean I’m really not a Christian?”
His chest pressed to her back as his arms twined about her waist. His lips were warm against her neck. The aromatic essence of his victory crown lingered like a halo.
“I believe God cares more about what’s in our hearts than what’s on our bodies. But some people”—he sighed—“priests, especially, can get strange notions sometimes.”
Strange notions, indeed. It was all too confusing.
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