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It's 1688 AD, in the midst of the Glorious Revolution, a British civil war between Protestants and Catholics which has international players interested from France, Ireland, Spain, and the Netherlands, while the English king is absent from his throne, a huge invading force of sails and swords fills the Channel.
However, royal favorite of Charles II's Restoration reign, the brown-skinned British courtier Lady Rebecca, has more personal cares; on the run from a forced marriage to a famous white-haired earl, she’s running home to the very edge of England, to her stormy Atlantic-tossed Cornwall, where pirates are stalking the tiny coves, villages, and homes of Cornwall's shores.
And where Cornwall's rocky, treacherous coast is but a stepping stone for lively Becca, her ever persistent soldier fiancé, and an intriguing Irish Catholic pirate of many faces.
Historical Romantic Adventure Fiction
Before Now White Hall Palace, Westminster by London, SE England;
1 November, 1688
Draft, PROLOGUE: GLACIAL FLEEING
It was blasted irksome, Lord Padraic’s infuriating maxims darting ’round the bare ankles of Becca’s thoughts, just like house cats startled, fur standing on end; the apprehensive felines’ claws unsheathed and piercing into her tender mind; demanding to not be ignored.
“ ‘May you live in an interesting age,’ he’d spoken so agreeably long ago, and “May you leave without returning,” she murmured now, darkly chiding her darkened reflection in a whisper, so her lady’s maids, in their room beside hers, could not hear.
Both sayings were Lord Padraic’s, overheard by a mostly forgotten child at supper during an embassy gathering. He’d later told her that “interesting times” were a bad thing, and often dangerous, and that “leaving without returning,” meant you’d not come back, which was quite bad, if you left home and wanted to return.
When she’d learned the rather polite insult and curse from His Lordship, her escort was seated higher at table according to his noble rank and esteemed favor, while she and the Counselor had both been seated just at salt, not above it, not below. Their position at supper said neither was of importance; but were not to be fully ignored. Lord Padraic’s Irish goals were in disfavor but he was powerful in his own right and she, well, no one had known what to do with her for the full year she’d been at the Royal Court; frustrating Courtiers, who could neither fully ignore nor dismiss her, because of her Patron.
She still remembered The Feelings at that long-gone time; of his Frustration in communicating his People’s Needs, while being situated too below Power to be heard, and too close to a foolish low courtier bloated on currying higher favor by being malicious, spiteful, and scornful—yes, she knew they all meant the same, but a Child’s Feelings are a Child’s Feelings.
Padraic had not appreciated being sat so low, nor being partnered with the only commoner at table who was not either almost an adult, nor commoner of significance to Government or Court. His Lordship was sitting next to “the King’s new pet” and even Charles the Second didn’t know fully what to do with her in these public situations.
Lord Padraic had stated each Irish curse loud and clear in English, stopping the courtier’s ignorant chatter so abruptly, that he gaped like a dead fish, whilst little Becca had giggled and the Irishman finally acknowledged her existence by winking down at her.
Then, he had ignored Sir Dead Fish and spoken exclusively with her, little Mistress Rebecca DeLann; apparently “killing his career and ambitions.”
Either or, Lord Padraic’s eventual courtesy changed a painfully, long supper into a warm, treasured memory, and that supper marked the first time she had truly felt accepted and belonging at the Royal Court, beyond those few who had invited her to stay. He’d been the first adult mant to take her hand and bow over it to her.
But, Court isn’t home, not anymore, not with all my loves gone, she thought, while dispassionately discarding the diamond and gold-hearted betrothal ring upon a side table; whilst keeping Marcus’ wedding ring alone on her fisted hand, as it shall always remain.
Becca scowled, as she leaned to be gone but stood listening for any stirrings of her maids behind or from the corridor before her apartment, as she thought.
Maybe Lord Padraic’s curse will prove a blessing. After all. These are such interesting times. Too interesting, by far.
“And it will be a delicious pleasure to leave them far behind me. And never return,” she whispered.
Becca smirked into the dark eyes of her mirrored image, before her gloved hands slipped a lady’s full vizard mask upon her face, clenching the bead holder in her side teeth; obscuring her vibrant tan skin, then pulled her deep hood forward, entirely obscuring her swarthy tresses, prior to tipping forth from her private luxurious coffin and into….
Long corridors, abbreviated corridors, halls crossing galleries within meandering corridors. She recalled with annoyance someone proudly stating, “White Hall Palace has over fifteen hundred rooms.”
“ ‘Over’? What’s the exact count then?” Becca had blurted, and that Someone had sputtered, “I-I’m not ... really ... certain.”
Becca had stopped herself from asking had he gotten lost in his counts or in the palace’s damnable passageways, or both. But, she had refrained; which was a lot for an inquisitive ten-year-old to do on her own.
Blasted, she mentally cursed now, abruptly pausing yet again at more passing footsteps, before continuing her attempt to escape her home in a royal palace; a damnable warren without end, whilst repeatedly becoming immobile to not show movement, or slipping into dark nooks to conceal her presence. There really were far too many a late-night sly fox and ravenous wolf sneaking upon the trail of prey, even a cowering dog or two slinking off to—.
It was bloody exhausting!
“Life at Court is much like the Royal Zoo, Mistress Rebecca; be wary of your path and what, or who, crosses it, so nothing may claw or devour you, my tender Darkling,” he, her now supposed betrothed, had first instructed her long ago, and since, with his sharp Voice of Command intimately warm, and filled with unwanted fondness and ... warning. For her.
Who was he to warn her about anything!
Damnably unfortunate, though, he’d been really quite right about Court being like the Zoo, at least.
Lord Jon may have given her good advice, and he was a great man, for everyone said so; but, for her part, Becca still did not want to be neither Mistress nor Wife to Great Britain’s “White Wolf.”
“Bloody Odd’s Bodikin!” she softly cursed again at an all too familiar sound in this palace. She slinked aside from the main corridor into a dark alcove, then held still a long, long whilst in its murk, as the elder Lady Ashmore and a rakish, hardy soldier, who wasn’t even an officer, let alone of noble name, were committing intimacies Lord Ashmore would have been highly livid about, had he been able to run and catch them up with his gouty foot.
Blasted, I’ll be right here all night, Becca moaned in thought.
Lady Ashmore threw her head back against the wall in hard surprise as the soldier’s rough-hewn fingers found something pleasant under her skirts.
The younger Ashmore, Lady Jane, would have been appalled at her mother’s preposterous assignation; being “too old for such frivolity,” and married to her father; especially with a soldier, who wasn’t an officer. “Mother! At your age!” And especially with this redcoat, for he’d already had his fingers and other man bits under daughter Lady Jane’s skirts.
These considerations weren’t mere gossip, either; because it was remarkable what Lady Becca knew, saw, heard and overheard, without even trying to pry or spy. Ofttimes, others confided in her, or had told her Marcus. She gently numbed any thoughts of him, as she presently remained in a recessed shadow and waited. And waited.
The amorous lady was in her forties with grown children, as the strong soldier lifted her and she straddled him, but slipped off, twice. Lady Ashmore wasn’t known for being particularly well-seated, when mounting ... horse. And this ... mount wanted deep purchase. Denton, Becca thought his name might be, turned the lady to face the wall, as he hiked her ladyship’s skirts, making her giggle with delight, before commenting.
“Ah, so it’s a dog you want to be, eh, Denton?”
Ah, I had the right of his name.
“And you my randy bitch,” he chuckled darkly, then took the thickness of his eager member in hand and actually stared at the patch of darkness in which Becca stood, as he revealed himself fully before slowly sliding his eagerness into the wife of a Lord of Parliament, and began their dance in earnest.
Becca did two things, then; praised herself for recalling the rather obscure soldier’s name. The High Ladies had been whispering and giggling about him, since his recent arrival, and Becca had met him briefly, in passing. “Deadly attractive” or not, he’d held her hand for far too long; like a Cook did at market when appraising ripeness.
But, now, Becca did a quick inventory of her appearance in anonymity: her face was well hidden by the full vizard mask and deep hood, her tan hands inside long gloves, and neither the gown nor anything she wore no one had seen her wear before. In fact, she had had a long heartfelt talk with Evadne, when last visiting her, and after her arrival back at Court, the gown had arrived, with a note to open all when alone.
“A lady never knows when she will need a change of guise. It is not your color, nor fashion, use your actress skills. And be safe, my Sweet Little Sister.”
Sergeant Denton—he’d been a lieutenant, or captain? briefly, but had been demoted, for ... oh, lying abed with his superior’s wife, until she was spoiled for anyone else ’twixt her thighs, including her husband! Was she in a convent in France now, or just cast off to street or deep country.
Becca really couldn’t recall just now. They weren’t very important people and she was impatient to be away. Their movement was ... hypnotic though, as an unwanted fancy grabbed her in her own abandoned loins, of long, strong thighs, and a hardening groin against her, when locked in a betrothal kiss.
No. No. No. No. NO! Clear that congestion away, woman!
She refocused from memory to the public lovers. Oh, yes, he was definitely gazing in her direction, making her recall strange discussions about those who liked an audience, when they became heatedly engrossed in their ... ride.
Thank you, she sighed, in her mind, and stepped forth.
The entire ... action, to use a military term, didn’t make Becca grimace, for she was a full Courtier now and a Peeress of the Realm; such a thing was common to the point of being utterly Common. Lady Ashmore and her redcoated paramour became so utterly engrossed, that Becca slipped silently around them with barely a soft whispering rustle of skirts.
’Twas eerie, Sergeant Denton watching her pass, as he enjoyed a Parliament Lord’s Lady, who panted against the wall, leaving smears of her makeup upon it, her hairpieces falling askew. Becca was past them, and almost resisted; but gave into some curious feeling, and glanced back to find Denton’s head still turned, following her exit, a lolling grin upon his face, as he and the lady proceeded.
You are quite welcome, you dangerous common cur.
There were ... feminine shrieks of Delight and male grunts of ... Completion, and wonderings of whether he’d get both ladies with child passed quickly, as Becca turned a corner.....
continues but END OF EXCERPT
A brown-skinned girl of common birth among the landed gentry is raised to the high nobility of Britain by sheer personality, good heart, and wit.
Now as a titled noblewoman with powerful connections, Becca is more than a runaway bride, for the powerful men, and women, interwoven in her life are changing Great Britain.
A well-loved general and high peer of Britain, who has lost his only heir and has watched Becca grow to maturity, without realizing his true feelings for her.
He is awake to his feelings about his friend Marcus' wife; he's waited long enough to have her and has the reach and the will to have her captured and returned to his side and bed no matter how far she runs.
A notorious Irish Catholic pirate of color in revolt and revenge against all that is Great Britain has taken from him.
But, an unexpected British gift comes to him in the shape of lively, irresistible Becca, who will change his life and all close to him; whether pirate or family, or both.
A young nobleman and only male heir to his family's fortune, highest title, and hopes, whose stubborn choice for love is a brown-skinned, vivacious commoner, Becca.
As a child, Marcus will introduce little Becca, his future bride, to their king, Charles II, and change everything.
The legendary "Merry Monarch" of Britain's Restoration is best known for his numerous mistresses and royal bastards than for ushering all English-speaking people into modern concerns and failures, like: news tabloids, shopping malls, women actresses, industrialized slavery, and more.
Oh, and present Brit Royals are his bastards' descendants.
BECCA DuMAURIER is the expanded and much extended full novel built from:BECCA, a swashbuckling pirate story, as short story chapters*!
* Chapter 1: Becca in the Woods
* Chapter 2: Becca Escapes to Sea
* Chapter 3: Becca Gets Her Sea Legs
* Chapter 4: Becca's Faux Honeymoon
* Chapter 5: Becca Comes Ashore
* Chapter 6: Becca Outlaw's Sea Battle
* more "Becca DuMaurier" and Becca.Neale-Sourna.com
Sneak Peek: VIDEO SHORT STORY Film / BOOK TRAILER
An extended book trailer / film short of two chapters of the following novel. Film was done as a film class thesis project. Submitted to Cleveland Film Festival.
BECCA, a swashbuckling pirate story*!
Cuyahoga Community College Media Arts and filmmaking marketing photo taken on stage during student film shoot of "Becca Gets Her Sea Legs" by Neale Sourna
Our hardcore main line
[sensuality is R, NC17, X, XXX]
medium and hard erotica / sensual romance / romantic erotica
Our softcore line
[sensuality is PG13, Soft R]
soft erotica / sensual romance / romantic erotica and general fiction
Our nonfiction line
[PG13, R, NC17, X, XXX]
Other projects Neale Sourna has written and have been published beyond PIE.
Copyright 2019 Neale Sourna
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