How Erik and Sylvie Resolve Their Disagreements – Brief Excerpt From Book 3!

Today I am having a mini-celebration for another milestone reached writing the first draft of Book 3 in my Disfigured Series. Spirit of Revenge has just reached the 100,000 word mark and I am really happy about that. It is always a long haul writing a full-length novel, and there is a lot to it even when writing something fun like a Gothic Romance. And it is a lonely road to walk much of the time. With each of my books, all set in the past, in France, the research takes a fair amount of time but is so important to get right. In this book, I’ve researched the political climate in France, the Count of Chambord, and camera styles and techniques of the 1870s.

I posted the following excerpt on my Facebook page but I also wanted to post it on my blog. This little excerpt was such fun to write, because it demonstrates the characteristics of my two main characters and shows one of the ways they resolve conflicts. Unsurprisingly, they use sex as a way to reconnect when they have a disagreement. Erik still has a tendency to keep things to himself, ostensibly to protect Sylvie, and Sylvie does not want him to keep things from her. I hope you will enjoy this little interaction between them!

‘Walking to the empty fireplace, Erik struck a match and set fire to the letter, tossing it on to the grate. “Pierre Gerard is now the late Pierre Gerard. Moreau writes to tell me they found his body near the Seine.” Erik met my eyes, his own pale eyes cold and hard. “His throat was cut.”

I sank into the nearest armchair. “How horrid! But why did you say you were not surprised?”

Erik’s handsome mouth twisted in a little grimace. “Because he failed in his attempt to get me out of the way, and allowed himself to be caught in my trap. Gerard knew he would pay for his failure with his life; that is why he tried to flee. But I expect they were watching him. He did not even make it out of the city.”

I shuddered at the dreadful image that sprang into my mind. I did not think kindly upon M. Gerard, since he had tried to have Erik killed (and me too for that matter), but I felt rather sorry for him. What a horrible end, and all because he had become addicted to gambling.

“Was there anything else in the letter?” I asked, watching the paper curl and blacken in the grate.

“Moreau says he is feeling much better and will return to his office part-time as soon as his doctor allows it.”

Something about Erik’s tone of voice aroused my suspicions. “And was that all?”

Erik ran a hand through his hair exasperatedly. “Ever curious, aren’t you, Sylvie?” He flung himself into another armchair, scowling. “No, that was not all. Moreau sends a warning for us to be on our guard. The individuals who were apparently trying to locate me in Paris have vanished, and all leads to them have dried up.”

I stared at him aghast. “Do you mean that we were followed from Paris? And after all the effort we put into not being followed?”

Erik stared moodily into the dark fireplace. “It certainly looks that way. These people must be very good.”

“Weren’t you going to tell me, Erik?” I demanded heatedly.

He sighed deeply. “No, I was not. I did not want to worry you. I thought posting the extra guards would be enough.”

Rising, I paced around the library, profoundly irritated with my spouse. Finally I came to stand before him, hands on hips. “You need to go to the police in Sarlat, as Dr. Gaudet suggested, and report all this – including the attack on Robert, and tell them we are being watched. They can find out easily enough if strangers are in the area. This is a small village, Erik.”

His pale eyes grew icy, as they often did when he was displeased. But he said nothing, only set his jaw stubbornly.

“I know you do not like to ask for help, but that is what the police are for, Erik.”

I knelt in front of him and put my hand on his knee. “I would feel better, and safer, if you did this,” I added gently.

He looked down at me, and some of the tension left him. “I never ask for help from anyone. I never needed any help.”

“I know that, but it is not only you now; you have Marie and I to consider, as well as Dr. Gaudet, Robert and all the rest. We all of us are under your protection, mon amour.”

He released his breath in an explosive sigh, and rubbed a hand over his face. “Très bien, tomorrow I will go to the police and make a report, if it will please you, Sylvie.”

I tightened my hand on his knee. “Not tomorrow, today. The sooner they start asking around the village, the better. Besides, tomorrow is the day the photographer comes, remember?”

The grimace returned with a vengeance. “Tomorrow? Sacre! I will be glad to get this over. Who is this photographer you are all fussing about?”

I could see that a little more cajoling was in order, so I rose from the floor, gathered my skirts and deposited myself in Erik’s lap. Looping my arms around his neck, I placed a kiss on his cheek.

A reluctant smile curved his lips. “If you are trying to be persuasive, it is working,” he muttered, wrapping his arms around me.

“Bon. Well, Celestine says that the photographer is a very young man; his name is Justin Grant. He speaks almost no French.  His assistant does all the talking apparently.” I shifted my position slightly to allow Erik’s hands better access to the place he was trying to reach.

“We ought to disagree more often, Kitten,” he murmured, doing things with his hands that made me wriggle against him.

“And we have to sit for him tomorrow, because…oh, Erik…”

“Because why?” He asked, amusement threading his voice, as he ran his lips up the side of my neck.

“Because he is…Oh, I cannot concentrate with you doing that…because he is leaving Sarlat in a couple of days for his next destination, and will not…stop that! Will not be coming back here. Oh!”

After that there was no further conversation for several minutes, until Erik lifted his head and whispered in my ear. I agreed with alacrity, and we went upstairs.’