The Lady Series

from Award-winning, best-selling Kindle author Denise Domning

Praise for
LADY IN WAITING

"Domning has written a compelling tale that brings the Elizabethan Renaissance to life with startling clarity. This well-written, realistic, and vividly descriptive story does an excellent job with a difficult time period."

—
Library Journal

"... Denise Domning pulls out all the stops in this exciting historical.... The stakes are high in this game of life and death where passion reigns supreme, secrets abound, and in the end everyone must please the Virgin Queen."

—Amazon.com review

"
Lady in Waiting
is a wonderful and entertaining historical romance that brilliantly describes the intrigue and power of the court of Queen Elizabeth."

—
Harriet Klausner
, reviewer

Praise for
LADY IN WHITE

"Strong, vivid writing and compelling characters...intensely sensual"

—Library Journal

"
Lady In White
is a brilliant story with fascinating and well-developed characters. The author doesn't rely on cheap stereotypes or easy plotting, and the result is absolutely amazing. —a book reviewer

"Denise Domning has superbly captured the life and times that were the Elizabethan age. You will believe that you have actually met Elizabeth I and know what it was like to be a member of her court and have it your bounden duty to abide by her every whim and decision. I highly recommend Lady in White to all who what to read a touching romance while learning about history."

—Linda Abel, publisher
The Medieval Chronicle

Master Christopher Hollier stirred in his sleep as the nightmare wound its steely tentacles around him and dragged him down to hell.

As it always did this familiar torment held Kit outside it for an instant, letting him be for a brief space in time both a man full grown and a child of eight. Thus Kit looked upon the child he’d been, a boy already tall for his age with sandy colored hair cropped short because he refused to comb it.

In the blink of an eye he and the child stood in the kitchen at Graceton Castle. Its brown stone floor, worn to gray along concave paths wrought by a century’s worth of footsteps, stretched out before him, reaching to the fireplace at the far wall. The hearth was huge, its mouth so wide that two tall men side-by-side could walk into it. Although the dream never provided the scullery lad who turned the spit’s handle, Kit could see the lamb rotating on the spit over the roaring fire at its back wall.

His dream gaze followed a path long ago set for it and shifted to the wee black iron pot that sat amid a pile of white hot embers. Placed where it could be easily stirred, almost at the low step that separated the hearth from the kitchen floor, the lid on the pot chattered as the sauce within it bubbled.

As always happened the moment Kit saw that pot he lost himself to the child he’d been.

Kit stroked his hand down the smooth velvet of his doublet. He loved these new garments even though he’d only gotten them so he might properly mourn his grandsire’s passing. They looked exactly like his lord father’s attire, even to the coat’s soft fur collar and long, dangling sleeves.

Nick was crying. Kit looked at his elder brother. Two years Kit’s senior, Nick also wore black. Their clothing and their green eyes were all that named them kin. Nick had their mother’s fair features and fine golden hair while Kit had the Graceton face: long in the nose, narrow in the cheeks.

Kit put a hand on his brother’s shoulder, conjuring up what comfort he could. “I wish our lord grandsire hadn’t died and you didn’t have to go to serve the heretic king.”

Nick wiped his nose upon his sleeve and looked up at Kit. “I want to stay here, but if I don’t go Father says we’ll be poor and I’ll never be Lord Graceton.”

Kit wrinkled his nose. Such a thing was incomprehensible. There’d always been a Lord Graceton at Graceton Castle.

With the next breath he shook off these deep thoughts. This was their free hour, a time for enjoyment not worries. Leaping to the wood stacked near the fireplace, he snatched up a stick then threw out his chest and pranced to and fro like some high-strung pony. “On your guard!” he warned Nick, wagging the branch before him in challenge.

Just as Kit expected the prospect of play soothed Nick from his cares. His brother grabbed himself a weapon and took a defensive stance. Kit thrust first, still owning that right even though they were now of a height and he no longer needed the advantage.

His attack drove his brother into a brief retreat. Nick stopped to eye Kit down the short length of his nose. “How dare you attack the lord of this castle! Now I shall slay you for your impertinence.”

Sticks clashed. Bark flew. Two years more experience with their sword master told the tale. Nick’s weapon cut through the air more quickly than Kit anticipated. The blow caught him on the shoulder with a solid whack. Wincing, Kit fell back, his hand atop his arm.

“You’re dead,” Nick crowed as he scrambled back beyond the reach of Kit’s weapon.

Kit cried out in wordless protest. It wasn’t his turn to die, and Nick knew it. “Nay, I was but injured and went away until my wounds were healed,” he said, trying to force the game back to its familiar pattern.

As he spoke, he skipped behind the cook’s worktable to play out his departure and subsequent recovery. With his stick held before him, he darted out to again confront his brother. “When I was well I came to find you so we might duel again.”

“And I stabbed you again,” Nick said, thrusting for his brother’s breast.

Dodging the blow, Kit’s eyes narrowed. This was a flagrant breach of their rules. “But you missed,” he said, “so I hired me four to help drub you proper.” He waved his stick-cum-sword to call his newly employed servants to his side.

Nick only sneered at this paltry threat. “Then, I called me eight of mine own retainers to beat your four.”

Kit set his fists on his hips in outrage. “‘Tisn’t fair, Nick. You can’t have more men than me.”

His brother’s mouth tightened. A superior look twisted his pretty face. “I can do anything I want. Even if our house is bankrupt and I will be but a squire, I am still Graceton’s heir while you are only the second son. Not only do I have more men, my swords are the finer.”

Accompanied by his larger and better armed imaginary force Nick charged his younger brother. Kit glared at him. If Nick could cheat, so could he. He stuck out his leg.

“Then, you stumbled,” the child he’d been said.

Nick did just as commanded and tripped over his younger brother’s outstretched leg.

Trapped in sleep, the adult Kit moaned, trying to call back his ancient action. To no avail. There was nothing for him to do but watch his brother stagger toward the hearth.

The only sound the dream ever let him hear was the scuff of Nick’s shoes on stone. Nick’s arms flailed as he tried to catch his balance. Then his foot caught on the hearth’s low step.

“Nick!” the younger Kit screamed as he watched Nick drop face first atop the wee pot.

The tiny cauldron toppled. Scorching mist exploded in the fireplace’s arched mouth. The fur collar on Nick’s coat and his dangling sleeves burst into flame. Graceton’s heir shoved himself upright off the searing hearthstone, his mouth opened in a silent scream. Nick’s golden hair was a stinking, blackened mass. Gone were his eyebrows and the skin on his face already hung in sheets as if sliding off his bones.