The Woman Behind the Mirror
Blurb –
Betrothed by her father to a man twice her age, Sarah Forsythe does the unthinkable—she runs away with the son of a Methodist minister. Not to Gretna Green, to colonial America—the New World. For Sarah, a “new world” of broken promises, abandonment, poverty and shame. Around her, the American Revolution is simmering, and the siege of Boston worsens by the day. As British soldiers seek out traitors and treason, a desperate Sarah breaks open a safe looking for cash. Instead, she finds a box holding Bank of England documents. Through willpower, bitter determination, and lying through her teeth, Sarah manages to make her way home to England. What she doesn’t know is that two men follow, and they will do anything to claim those documents.
Bank investigator Neil McAlister faces an almost impossible task—to determine the true owner of the documents by deciding who is lying. Most of all, as danger creeps ever closer, he needs to know who wants the secretive, beautiful Sarah dead.
Buy link
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Excerpt –
When the early dusk gave way to night, she cut her hair to above her shoulders. Dressed in grubby men’s breeches, a thick quilted coat and cloak she’d bought from a street hawker, her cropped hair pushed under a black hat and a knife in her pocket, she walked past the front entrance, looked around and hurried down the lane to the rear of the building. Stepping over rubble and filth she moved closer to the back door and almost sagged with relief. The cover over the coal chute had not been sealed. Crouching down, she pulled the metal ring and pulled again but it wouldn’t budge. Forcing down the urge to scream and kick, she pulled again. With a harsh scraping of wood against wood it lifted, and she dropped into the black hole. Hitting the pile of coal with a thud, she lay still listening, then crept into the empty kitchen and the hall. A glance behind her and she sprinted up the staircase to Samuel Fenton’s private quarters.
It was as she expected, dark and stripped of all furniture, so she felt her way along the wall until a hand covered her mouth. Her heart thudded with shock then she bit down hard. The grip loosened and she kicked back behind her. Two strong hands swung her around and jammed her face into the wall.
“Move and I’ll cut your throat,” a muffled voice hissed in her ear.
Sarah tried to kick back again but he dodged to one side and threw her to the floor. Winded and terrified she flinched when his knife pressed against her throat.
“Who are you? Answer me!”
“Please,” she begged. “Let me go and I’ll not look back.”
A sharp intake of air. “A woman?”
Sarah was pulled up to face a man shrouded in black and with a scarf covering the lower part of his face.
“Let me go!” she yelled but his grip tightened and now frightened for her life she fought back. Her fingernails clawed at his eyes and when he jerked away her boot lashed into his shin bone. Swearing furiously, he kicked her feet from under her and she landed heavily on the floor.
“Bitch,” he snarled. “If you were a man, you’d be dead.” Within seconds he was gone.
Shaking uncontrollably, Sarah backed into a corner and curled into a ball until the cold and the terrible silence became unbearable. You are so close, and you can’t lie here forever.
Lifting her head, she peered into the dark room before crawling to the alcove where the mahogany desk had stood. Inch by inch, she felt along the floorboards until she found the join. Her fingers moved forward until they found the second join and pushed down. It didn’t move. Stifling a sob, she willed herself to remember the night two men had challenged each other to a duel. She’d burst into this room to find Samuel Fenton on his knees placing a box into the hole. He’d swiftly covered it, spluttering something about dropping his snuff box. She hadn’t so much as glanced at the floor, instead she’d pointed to the salon shouting, “Quick, they’ll kill each other.” Now, she had no idea how to open the hidey-hole.
God, it was so dark she couldn’t see a damn thing. Gritting her teeth, Sarah felt the floorboards again. No keyhole. Her eyes closed in despair, why didn’t she bring a hatpin or… Her eyes flew open. Idiot, the knife!
Keeping one finger on the join, she fumbled for the knife in her pocket and pushed it into the crack. Nothing. “Please, please,” she begged silently and dug the knife into the other join. A soft click. Now what do I do? Her fingers gently pushed again, and the other end lifted. Every nerve in her body was screaming to get out now as she lifted the box from its hiding place. Something else was beneath it.
Her fingers probed and picked up a slim leather folder when a noise outside made her freeze. Dear God, he was coming back. Then it went silent. Most likely an alley cat. She pushed the folder into the pocket of her cloak, clutched the box to her chest and, heart pounding loud enough to hear a mile away, she crept down the stairs and into the kitchen. Across the flagstones to the coal chute. “Oh no,” she whispered. There was nothing to help her climb out. Defeated, she slumped down to the floor and put her head in her hands.
It was a scraping noise that roused her. Most likely a tree branch against a window, but wait, how did that brute get in and out? Gripping the knife, she walked beside the walls, touching each boarded window and door and then stopped to listen. Back to the privy where chamber pots were emptied into the sewer outside. The small door was open, its rusty hinges squeaking. Dropping to the floor she crawled through the gap, stepped over the foul-smelling drain and was about to run when a figure loomed in front of her.
Hard hands grabbed her shoulders. “What were you doing in there?”
“Nothing, get away, get away from me!” Jerking away, the box slipped from her grasp and hit the ground with a clatter.
The man grabbed her again. “Slut, answer me or I’ll break your fucking neck.”
Blindly Sarah lashed out at him and her breath caught in her throat when he gave a sickening whoop and staggered backwards to collapse onto the cobblestones.
Oh, dear God. In her panic to get out she’d forgotten the knife in her hand. Her legs were turning to water, she couldn’t move, then a shout from the road.
“What goes on there?” Two night watchmen with lanterns were turning into the lane. Dragging air into her lungs, she picked up the box and fled.
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Cynthia Terelst is a project officer by day and a writer by night. She is a contemporary romance writer who likes to share a little bit of history, some Australian scenery and a whole lotta love. Cynthia does not shy away from difficult topics, as she feels that they should not be ignored.
How Charity Sunday works: for every comment made on this blog post, I will donate money to the charity named. Thanks for your help and your participation!
I don’t think I’ve consciously given a thought as to why I normally create my heroines as slim or slender. I don’t think I purposely avoid the full-figured heroine, but maybe in some way I do. It’s definitely something I will consider in the future. The fact is, full-figured women are as beautiful as slim women.
Curvy is great. Curvy is good. Know why? Because beauty comes from within, not at the makeup table or on the scale. It comes from loving yourself and being happy with who you are.
What about you? Does it bother you to write (or read) about a woman who isn’t a size 6?
In my first book, 
hourglass figure are her assets, and she’s very aware of that when eloping to the American colonies. When everything she trusts deserts her, Sarah must sell those assets to survive – and in that mirror, every day, she sees a loathsome harlot in a gambling club. It’s not until Neil McAllister, who by the way has a damn good body, investigates her for possible bank fraud, that she has the courage to see herself as she once was.
