Happy Book Birthday The Iron Corsair

Mar 22, 2017 | Barbara Devlin, Blog, March 2017

Don’t miss the exciting new release from Barbara Devlin, The Iron Corsair. The second installment in the Pirates of the Coast series full of sexy pirates and thrilling adventures. Check out this excerpt and then click the link below to get your copy for just $0.99.

Excerpt:

North Atlantic Ocean
September, 1817

Redemption proved the greatest test of a man’s patience, as he counted down the days until his liberation, often resulting in many nights spent lost in the seemingly endless depths of a bottle of cheap rum, reflecting on the mistakes of his past and reconsidering his every move toward a future that still struck him as impossible. Yet, as Barrington endeavored to win absolution, he remained focused on a singular objective.
Reclaiming Lady Florence, if only he was not too late.
As a gaping hole, as an interminable festering wound in his heart, he suffered her absence the last four years, and if he lost her, all his efforts at recovering his life were for naught. No matter what he had to do, no matter how many times he had to intercede on behalf of innocent travelers at sea, no matter how many fellow pirates he angered, he would win the full and unconditional pardon, so he could return to England and to his woman.
“Ship, two points off the larboard bow, Cap’n.” McNish, the longtime first mate of the Audacious, peered through a spyglass. “She looks to be the one.”
“Bring us about and drop anchor.” Barrington pulled the message from his coat pocket and studied the pedestrian plea, which awaited his return to Jamaica only a fortnight ago. “I wonder what he wants with me.”
“We abided by the terms of the agreement, Barry.” The seasoned tar scratched his cheek and rested his hip against the starboard rail. “Did we not defend a transport vessel against the Marooner, last month, which saved a couple hundred innocent lives?”
“And if memory serves, the Marooner was none too happy about it.” The ruthless buccaneer, known for abandoning survivors on deserted islands, raised a hell of an objection, and Barrington thought, for an instant, the two would come to blows, when they met in their usual Port Royal haunt. “This is something altogether unrelated, I suspect.”
And that was what bothered him.
After a few minutes, the Demetrius glided alongside, and the military compliment assumed a defensive position at the rail, but Lance commanded the lobsters to stand down and then waved a greeting. “Ahoy, my friend.”
“I was surprised to receive your summons.” With a nod, Barry signaled his crew. “Prepare the mainsail hull.”
As the men lowered a plank between the two vessels, he mustered courage and an appearance of ennui, given he suspected he knew the reason behind the request to assemble, and he slept little in the previous sennight, as nightmares plagued the dark hours.
At the waist of the Demetrius, Barry shared a firm handshake with Lance, and then he noticed a stunning, raven-haired goddess lingering on the quarterdeck.
Lance peered over his shoulder and groaned. “Cara, I told you to remain in our cabin.”
“But I wish to greet our guest.” With grace and elegance, and a telltale stubborn set of her chin that reminded Barry of Florence, Lady Cara descended the companion ladder and strolled to the fore. “Lord Ravenwood, it is wonderful to see you, again, after so long. I believe it has been four years, has it not?”
“Indeed, it has, Lady Cara.” Out of old habit, Barrington bowed. “I prefer Barry, given I doubt I retain my title.”
“Actually, you do.” At Lance’s assertion, Barry came alert. “Your brother lost his bid to have you declared deceased.”
“Oh?” In shock, because he had not expected that development, he stumbled back but just as quick gained his footing. So many responses swirled in his brain, yet he could not form a coherent sentence. “Why?”
“What is this? You ask why?” Lance arched his brows. “No celebration? No expression of gratitude?”
“Of course, I am thankful, yet I can hardly manage the estate from my exile.” However, Barrington pondered the revelation and counted it as an important first step toward his ultimate absolution. “What was the judge’s rationale for the ruling?”
“The Crown requires proof of your demise before declaring you dead, in absentia, and dispossessing you of your inheritance, per the right of primogeniture, which is sacred to England.” Lance drew his wife to his side and kissed her temple. “Thus you remain fully vested in your holdings.”
“I know not what to say.” Suddenly, the world seemed a much smaller place, and the familiar trappings of his former existence loomed within reach, that he might seize the much-desired prize. Then a single provoking thought struck him between the eyes. “What of my brother and Lady Florence?” Swallowing hard, he inhaled a deep breath. “Did they wed, as you mentioned when we met in November?”
“No, they have not, and I do not anticipate they will ever marry.” Something dark and chilling danced on the fringe of Lance’s reply, and Barrington met his friend’s stare.
“What is it?” He squared his shoulders and stiffened his spine. “What have you not told me?”
“I thought you should know there are rumors circulating the ton’s ballrooms, most noticeably during the Season.” Lance peered at his bride. “But I should emphasize such gossip is naught but speculation and innuendo.”
Then Lance hesitated, as he appeared at a loss for words.
“Lord Ravenwood, no one has seen Lady Florence since the Little Season.” Lady Cara averted her gaze, appeared lost in thought, and then gave him her full attention, as Lance shuffled his feet. “There is no easy way to deliver ill tidings, other than to simply state the facts.”
When Lady Cara quieted, Barrington considered, for the first time, that the ill tidings had something to do with Florence. Clenching his jaw, he fisted his hands.
“Please, tell me what is wrong.” A heavy sensation weighted his chest. “Why did they delay the nuptials? Whatever it is, I need to know, now.”
“According to the most recent reports, which we received from my mother-in-law, Lady Amanda, Admiral Douglas’s wife, the wedding has been postponed, indefinitely.” Lance twined his fingers with his bride’s. “It is said that Lady Florence is gravely ill, and Lord Braithwaite makes funeral arrangements.”
For a few seconds, the last statement echoed in Barrington’s ears.
Pain functioned as the great leveler, because it knew no marks of wealth, rank, or privilege. Without mercy, it crept up on its victim and engulfed him in the black blanket of torment, chilling every scrap of flesh, shuddering through every bone, stretching taut every muscle, winding every nerve tight as a clock spring, and leaving nothing unscathed. In that moment of realization, in that terrible sliver of time in which the verisimilitude of his situation confronted him inasmuch as he studied his reflection in a mirror, Barrington tripped and fell to his knees, as he contemplated his lady’s death.

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Author Info:

Bestselling author Barbara Devlin was born a storyteller. A Texan, through and through, Barbara hasn’t been without a book in her possession since she was in kindergarten. She wrote her first short story, a really cheesy murder-mystery, in high school, but it was a Christmas gift, a lovely little diary with a bronze lock, given to her in the fifth grade that truly inspired her love of writing.

After completing part of her undergraduate studies at the University of London, where she developed a love of all things British, Barbara returned home and began a career in banking. But the late 80s weren’t too promising for the financial industry, and every bank that hired Barbara soon folded. So she searched for a stable occupation, and the local police department offered the answer to her prayers.

Initially, Barbara wasn’t too sure about her new career in law enforcement, but she soon came to love being a police officer. And then one uncharacteristically cold and icy day in December 1998, Barbara was struck by a car and pinned against a guardrail while working an accident on a major highway. Permanently disabled, she retired from the police department and devoted her time and energy to physical therapy.

Once Barbara got back on her feet, she focused on a new career in academia. She earned an MA in English and continued a course of study for a Doctorate in Literature and Rhetoric. She happily considered herself an exceedingly eccentric English professor, until success in Indie publishing lured her into writing, full-time, featuring her fictional knighthood, the Brethren of the Coast.