I
have been writing stories for ever but only in the last few years
seriously started marketing my work. My first success was a short story
published in a national woman’s magazine in the UK. This small but long
awaited success prompted me to finish my novel Only a Hero Will Do.
Having
lived at some of England’s most historic ports I have been surrounded
with maritime history, so it is not surprising that my book is partly
set at sea in the year 1810.
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About - Only a Hero Will Do
Hetty’s
desperate gamble to avoid an odious match lands her all at sea. Can an
overbearing ship’s physician really be the hero she needs to escape her
treacherous family?
Blurb:
Marriage
to a cruel dandy is not how Hetty Avebury envisions spending the rest
of her life. Determined to raise funds to escape the match she earns
money the only way she knows how—gambling. Her plans go astray and she
finds herself onboard a man-of-war under the care of its stern
physician. But Hetty soon realizes that the disapproving Doctor
Withington is not at all the man she had first imagined.
If it wasn’t bad enough declaring one of the pressed men as a woman, Robert has been tasked with the tiresome job of returning her safely back to her dysfunctional family. It was ten years ago when his father gambled away his inheritance, home, and any chance of marrying the woman he loved. So when Robert discovers Hetty gambling he takes drastic action to cure her of the habit.
If it wasn’t bad enough declaring one of the pressed men as a woman, Robert has been tasked with the tiresome job of returning her safely back to her dysfunctional family. It was ten years ago when his father gambled away his inheritance, home, and any chance of marrying the woman he loved. So when Robert discovers Hetty gambling he takes drastic action to cure her of the habit.
Excerpt:
“Annie,
will you please walk beside me? Try to remember, I am supposed to be
your brother not your employer. You must keep your arm on mine.” Annie
pursed her lips but did as she was told.
At five foot four, Hetty was tall enough to masquerade as a male. Her disguise was not of fine quality this time, as she had no desire to stand out in the crowd. It was serviceable and clean, if a little ill-fitting. She resembled a rather youthful clerk.
They had left in the early hours after Hetty had written her aunt a short note to tell her not to worry. She couldn’t risk anything else, as she knew Stark and her father would ask too many questions. If she knew nothing, Aunt Amelia wouldn’t have to lie—something she didn’t like to do.
After a moment, Hetty and Annie searched for a respectable inn, both having missed breakfast. It was only after they had seated themselves in the Boar's Head and ordered a modest meal that Hetty realized it was a bad choice. The tables were occupied by groups of unsavoury looking males, half of whom were staring at Annie in a very vulgar way. Hetty looked around with a feeling of foreboding while picking at a cold rabbit pie. The room started to empty as a strange murmur of discontent rippled through the establishment.
Annie fidgeted beside her. “I don’t like it, Miss Hetty! It ain’t right.”
Hetty groaned. “Harry—not Miss Hetty! For heaven’s sake, Annie!”
“Beg pardon…Harry,” she said, as though the name was blasphemous, “but I think we should go now.”
Hetty agreed and prepared to rise when the door shot open and the remaining customers scattered in all directions. A small party of hefty men, armed with wooden batons, sauntered in and stopped in the centre of the room, assessing the occupants.
Annie grabbed Hetty’s arm. “It’s the press-gang!”
It took a moment for Annie’s words to register then Hetty swallowed violently. If only her skirts were back on. One of them noticed her and narrowed his eyes with a terrifying gleam like a predator. He pointed his finger her way. “Now, lad, I reckon you look ripe for adventure. Eager to serve your king, I wager.”
Hetty shook her head and grasped Annie. “No, sir, I have my sister here to look after.”
The man wandered closer, his fleshy face beamed and his voice cajoled. “What’s your name, lad, and how old are you?”
“Harry Blake. I am fourteen." Surely that is too young.
The man considered her for a moment, and Hetty didn’t dare to breathe.
“Bring him.”
At five foot four, Hetty was tall enough to masquerade as a male. Her disguise was not of fine quality this time, as she had no desire to stand out in the crowd. It was serviceable and clean, if a little ill-fitting. She resembled a rather youthful clerk.
They had left in the early hours after Hetty had written her aunt a short note to tell her not to worry. She couldn’t risk anything else, as she knew Stark and her father would ask too many questions. If she knew nothing, Aunt Amelia wouldn’t have to lie—something she didn’t like to do.
After a moment, Hetty and Annie searched for a respectable inn, both having missed breakfast. It was only after they had seated themselves in the Boar's Head and ordered a modest meal that Hetty realized it was a bad choice. The tables were occupied by groups of unsavoury looking males, half of whom were staring at Annie in a very vulgar way. Hetty looked around with a feeling of foreboding while picking at a cold rabbit pie. The room started to empty as a strange murmur of discontent rippled through the establishment.
Annie fidgeted beside her. “I don’t like it, Miss Hetty! It ain’t right.”
Hetty groaned. “Harry—not Miss Hetty! For heaven’s sake, Annie!”
“Beg pardon…Harry,” she said, as though the name was blasphemous, “but I think we should go now.”
Hetty agreed and prepared to rise when the door shot open and the remaining customers scattered in all directions. A small party of hefty men, armed with wooden batons, sauntered in and stopped in the centre of the room, assessing the occupants.
Annie grabbed Hetty’s arm. “It’s the press-gang!”
It took a moment for Annie’s words to register then Hetty swallowed violently. If only her skirts were back on. One of them noticed her and narrowed his eyes with a terrifying gleam like a predator. He pointed his finger her way. “Now, lad, I reckon you look ripe for adventure. Eager to serve your king, I wager.”
Hetty shook her head and grasped Annie. “No, sir, I have my sister here to look after.”
The man wandered closer, his fleshy face beamed and his voice cajoled. “What’s your name, lad, and how old are you?”
“Harry Blake. I am fourteen." Surely that is too young.
The man considered her for a moment, and Hetty didn’t dare to breathe.
“Bring him.”
Logic ceased. Hetty ducked under the table and tried to crawl toward the door, but one of them crunched a foul-smelling boot down on the small of her back, and her breath escaped in one whoosh of pain. A large hand hoisted her up by the neck cloth and placed her on her feet.
Available at MusaPublishing
Please visit me at my website
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