Tuesday, March 5, 2013

Grace Elliot...What Makes Her Cry?

Please welcome Grace Elliot.

"Last Saturday I went to the cinema and was taken on the most wonderful emotional journey. Forewarned by tales of people not leaving at the end credits, because they didn't want others to see they had been crying, I braced myself. Indeed, about ten minutes into the movie at the first emotional hiatus, my 20 year old son was swallowing so heavily I could hear him in the dark, but I remained dry eyed. After three-quarters of an hour and the death of a main character, I congratulate myself on still not having shed a tear whilst those around me sat sniffing. So I was totally unprepared, when after nearly three hours, and the movie reached its conclusion I was like a helpless baby with tears rolling down my cheeks and soaking my roll-neck sweater.

And what was the movie?

Les Miserables.

The irony is, that despite being left bereft at the end, I , along with the rest of the cinema stood and clapped. And the reason we clapped was that we had seen a towering example of the glory of the human spirit and the power of love. Not only that, but the film was a feast for the senses; from wonderful sweeping vista shots and searching close-ups, to the soaring music and wonderful lyrics, a true celebration of creativity, and a wonderful escape to a different world.

And that's what I look for in a good book; that sense of being immersed in a world that becomes real and to care about the characters such that their troubles become mine. As an author, my aim is to write the sort of page-turner I love to read, but only you, the reader can say whether I have succeeded or not.

In my latest release, "Hope's Betrayal", Captain George Huntley falls in love with his prisoner, a smuggler called Hope Tyler. But love on opposite sides of the law is a difficult destiny to follow when it means court-marshal for Huntley, or Hope betraying her own family. 


Grace Elliot leads a double life as a veterinarian by day and author of historical romance by night. Grace believes intelligent people need to read romance as an antidote to the modern world. As an avid reader of historicals she turned to writing as a release from the emotionally draining side of veterinary work.

Grace lives near London and is addicted to cats. The Elliot household consists of five cats, two teenage sons, one husband, a guinea pig - and the latest addition - a bearded dragon!

Author Links

Website / Blog / Newsletter / Facebook / Twitter / Amazon Author Page

Hope’s Betrayal 


Grace Elliot 

Hope's Betrayal

Historical Romance 

November 2012 

One wild, winter's night two worlds collide. 

Known for his ruthless efficiency, Captain George Huntley is sent to stamp out smuggling on the south coast of England. On a night raid, the Captain captures a smuggler, but finds his troubles are just beginning when the lad turns out to be a lass, Hope Tyler. 

With Hope as bait, the Captain sets a trap to catch the rest of the gang. But in a battle of wills, with his reputation at stake, George Huntley starts to respect feisty, independent Hope. Challenged by her sea-green eyes and stubborn loyalty Huntley now faces a new threat - his growing attraction to a sworn enemy. But a love where either Hope betrays her own kind, or Captain Huntley is court-marshaled, is not an easy destiny to follow. 

Lass Not a Lad.- Captain Huntley Makes a Discovery About his Prisoner. 
Alone with his prisoner the Captain set to work, his face all harsh angles in the lamplight. First to stem the bleeding. Working with deft hands, he pulled the bloodstained scarf from the felon's head. Surprise registered, as he noted the delicate ears and elegant neck. The boy’s hair gleamed like polished-coal in the lamplight; tied back in a pony tail, black-as-the-devil’s heart. 

Huntley reached for a rag to wipe blood from the boy's eyes and cheek. Soft skin emerged from beneath the clotted mess. The boy was young…a round face with pointed chin, a tipped nose …and lips, softly parted and provocatively plump….just ripe for kissing. A flush of heat warmed Huntley's cheeks. What was he thinking?

Wiping his sleeve across his eyes he forced himself to continue. He bathed the laceration, cleaning away sand and blood. Something about this lad had stirred deep emotions and the captain didn’t like it one little bit. He glanced toward the door, not wanting to be alone with the smuggler and these strange feelings he stirred.

“What the devil's taking that wench so long?”

The fire was crackling nicely now, steam rising from the lad's clothes. But it wasn’t warm enough; cold could kill every bit as much as blood loss.

”Hell's teeth, do I have to do everything myself?”

With rising irritation, Huntley set to stripping the lad of his wet clothes.

He peeled back the patched jacket, twice its weight with water, and dropped it to the floor. A patched and frayed shirt, sticky with blood, clung to the lad’s lean frame. Huntley tugged the shirt-tail free of the lad’s sodden breeches and off over his head, with the result that the Captain's pulse raced alarmingly.

“Get a grip, man.” Huntley muttered.

The lad had unexpectedly slim shoulders, a silver stiletto strapped to his thin upper arm.


Unsheathing the knife he held the elegant blade toward the firelight; a finely crafted weapon of silver filigree over an ivory handle— a lady’s weapon, and obviously expensive.

“Who did you steal this from, then?”

Placing the stiletto safely out of reach, he turned back to the table. Stripped of his shirt, it seemed the lad had broken ribs, for his chest was strapped. The bindings were soaked and must come off. Shifting the unconscious lad into a sitting position, balancing him against his shoulder, Huntley unwound the bandages.

As he lay the lad back down on the table, Huntley was suddenly struck by the peculiar shadows playing across the boy’s chest. A flush of blood heated his cheeks. That explained a lot! Huntley’s mouth dropped open; he threw back his head and laughed aloud with relief.

“Tis not a lad….but a lass!"

Alone in the scullery with a half-naked girl…no, not a girl, for she had the soft curves of a woman. Huntley took a step back. The sense of relief was overwhelming, that it was a woman who had excited his body so. He looked around for someone to share his astonishment, but the maid had not yet returned.

In his experience women were tiresome, wearisome creatures that sapped the spirit and drained the mind, but he studied this one with interest. Dark lashes lay brushed against her cheek, an almost catlike tilt to her closed eyes. Her skin was clear, fresh, and unblemished. Her face was wide, round even, but with a pointed chin and a nose turned up at the end. In all he decided, she was beautiful with the stubbornness of a mule and fragility of a china doll. She had been a worthy advisory on the dunes; agile, brave and resourceful and it thrilled him to the core. Lost in thought ,Huntley shrugged off his outer coat and covered her over, then removed himself to a respectable distance.

Nothing had changed, he told himself. She was a felon and would pay the penalty demanded by law. And if Huntley felt uneasy at the prospect he suppressed the emotion, it was just that he had to get used to the notion of interrogating a woman.
Buy Links 
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  1. Thank you so much for hosting me today. Who else has seen Les Miserables? Did it make you cry - or rather how many times?
    Do leave a comment.
    Also, I am offering a prize draw of a $30 Amazon voucher if you sign up for my newsletter (quarterly) here:
    Grace x

  2. Les Miserable made me cry as well, when I went to see it with my sister in law. I am one who hates to cry in front of others (even when it's dark) but there was no way to avoid it. There were only 10 or so people in the movie theater with us but we all stood and clapped and cheered at the end, with our wet eyes and sniffly noses.

    I subscribed to Grace's newsletter and look forward to reading her stories :)

    monicaperry00 at gmail dot com