Book Title: A Rip in the Veil
Series: The Graham Saga
Author: Anna Belfrage
Publication Date: Originally, 2012, but the new, re-edited version January 2023
Publisher: Timelight Press
Page Length: 370
Genre: Historical Fiction, Time Travel Romance
A Rip in the Veil
By Anna Belfrage
Blurb:
On a muggy August day in 2002 Alex Lind disappears. On an equally stifling August day in 1658, Matthew Graham finds her on a Scottish moor. Life will never be the same for Alex – or for Matthew.
Alexandra Lind is thrown three centuries backwards in time to land at the feet of escaped convict Matthew Graham.
Matthew doesn’t know what to make of this strange woman who has seemingly fallen from the skies—what is she, a witch?
Alex is convinced the tall, gaunt man is some sort of hermit, an oddball, but she quickly realises the odd one out is she, not he.
Catapulted from a life of modern comfort, Alex grapples with her new existence, further complicated by the dawning realization that someone from her time has followed her here—and not exactly to extend a helping hand.
Potential compensation for this brutal shift in fate comes in the shape of Matthew, a man she should never have met, not when she was born three centuries after him. But Matthew comes with baggage of his own and on occasion his past threatens them both. At times Alex finds it all excessively exciting, longing for the structured life she used to have.
How will she ever get back? And more importantly, does she really want to?
Buy Links:
This title is available to read on #KindleUnlimited.
Universal Link: http://myBook.to/ARIV1
Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B071VP9V5F
Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B071VP9V5F
Amazon CA: https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B071VP9V5F
Amazon AU: https://www.amazon.com.au/dp/B071VP9V5F
Author Bio:
Anna Belfrage
Had Anna been allowed to choose, she’d have become a time-traveller. As this was impossible, she became a financial professional with two absorbing interests: history and writing. Anna has authored the acclaimed time travelling series The Graham Saga, set in 17th century Scotland and Maryland, as well as the equally acclaimed medieval series The King’s Greatest Enemy which is set in 14th century England.
Anna has also published The Wanderer, a fast-paced contemporary romantic suspense trilogy with paranormal and time-slip ingredients.
Her Castilian Heart is the third in her “Castilian” series, a stand-alone sequel to her September 2020 release, His Castilian Hawk. Set against the complications of Edward I’s invasion of Wales, His Castilian Hawk is a story of loyalty, integrity—and love. In the second instalment, The Castilian Pomegranate, we travel with the protagonists to the complex political world of medieval Spain. This latest release finds our protagonists back in England—not necessarily any safer than the wilds of Spain!
Anna has also authored The Whirlpools of Time in which she returns to the world of time travel. Join Duncan and the somewhat reluctant time-traveller Erin on their adventures through the Scottish Highlands just as the first Jacobite rebellion is about to explode!
All of Anna’s books have been awarded the IndieBRAG Medallion, she has several Historical Novel Society Editor’s Choices, and one of her books won the HNS Indie Award in 2015. She is also the proud recipient of various Reader’s Favorite medals as well as having won various Gold, Silver and Bronze Coffee Pot Book Club awards.
Find out more about Anna, her books and enjoy her eclectic historical blog on her website, www.annabelfrage.com
Social Media Links:
Website: www.annabelfrage.com
Twitter: https://twitter.com/abelfrageauthor
Instagram: https://instagram.com/annabelfrageauthor
Amazon Author Page: http://Author.to/ABG
Book Excerpt:
Excerpt 1 – in which Matthew Graham encounters a strange, concussed woman on an empty moor
Matthew Graham stumbled to his feet. Sweetest Lord! The repeated thunderclaps had thrown him to the ground, near on knocking him senseless. Still, everything seemed to be in working order, even though he tasted blood in his mouth.
He turned his face up to the rain, relieved that the uncommon heat of the last few days had broken. The air still smelled of dust and too much sun, but now there was the fresh scent of water as well, of damp earth and wet bracken. He rubbed at his wrists, running fingers over the visible scars that ringed both of them. Home, he was home, and weeks of looking over his shoulder as he made his way north, were over. Here he was safe, able to melt into the moors and fells of Scotland so as to make him difficult to catch. It almost made him smile. Almost.
He looked about for his few belongings, settled his roll on his shoulder and stood for a while, taking his bearings. Further up the hillside he made out a darker splotch against the drenched slopes. A cave, no doubt small and damp, but far better than spending a night on the soaked ground.
He came to a stop at the sound of birds. Large and black, they flapped and cawed, bickering over something that was lying further down the slope. A dead sheep? One bird landed on the ground, there was a piercing shriek—most definitely human—and Matthew lengthened his stride, yelling at the corbies to be gone.
A woman; on her front, with one arm trapped below her, the other extended by her side. He crouched, not quite sure what to do. She was in a bad way, one foot scorched around the ankle and down to her toes. On her forehead there was an ugly contusion, blood trickling sluggishly from it.
From the way her breath hitched, each inhalation interrupted by a protesting whimper, he suspected she must have landed on her ribs. He looked down at the road, measured the distance with his eyes. Had she been thrown this far by the thunderstorm? He couldn’t think of any other reason for a lass to be lying here in the heather, all alone.
Alone? The thought brought him up short, and he spent a couple of tense moments inspecting what he could see of the hillside for her possible companions. Nothing. He chewed his lip. A woman travelling on her own was most unusual, and here, on the empty moor with miles and miles to the closest farm, it was not only unusual, it was puzzling – as was her whole appearance. He studied her legs; what was she wearing? The woman uttered a low, guttural sound. Her head rose a half-inch or so from the ground, the eyes opened. Bright blue eyes attempted to focus before closing again.
“Can you stand, then?” He shook her shoulder. Her eyes snapped open, a wrinkle appearing between her brows. The woman lifted her head and stared at him, a sob escaping her when she drew in a deep breath.
“Oh, shit!” she said.
Matthew retreated.
She blinked. “At least it isn’t orange,” she said, waving her hand in the direction of his shirt.
Orange? He tilted his head.
“You know,” she went on, giving him a faint smile. “Like those Hare Krishna people.”
He had no idea what she was talking about, but nodded all the same. Her gaze lingered on his breeches, his bare shins and feet, passed over his belongings, returned to his breeches and fixed on his shirt.
“Who are you?”
He had no intention of telling her that, at least not yet, so instead he mumbled something unintelligible. Despite an odd accent, the woman spoke good enough English, not Scots, but what did she mean with her comment regarding his shirt? And why was she gaping at him as if she’d never seen a normally dressed man before? To be fair, he did look somewhat worse for wear. The shirt was old, and the breeches were the ones he’d stolen from the drover a few weeks back, but at least both garments were whole and reasonably clean. The woman sat up too fast, groaned and clutched at her ribs. She vomited, standing on all fours.
“Jesus,” she said, making him frown at her careless use of our Lord’s name. “What’s happened to me?”
“It looks as if you were struck by lightning.”
She stared down at the burnt foot, turned her head to the side and retched.
“My shoes,” she said, “where are my shoes?”
“Not here.”
She struggled to sit up. “I think I remember, so much noise, so much light, and then I was flat on my face.”
He nodded and helped her to stand, one arm round her waist to keep her upright. She leaned against him and was sick all over their feet.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered afterwards. “I couldn’t help it.”
“No matter, but we have to get out of this rain. You’re cold, and need to lie down. Up there.” He jerked his head in the direction of the cave.
“Maybe we should call for help.” She slid her hand into a slit in her strange breeches.
“Here?” He almost laughed. Who would hear them? And besides, he had no intention of doing anything to attract attention. He studied the bright red object she’d pulled out.
“It’s brand new,” she said, catching his look.
“Ah,” he nodded, eyes on the shiny metal casing. A wee enamelled box, but what might be the purpose of it? She glanced down at the object and made a face.
“Stuff never works when you really need it, does it?” She shoved it back out of sight.
With his help, she limped her way up the hillside, and by the time they’d reached the cave she was trembling with the effort. He lowered her to sit, and she mumbled her thanks.
“Were you on the road as well?”
“Aye.” He couldn’t stop staring at her legs. No shift, no covering skirts, only those strange long breeches, hugging tight around well-shaped thighs and a round, strong arse. Christ in His glory! He hadn’t been this close to a woman in several years, and his blood raced through him, making him ill at ease and elated at the same time. Where was she from, to dress in such an immodest fashion? He’d belt any woman of his before allowing her to so expose herself.
“What?” she demanded. “Do I look strange? Am I green all over?”
He muffled a laugh. “You look very strange, but nay, you’re not green”
“Well, thank heavens for that, I would have hated being turned into a frog or something.”
“A frog?” He shook his head. “You don’t look like any frog I’ve seen.”
A smile flickered over her face, held for a heartbeat or two before becoming a grimace. She raised a hand to her forehead.
“My head; it’s killing me.” She closed her eyes.
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