Tuesday's Tales 13-08, Picture prompt

 

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A place where books are born.

 

This week is picture prompt week, and I'm jumping well forward in my wip, and setting my heroine and hero on the beach.

 

 

Escape became essential to Samantha. The further away the better. Preferably abroad. Bbut with the ongoing police investigation all she could contemplate in her immediate future was the loathing in her eyes every time Adele looked at her. Had Adele known the truth all this time? If so, in Samantha’s eyes that made her an accessory to the fact, whether before the fact, or after, mattered little to her. It was the knowledge that the woman who’d always shown her kindness had been party to, and benefitted from the theft of her inheritance. And now she acted as if Samantha was the villain of the peace.

 

The audacity of it.

From Adrian she’d expected nothing less than the vitriolic attack, from his wife, her step-mother, well no; it turned out she wasn’t even that. The one truth Adrian had uttered in his whole life was about his status as her parent.

She needed a hug and could only think of one person whose arms would fit round her so perfectly, but Rafe was in Italy consulting with his father. Guilt ripped through her. She’d been instrumental in exposing his step-bother’s actions. How could she turn to Enzo’s son for comfort when she’d caused so much grief to his family?

The beach. Never mind a December gale was blowing; walking on the beach always comforted her. Without a second thought she shot through the house turning off light, collecting her bag, coat and car keys and slammed the front door behind her.

Fifty minutes later, with the evening sun glowing golden on the waves racing up the shore, Samantha bent down, tugged off her shoes and stood upright to see Rafe standing yards away dong the same.

“What—”  

“I saw you leave and followed you. What else could I do?”

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23rd July - Picture promppt

Welcome to Tuesday's Tales

A place where books are born.

This month's picture prompt is a road scene, and while my tale for this week is a continuation from Regency I hope you will be able to envisage the type of road travellers experienced back in  1813

Last week my hero, Juan, was stranded at an inn after returning to England. This week he has been rescued by his friend Lord Charles Vidal, but now disaster has struck again...

 

Within seconds of him (Vidal) pulling Juan and their mounts through a gap in the bushes lining the road two horsemen came thundering round the corner and pulled up sharply.

 

“What ails you?” One of the men asked.

 

 The other urged his mount closer to the coach muttered an expletive before dismounting and peering into the coach. “Where’s your master?” he interrupted his companion and grabbed the groom’s arm.

 

“Master?”

 

Vidal grinned at the slow drawl his servant employed.

 

“Don’t waste my time man. That is my lord Vidal’s coach, is it not?”

 

“Aye.” His groom swiped his hat off and rubbed the back of his hand across his hair before he scratched his head and replaced the cap on his head.

 

“So —"

 

His groom looked about him then at his interrogator. “He ain’t here.”

 

Vidal choked back a laugh.

 “That is obvious,” the second man stated. “But where is he?”  

 The laugh died in Vidal’s throat when he saw the raised gun in the newcomer’s hand.

 

“He’s been gone these last fifteen minutes sir.” Real fear showed in his groom’s eyes, and yet the man still managed to defy his interrogators. When Juan shifted at his side he spied the gun in the Spaniard’s hand. He shook his head and held up one hand. His own pistols were still in the coach, they couldn't save lives with only one weapon between them. He watched the two men confer together then one turned and shot his fist out. The blow to his groom’s chin lifted him off his feet and slammed him against the stricken vehicle. In the next minute sunlight flashed off polished steel as the other man faced his second groom. A loud report shattered the air and the swordsman slid to the ground, landing on his own weapon.

 

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Tuesdays Tales Picture Prompt 10-03-13

Welcome back to another Tuesday's Tales  This week is  picture prompt week. And always includes the extra challenge for our 'tale' to remain within  a 300 word limit.
I appreciate both your visit and your feedback.

The picture of the wrought iron gate within the wall reminded me of my January submission, so I decided to play around and came up with this continuation of January's picture prompt tale.  I hope you enjoy it.

She refused to let his forward movement intimidate her when he approached, outrage sparking from his eyes.

“You bar me from my home—“

His hand clamped down on her shoulder.”You bar me from my home,” he repeated, and swung her round to see the wrought iron gates set in the arched aperture of the perimeter wall standing wide open.

Those gates had charmed her when she first arrived, and the temptation to replace two of the crosses in each gate with circles had been hard to resist. She doubted the locals would appreciate her warped sense of humour and may not even get the connection to the childish game of noughts and crosses.

“Who gave you permission to lock those gates?” Snapping out of her reverie, her initial fear turned to anger.

“More to the point,” she said quietly. “You admit you unlocked them?”

Deliberately she paused, watched the man’s eyes narrow, darken, until they reminded her of roasted coffee beans. “And, she added, “that you gained unlawful access to my property.” Palm up, she held out her hand. “Before you leave I’ll have that key, and then you can take yourself back to wherever you came from.”

“Not so fast, this is my home, and I want to know what’s happened to my staff? Where are my horses, my dogs?”

Mesmerised she watched him remove his gloves, pulling them off one finger at a time.  Why did the action have her wondering what it would feel like to have those fingers caressing her skin? Spine-tingling heat climbed up her neck, warmed her cheeks, and turned her mouth as dry as a desert.

What had he said?

Dogs?

Staff?

Horses?

    She looked down at the silver horseshoe in her hand and shivered. 

     This was not Aladdin’s lamp.

Thank you for reading another snippet this week, and please hop on over to read everyone's offering for this week's Tuesday's Tales prompt.

Picture Prompt

A group of wirters have got together and each writes a story of no more than 300 words to one picture prompt.
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'Get a grip, man,' he muttered as the hair on the back of his neck began to rise. What on earth could be wrong with the tranquility of his surroundings? His gaze honed in once more on the boat. A bundle of white nets filled the bow while a larger pile of green nets filled the stern.

Too large?

The setting seemed almost too perfect, Derek mused, as he strolled along the bank. Palms trees leaned over the water's edge lending some false shade in the blistering heat. A boat, long and white lay waiting for someone to take it out to the freedom of the sea, its nets waiting to be filled.

'Get a grip,' he muttered again, 'you're on holiday. Give yourself a break.' When a mirthless laugh split the stillness he glanced round to see who else was in the area. No one else around, he noted and bit down on another curse. He'd travelled 500 miles and had deliberately left his cop's instincts behind. Who was he kidding? If a million midges had bitten his neck it couldn't itch any more.

Maintaining his leisurely pace he strolled over to the boat. Was it imagination or did the lines beneath the netting resemble a body? He stopped, cocked his head to one side as though listening then dug in his pocket for his cell phone. Apparently his instinct had sneaked into his case when he wasn't looking. He keyed in the quick-dial number and prayed his partner would pick up real soon.

“We’ve been searching for that guy for three days; then you stroll into town and solve our problem without even trying!” the local sheriff said several hours later.

Next year, Derek vowed, he’d holiday in Alaska.