Awaiting Series - Excerpts - Awaiting The Moon & Awaitng The Night

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Awaiting Series Excerpts
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Awaiting The Moon
The wait for a new take on werewolf romances is over!

It is said that werewolves roam the woods around Wolfram Castle-- but Elizabeth Stanwycke,
newly arrived tutor to the Count's niece, is not a child to be frightened by bedtime stories.
Of more pressing concern is her attraction to the mysterious Count.

It is 1795, well past the time when folks should have abandoned such superstitious notions as a belief in werewolves, Elizabeth Stanwycke thinks as she travels into the heart of Germany to tutor a young countess in the ways of the world, and the English gentry in particular. But Elizabeth has never seen anything like Wolfram Castle, her new home for the time she is to work there, nor has she ever met any man like Count Nikolas von Wolfram, her new student's uncle. Handsome, commanding, enigmatic, he is keeping secrets, but whether they are merely sordid family tragedies of the past that he is concealing, or something more terrifying and sinister is anyone's guess.

All Elizabeth knows is, the more time she spends in Count Nikolas's company, the more she is drawn to him... but she understands only too well the price a woman paysfor allowing the urgings of her heart to influence her behavior, and she is determined never to pay that price again.

"Awaiting The Moon" is a combination of historical, paranormal, and gothic romance.
With a dark and interesting premise, Simpson will entertain.
...Romance Designs – Paranormal Romance Writers

A late night meeting...

    “What are you doing in here?”
    Elizabeth whirled, almost dropping the candle, to find Count Nikolas von Wolfram, her new employer, standing by the desk in the far corner, a black cloak on and snow sparkling on his broad shoulders.
    “What… how did you get in here?” she cried.
    He pulled off his gloves as he circled the desk and crossed the floor toward her. He seemed larger in black boots and cloak, she thought, larger and more forbidding. Her wavering candle showed dark circles under his eyes, and she had the feeling he had not slept at all that night.
    Instead of answering, he asked, “What are you reading so intently, Miss Stanwycke?” He circled behind her and gazed down at the bible, still open to the recent family history.
    Unnerved by his looming presence and the crisp scent of the outdoors that he carried, she moved to the other side of the lectern, feeling more comfortable with it between them. She held up the candle and the golden light played shadows over his face as the flame wavered. “I was just trying to get a sense of your family. Frau Liebner would not speak much of it.”
    “And is that knowledge of my family history vital to teaching my niece the finer points of English etiquette?” His hard jaw flexed as if he was restraining some powerful emotion and he slapped his black gloves against his thigh.
    “Perhaps. Perhaps not.” Her voice quavered with disquietude. She took a deep, calming breath, gazed at him steadily, and said, “How am I to know yet?”
    “Indeed. But then, how are you to know anything?” His expression remained grave. “You are an early riser. And curious.”
    He made both attributes seem like infractions of some unwritten rule, and she supposed she should have stayed in her room until beckoned. That was no doubt what a proper lady, one with the correct instincts of decorum, would have done. It struck her that he may begin to doubt her ability to teach etiquette to his niece if she was devoid of it in his eyes. She shrugged and glanced toward the door. It was closed, still, and she wondered again where he had come from. The snow on his cape was melting and trickling in rivulets down the black wool of his cloak. One drop caught in the bristle of black hairs on the back of his broad hand, and she stared at it, her mind working feverishly.
    He couldn’t have come through the door and made it all the way across the room and behind the desk before she noticed, because although her head was down and her attention was focused on the bible, she was facing in the general direction of the door to the hall. And why would he creep in, waiting to say anything until he was in the far corner of the room? If he was coming into the library from the gallery he should have noticed her right away and confronted her immediately.
    But where else could he have come from?
    Closing the book with a soft thump, he circled the lectern and stood in front of her. She met his gaze, trying, but failing she feared, to quell the hint of defiance she was feeling and that no doubt emanated from her. It was her downfall, that sense she had and radiated, apparently, that she was just as good as her employers, and perhaps better. It had gotten her in trouble before and would again if she didn’t subdue it. She looked down at her feet, hoping that gesture passed as an appropriate submission. He chuckled and she met his gaze again, to find his lips twisted in a mocking smile.
    “Let me say, Miss Stanwycke, that I hope to bend Charlotte to my will because it is what is best for her, but I fear very much that I have brought into my home a less than ideal tutor, if I wish my niece to learn meekness and surrender.” He flung his cloak off, sending a shower of silvery drops spraying.
    She pointedly wiped one droplet from her cheek and said, proud that her voice was steady now, “In my experience, count, meekness and surrender are not always the best attributes for a woman to cultivate.”
    “I think in this case you should at least pretend to possess them if you want to stay well and happy here at the castle.” He whirled and strode to the door, but stopped before exiting and gazed back at her, his face shadowed. “I will see you later today, Miss Stanwycke, and if you have any questions or concerns, I will address them then. I would return to your room now, if I were you. And please leave your tour of the house until we can provide for you a guide.”

And once again in the library, in the night...

    They were so close that she could see where the bristles of his beard shadowed his skin, the dark outline arcing up to his hairline and down under his square chin. His open robe— black figure satin with silk cord binding it— exposed a naked V, and the dark chest hairs curled flat against his pale skin almost up to where his pulse thrummed at the base of his throat.
    He moved closer and stood behind her, his breath warm on her neck. “Ah, so that is the word,” he said, placing his finger next to hers on the page. “That means ‘stillborn’,” he said. “We had another brother— he would have been my junior by three years— but it was not fated to be, and my mother lost him.”
    The pool of golden light highlighted the dark hairs on the back of his broad hand and the gold and onyx ring he wore, with the family crest emblazoned.
    Hypnotized, she brushed her finger over it and heard his swift intake of breath as their hands touched. She swallowed and tried to catch her breath but it was impossible, suffocated as she as by warring emotions. She closed the bible and moved away from him in the confines of the narrow space between the lectern and the wall of books.
    “My aunt,” he said, following her, “has told me little of your family, Miss Stanwycke, but that you lived with them and worked for them. Why do you not live with them still?”
    “I am an orphan, but I believe you already know that.”
    “Yes, but you do have family, and were in fact living with them when Aunt Katrina met you,” he repeated.
    “Yes.”
    “Why did you leave them? Surely even the role of poor relation is preferable to being an even poorer tutor in a foreign land?”
    He was being deliberately cruel, she thought at first, by calling her the poor relation, but when she looked at his expression there was no taunt there, merely curiosity.
    She sat down abruptly on a chair. “I… I couldn’t live there any longer. There were… problems.”
    “Problems?”
    “Problems,” she said, firmly, unwilling to elaborate. She was not going to recount for his elucidation her humiliation and shame and the awful banishment that would have sent her to the streets of London.
    Curiosity warred with courtesy on his handsome face. She couldn’t stand to see it anymore and rose, swiftly going to the other end of the room and gazing at his big desk. “The first night,” she said out loud, “you just appeared in this room, as if you were an apparition. I have figured out that there must a be a secret passage to this room for some reason,” She turned to face him. “Why? And is that why I’m not supposed to be in here alone?”
    He felt a smile curve his lips upward, even against the concern he felt. Someone at some time had mistreated her, he thought, feeling a rush of protective ire. But though skittish and uncertain, like the female wolf she would rather go on the attack than wait and be meek. As dangerous as that attribute made her, he liked her for it.
    But he chose not to answer. “Miss Stanwycke, come out of the shadows,” he commanded.
    She moved stiffly to stand before him.
    “Look at me.”
    She looked up and shivered, but her expression was not fear or resignation, but defiance.
    “You are cold,” he murmured.
    “I’ve been cold ever since I arrived here. Your country is winter and ice and snow.”
    “Ah, but in spring, in the mountains, it is full of life and beauty. You will see. Come May you will forget the ice and snow and see the beauty surrounding you.” On an impulse, he murmured, “Let me warm you, before you go back to your room and so to bed.” He held open his arms.
    Irresistible as the invitation was, she knew there was a price attached, a price he wouldn’t even know she was paying. And yet… one more time could she just let her desires guide her? Numbly, fearfully, against her common sense even, she moved into the beckoning circle of his arms and he enfolded her next to his heart; the wall of distrust and fear she had built up to shelter her gave way, the mortar crumbling as she felt his strength and innate kindness surround her.
    Nothing could shatter the whole structure of her doubt, but her defense was breached.

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Simpson has penned a very sensual paranormal, historical,
gothic read, and it will entertain without losing momentum.
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With a highly charged level of sensuality and a wonderful taste
of the paranormal, this is sure to please most fans of the genre.
-- Marilyn Rondeau, RIO
Reviewers International Organization

For a new take on werewolf tales, read... Awaiting The Moon!

Awaiting The Night
The Sequel to: Awaiting The Moon

Alarmed by the wolves who haunt her dreams, beautiful Melisande Davidovich can't help but be intrigued by the handsome stranger who's mysteriously appeared at Wolfram Castle. In spite of the dark secret he is obviously hiding -- the danger he may pose -- Count Kazimir Vasilov captivates Melisande's body and soul.

But when Melisande's life is endangered by a madman, Kazimir must find a way to save her -- without awakening the disaster an ancient legend portends.

Sequel to Awaiting The Moon -- Simpson continues the Wolfram saga as a young woman becomes entwined in dark secrets while threads of werewolves myth, greed, passion, lies and deceptions swirl around pulling you into a tightly crafted paranormal romance with gothic overtones. Victoria Holt would be proud.

Summary: For two years Melisande Davidovich has felt safe at Wolfram Castle, when suddenly the howling of the wolves portends danger. Two men arrive, the charismatic Count Kazimir Dimitre Vasilov and Count Gavril Sevastjan claiming her father, once an infamous thief, stole a legendary chalice that holds the key to a mystery cure.

Though Melisande is concerned for her father she is completely drawn to Kazimir and begins doubting her father's innocence and questioning the validity of the stories surrounding the Wolfram family werewolves legends. Slowly she is dragged down a dangerous path that will lead to great love or a horrible death as good and evil collide-- Romantic Times - 4 Stars!!

"Awaiting The Night" is a spine-tingling, gothic paranormal tale...
Taut suspense and an intense and sometimes spooky plot making
Awaiting The Night a book that's almost impossible to put down.
Be sure to pick up a copy of this beguiling story."

Awaiting The Night - Excerpt

    Melisande exited her father’s room and flounced down the hall toward her own room— the sitting room between their bedchambers was locked off for her use only, and so not a through way— but then a noise on the staircase from the fourth floor of the castle made her stop. Who was out this time of night? She flattened herself against a wall and blew out her candle, irrationally afraid. Who could it be?
    A bulky shadow slid ahead of its creator down the staircase. The flame in the lamp in the sconce that lit the stairs wavered with the motion of the form passing and threw the big shadow eerily across the wall, but even as the figure descended, emerging from the staircase, Melisande could not make out who it was. Then the man— for such a large figure could only belong to a man— paused.
    Melisande held her breath, her back pressed to the wall, her fingers trembling around the warm but extinguished candle. This was idiotic, completely and utterly absurd, and yet she could not move, could not allow herself to just step forward and demand to know who was there.
    “Miss Davidovich,” a deep voice commanded. “Come out of the shadows, for there is, truly, nothing of which to be alarmed.”
    “Count Vasilov,” she said, forcing herself to step away from the wall, trying to regain her dignity after such a foolish interlude. “What are you doing wandering the halls so late at night? Have you… lost your way?”
    He was close and he moved closer, his bulk a blot before the weak light of the lamp sconce, his features in shadow. “Yes, I fear that I have lost my way,” he said.
    But she was not sure it was truly an answer to her question.
    “You had a candle,” he said. “Why did you extinguish it?”
    “I…” It seemed so silly now. “I was afraid,” she said, trying to make out his eyes in the darkness of the hall. Foolishly, she felt if she could just see his eyes she would rest easier. “I was afraid when I heard footsteps, for I wasn’t sure who would be about at such an hours. I was… was visiting my father.”
    He reached out one big hand, and she thought for a moment he was going to seize hold of her, but instead he took the candle from her hand and went to the wall sconce, removing the glass— it must have been scorching hot, but he touched it as if it were as cool as ice— relit her candle and returned it to her, with a deep bow. Now she could see his eyes, the pupils large and as black as obsidian, but the irises a warm brown flecked with amber.
    “You should return to your bedchamber, Miss Davidovich,” he said, indicating her room with a nod.
    “You know which is mine?” she asked, surprised.
    His lips twitched. “Oh, yes, I think there is more than one man in this household who knows exactly where you lay your head to sleep. I am one of them.”
    She felt a chill down her back, but it was not fear. “What… what does that mean, sir?”
    “Good night, Miss Davidovich,” he said, and turned away.
    “Why… what were you…” She had many questions for him, but he was already gone, presumably toward the guest chamber assigned to him by Christoph. Though… surely he was not going in the right direction for that? Secretive man… infuriating man! What was he doing at the castle? He was an old school friend of Nikolas’s, but that did not explain why he stayed, nor did it explain why Christoph allowed it.
    Who was Count Kazimir Vasilov? She would demand answers on the morrow, for there were too many secrets, and if there was one thing the von Wolfram family did not need, it was more secrets.

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