Echoes of Love
by Gina Ardito
Genre: Historical Romance
Royal governess Chesna Dubrow must protect the five-year-old king of Amatia from Napoleon Bonaparte's invading army. To do so, she'll be forced to wed one of the emperor's loyal soldiers. But Pietor Gabris isn't any soldier. Years ago, he broke Chesna's heart, forgetting the vows they'd made to love each other forever.
Pietor's return to Amatia is embroiled in subterfuge. Amidst the deceit surrounding him, he clings to the one truth he cannot ignore: his timeless love for Chesna. Yet confessing what's in his heart would sentence them both to death. To keep Chesna safe, he must portray the role of traitor, ensuring her animosity continues to blow hot and harsh.
As danger and intrigue swirl around the palace, can Chesna place her faith—and heart—with the one man she swore she'd never forgive?
Excerpts from ECHOES OF LOVE
Excerpt 1
“Take the prince inside the church, Chesna,” an urgent voice spoke low in her ear. “Request sanctuary from Father Grigory.” She looked up from the little boy’s bowed head and into the harried eyes of her father. “Hurry! Remember your vow to me. Get inside the church and stay there.”
Despite Bela’s prodding, she hesitated. If she fled to the church with Mikhail, she knew she’d never see her father alive again. Glancing between them, her mind wavered between fear for the little boy and fear for the man. How could she possibly choose?
A large red-haired man appeared out of the screaming throngs and grasped Chesna’s hand. Mikhail’s personal servant, Karol, wore the same terror in his eyes Chesna bore in her heart. “We must go now. There’s much to do and precious little time.” Without waiting for any argument she might attempt, Karol pulled Mikhail from her arms and scooped him against his chest.
She turned again toward her father, but the smoke-filled air and sea of people had swallowed him.
“Remember how much I loved you, Chesna,” her father called out from somewhere beyond her foggy line of vision. “May God be with you.”
Karol’s forceful nudge in her right shoulder pushed her toward the granite steps that led to the church’s entrance. She’d only reached the arched mahogany doors when a sudden clatter arose behind them. With her fingers clutching the cold brass handle, she whirled.
In their panicked flight, the townspeople had upset the funeral cart, which stood unguarded. The cart fell onto its side and the casket slid out, spilling the linen-wrapped bodies to the ground. Men, women, and children trampled the deceased royals beneath their frantic feet.
“No!” King Jarek raced forward to protect his dead wife and child from being crushed by the crowds.
As the king broke out into the open, one of Napoleon’s sharpshooters fired. A blossom of red appeared on King Jarek’s shirtfront, and he pitched forward, his arms thrust outward in a final attempt to shield his beloved wife from harm. He landed directly atop the two bodies, still.
“Papa!” Mikhail’s shriek of terror caught Chesna’s attention.
She turned away from the spectacle, wrenched the door open, and raced inside the church with Karol, still cradling Mikhail, on her heels. They scrambled up the aisle, passing the empty rows of benches in a blur of gleaming brown. At the altar, Father Grigory lit the tall, pillared candles on either side of the church apse. The two adults fell to their knees on the scarred wooden floor with a loud thump.
“Sanctuary, Father,” Chesna managed to gasp with her last breaths, her hands thrust toward the priest in supplication. “I beg of you. Please grant us sanctuary.”
Excerpt 2
Leaving the child under the watchful eyes of the ancient gods, she strode forward to the throne where the usurper still sat. Rage blossomed anew, but she allowed thoughts of Svarila to squelch her violent emotions.
“General, forgive me,” she said, head bowed in obedient penitence. “But I must speak.”
He offered her an imperious wave. “Speak then.”
On a deep inhale, she chose her words carefully. “Your officer told me of your plans for us, and I would beg you to reconsider. I have no wish to wed at this time.”
The general’s eyes narrowed. “Understand this, madam. I am not a patient man. Your former lover may have indulged you due to your position in his bed. And as much as I envy the old man his good fortune, for the sake of your son, I’d prefer you wedded before you’re bedded by another. And since, as I’ve said, I am not a patient man, that wedding will take place now.”
Pietor stole up behind her, wrapping an arm about her waist. As if she were already his possession.
Chesna’s temper soared, drowning out Svarila’s calmer guidance, and she broke from his embrace on a shout of frustration. “I’d rather die than marry this pig!”
“If that is your wish, mademoiselle.” The general shrugged and turned to Major Roucher. “Take her back to the dungeon.”
“No!” Zarek rushed forward and threw himself at Chesna’s feet. “You mustn’t die. You promised me you’d never leave me. Don’t leave me, Mama! Please!”
“Zarek, be silent,” she chastised.
He quieted immediately, but remained on his knees, teary eyes pleading his case.
“Well, mademoiselle?” the general barked. “What is it to be, death or marriage?”
Chesna stole a glance at Pietor, who stood expressionless, then cast her eyes on Zarek draped across her feet. Kneeling, she helped him rise and leaned close to his ear. “Never show such weakness to outsiders, Zarek.”
He shook his head, lips clamped in a grim line.
“Zarek, come now. Stand up.”
His reply came as quietly as her request, but with a lot more steel. “Not until you remember your promise to me, Mama.”
She offered him a sad smile. “You needn’t have bothered to go to such lengths. I can’t make good on my threat. You and I both know that.”
Without her, Zarek might forget his parents and his duties to Amatia. If she chose death, Zarek would become Napoleon Bonaparte’s lackey, much like his cousin Pietor had. Zarek needed her. Amatia needed her. But, still…
Marriage to Pietor? If she chose marriage, she’d be legally bound to Pietor Gabris for the rest of her life. Several years ago, she would have rejoiced at the idea. But that had been before Pietor became the man she didn’t know, the one who stood before her now, loyal to a foreign usurper and intent upon destroying the country she loved.
What if she agreed to marry anyone but Pietor? Would she be executed for making demands? Or would this General de Valmiere choose someone else for her to wed? What if he ordered her to marry that paunchy old man by his side, Major Roucher? The way he leered at her, his fat tongue running over his thin lips, kinked her stomach into knots.
Her papa always said the enemy you knew was easier to manage than the stranger you didn’t know. At least Pietor had been born and raised as a loyal Amatian. His father had been a royal prince. He’d loved his homeland once, had listened to her counsel and heeded her advice. Perhaps, he could do so again. If she married him, she might persuade him to forget about Napoleon and France, especially once de Valmiere and his cohorts left for Russia.
The grand hall remained as silent as a church as Chesna considered the choice set before her. Death or marriage? Death or marriage?
“I’ll marry him,” she finally announced in defeat.
Excerpt 3
“Hear me now, Pietor. I will not allow you to fill Zarek’s head with your twisted loyalties and insurrectionist thoughts. I will raise him as I see fit. Without your treasonous influence.”
“We can discuss the details of the boy’s upbringing later,” he replied blandly. “But now, you should wash up and dress while I tend to Zarek.”
Her hands settled on her hips. “You’re not listening to me. I’ll tend to him myself. I’ve cared for that boy without your help for more than five years. I’ll continue to care for him without your help.”
The morning sunlight streamed through the glass behind her, illuminating the sheer fabric of her sleeping gown and shadowing her legs to perfection. Pietor couldn’t help but stare at the curvaceous hips and tapered limbs peeking from beneath the filmy gown.
Impatient with his growing reaction to the temptations she offered, he tore his gaze away from the inspiring view and growled, “You’ll do as I say, my meek and obedient wife. I’ll tend to the boy while you prepare yourself to go downstairs and dine with us.”
Thankfully, she moved out of the sun’s path, toward her dressing closet. But she gave him a smile as cold as Lake Matya in January. “And you may go to hell, my hateful and arrogant husband. You think I’ve changed since we last saw one another? What about you? My appearance might seem different, but at least my values have remained the same.”
He quirked a brow. “Have they, Chess? When I last saw you, you were still an innocent maiden. You can’t claim that title anymore.”
“And when I last saw you, you swore on the soul of your sainted mother you wouldn’t forget me. What happened to the honorable young man who left Amatia seven years ago, Pietor? How could you follow a monster like Napoleon Bonaparte? What could he possibly offer you that your father couldn’t? Power? Glory?”
“By God, you’re such a little fool,” he chided. “You know nothing about me. You have your own view of what I should be and where my loyalties should lie. And because I don’t measure up to your expectations, you assume I’ve changed.”
“You’re absolutely right.” Although she’d softened her tone, the impact only strengthened the power of her words. “I don’t know you. The man I knew would never betray his country in so violent a manner. Tell me. Were the deaths of so many innocents worth your noble cause? Did you gain enough satisfaction from the rivers of blood that ran in the streets upon your homecoming? Does it please you to know how honorably your father died while defending his country? Was all that savagery enough to sate you? Or will you need more innocent blood shed in the name of your glorious emperor? Who will be your next victim? My boy? Tell me now so I might kill him myself before you and your army of brutes get your bloodied hands on him. I’ll show him mercy with a swift death. But you’ll destroy him slowly and then crush him like an unwanted insect.”
He winced. By God, the woman had a tongue sharper than a rapier. And worse, he couldn’t deny her accusations without divulging secrets he’d sworn to protect.
“Get dressed,” he ordered as he strode away from her vicious words. “I’ll rouse Zarek. When the boy is dressed and ready, we’ll return to escort you to the dining hall. Do not challenge me again, madam.”
Editorial
Review from Entrada Publishing:
The
old saying goes, if you love something, set it free, and if it is
meant to be, it will return. In Gina Ardito’s historical fiction
novel, she explores the idea of lost love, and bitter-sweet
homecomings.
Set
in the fictional country of Amatia, Chesna is the governess of the
young prince Mikhail, as a means to ease her broken heart. Six years
prior, her childhood sweetheart, Pietor was sent off to Russia, and
soon forgot all about Chesna. However, fate will soon bring the two
lost lovers together again, but under dire circumstances. As
Napoleon’s armies march upon Amatia, Chesna finds herself caught
between loyalty to her country, and what her heart desires.
Ardito
does a masterful job blending real-life historical events, with a
beautifully crafted love story. She crafts a suspenseful and engaging
narrative, taking readers through historical events, and the inner
conflicts within Chesna, and Pietor. The storytelling is beautifully
done as Ardito explores the concept of long-lost lovers, betrayal,
and learning to follow your heart. The narrative flows in an organic
way, with tension masterfully woven throughout. The dynamics between
Chesna and Pietor is natural, and their relationship is very well
written.
Along
with a tender love story, the author sets up a mystery that Chensa,
and Pietor must unravel before it is too late. Readers will be on the
edge of their seats, as they follow along in the race against time.
Chesna must figure out who to trust, and who she can place her faith
in.
For
those looking for a suspenseful, yet tender love story, Echoes
of Love is
a fantastic historical fiction novel. Gina Ardito is a fantastic
writer, and her novel will pull at your heartstrings, as well as
leave you breathless.
“I
honestly don’t know. If I believe you, someone whom I’ve known
all my life wants me dead. I have nowhere to turn and no one whom I
can trust. I am surrounded by enemies on all sides. Do you have any
idea how that makes me feel?”
We’re living in strange days. And we’re all trying to find a new normal we can live with. One of the aspects of writing historical romances I love is that I know how it’s going to end. Oh, not the way my characters will win in the end (I’m a total pantser, which means I have no idea where my story will go ‘til it lands somewhere), but definitely how the historical crisis they’re living through will end. That’s a luxury we don’t have these days. But it’s important to remember that when our historical figures were surviving their trying times, they had no idea how it would end, either. We just have the luxury of hindsight.
When I opted to choose to set ECHOES OF LOVE during the time of Napoleon’s march on Russia, I knew how the emperor’s gambit turned out. Chesna, my royal governess, has no such certainty—though she suspects. And yet, time and again, when I threw the worst sort of betrayals at her, she outwitted me and rose to the occasion. Take, for instance, this scene when the French army has invaded her city and she has fled to the church with her young prince for sanctuary until she can plan their next move.
“Please, Your Majesty, you must listen to me.”
The boy flipped down the blanket and opened one eye to stare at her. Obviously, her use of his new title had struck through his sleep-fogged brain. His brow furrowed, and a lone tear slipped down his cheek. “Papa?” The squeaky tremor in his voice confirmed her suspicion that he sensed the truth regarding his father’s fate. “He’s gone, isn’t he?”
She bowed her head. “Yes, sire. Forgive our haste, but we must speak quickly.”
The cot creaked as Mikhail sat up. With a shiver at the cold air, he folded his arms over his chest, and looked around in confusion. “Where are my garments?”
Chesna exchanged a quick glance with Karol, who came forward with the bundle of dirty clothes. “Here, Your Majesty.”
Mikhail’s expression mirrored his disgust. “Those are filthy. Where did you get them?”
Cheeks flushed, Karol backed away from the boy’s indignance. “From a dead boy in the street, sire.”
“How dare you!” he shouted. “I do not wear dirty garments.”
“You do now,” Chesna said flatly. She halted the argument he might attempt with an index finger pressed to the child’s lips. “Please, Your Majesty. Listen to me. I’ll explain.”
Although his eyes narrowed in displeasure, Mikhail nodded.
She removed her finger and gestured for Karol to bring the clothes forward. “Do you recall what you asked of me when I told you of your mama’s death?”
“Yes,” he replied warily. “I asked if you’d be my mama now. But you said you could never take her place.”
She shook out the threadbare shirt to remove any stray dust or insects, then slid the rough garment around his satiny shoulders. “Well, sire, I’ve changed my mind.”
The boy looked up, one eyebrow quirked. “How so?”
“To rule Amatia, Napoleon would destroy the royal family, including you. But the French only plan to remain here for a short time before pressing on toward Moscow. They must cross the mountains before the cold weather sets in. And if they’re defeated in Moscow, a fate my father claimed was all but certain, your throne reverts back to you based on your alliance with Tsar Alexander. Until then, we must keep these foreigners from discovering your true identity so they cannot harm you or take you prisoner.”
One eyebrow quirked up, an expression so like his father’s, Chesna sucked in a sharp breath. “And how will we accomplish this?”
She refocused on the new king. “While you slept, Karol took your garments and went out into the streets. He found a dead boy of about your age, removed his clothing, dressed him in your royal attire and left his body beneath that of your father’s. By tomorrow morning, Napoleon’s army will be under the assumption they succeeded in killing the entire royal family.”
“So you’re going to pretend to be my mama to fool our enemies,” he surmised. At Chesna’s nod, he clapped. “How clever of you!”
I wish I had the answer as to how our current circumstances will end, but the best I can promise is that it will, eventually, end. Until then, why not lose yourself in stories where you may not know how they’ll wind up together and happy at the end, but you know they will? I highly recommend you start with ECHOES OF LOVE.
I kill houseplants. There. Now you know one of my greatest shames. I'm not boasting. I just figure that if you're reading this, you're looking for more than how wonderful life is as a writer. You get enough of that elsewhere. Ditto for political rants, how to lose thirty pounds in a week, and creating gorgeous crafts with nothing more than twine and soup cans. My goal is to connect with you, dear reader, even if you're not a writer, not a New Yorker, not a mother, not a female. We're human (unless one of us is a spambot), and what we have in common is flaws. So here are a few more of mine:
I sing all the time. I sing songs most people don't know--jingles from television, crazy stuff I used to listen to on Dr. Demento, Broadway and movie soundtracks, and I can even bum-bum-bum through instrumental music. I sing in the car. In the shower. While I'm grocery shopping. And I headbop while I sing. When I'm not singing, I talk to myself. Just ignore me and move on. You get used to it after a while.
I don't eat my vegetables. Seriously. I only started eating salad about ten years ago, but I'd still rather have a cookie.
Given the option, I would live in a mall where I would never have to worry about freezing temperatures or too much sun. I'm extremely fair-skinned and could burn under a 60-watt light bulb.
I can't sleep without background noise so the television's on all night. If it's too dark and too quiet, all I have are my thoughts. And even *I* don't want to be alone with my thoughts.
Don't ask me to Zumba, line dance, or march in the parade. I have absolutely no rhythm.
I color outside the lines. Not because I'm a rebel, but because I suck as an artist. My artistic ability is limited to being able to draw Snoopy sleeping on his doghouse. And I don't even draw that well.
Regrets. I have more than a few.
My favorite activity is sleep, and I'm pretty good at it. I don't clock a lot of hours, but I can powernap like a Persian cat and rejuvenate within ten minutes.
I consider shopping and dining out excellent therapy for anything wrong in my life.
My feet are always cold. Always. My husband of more than a quarter century claims it's because I'm an alien sent to Earth to destroy him. (He might be right about that.)
Coming to my house for a visit? Unless you've given me plenty of advance notice, be prepared. My floor will not be vacuumed, there will be dishes in my sink, and I only make my bed when I change the sheets once a week (I'm climbing back into it ASAP. Why make it?) Housecleaning is not high on my priority list. Okay, to be totally honest, it's not on the list at all.
I can resist anything...except ice cream.
Since this is our first date, I figure I've revealed enough secrets for now. But if you've read this bio and think I might be the author for you, pick up one of my books or stalk my website: www.ginaardito.com.
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