Tule Publishing,  Writer's moments

Leigh Ann Edwards Has a New Release and a Giveaway!

Danielle Hammelef is our winner of the signed copy of A Witch’s Journey! Leigh Ann will be in touch! Thanks to everyone who stopped by!

I’m so pleased to welcome Leigh Ann Edwards back to the blog. Leigh Ann’s fascination with history, romance, magic, fantasy, time-travel, and Ireland sparked her interest in creating the Irish Witch Series and her growing collection of published novels. Growing up in a very small Manitoban village on the Canadian prairies left a lot of time to create stories and let her imagination soar. An author for over twenty-five years, Leigh Ann is now completing her third series with Tule Publishing and soon to start another. Besides writing, she loves spending time with her four grandchildren, reading, traveling, doing intuitive readings and reiki. Leigh Ann and her husband, their two large dogs, and two cats live near Edmonton Alberta, Canada.

You can find Leigh Ann all over social media and at her website:

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GIVEAWAY!  For a chance to win a signed print copy of  The Witch’s Journey tell me, do you prefer reading contemporary, historical, fantasy or a combination of genres?  

Take it away, Leigh Ann!

I’m thrilled to be on your blog today, Nan. Thanks so much for inviting me. I’m very excited to tell everyone about my newest book released yesterday, The Witch’s Journey.  It’s the third in my Witches of Time series and my fourteenth with Tule Publishing. The whole team at Tule is amazing and I’ve met so many great people there, including Nan.

The Witch’s Journey was so much fun to write. I really enjoyed it. It just might be my favorite. Although, like choosing your favorite child, it’s really impossible to pick. I never write contemporary–– always historical fantasy so it was interesting to have a modern-day setting and heroine.

Granted, Angelique is a witch and Faolan, the hero, is an eighteenth-century Irish pirate she abruptly pulled through time with a spell. Plus there’s time travel to three other centuries, so it isn’t a typical contemporary novel. But still…it was lots of fun to be able to incorporate modern-day sayings or reference television, movies and songs. It’s especially entertaining when Faolan has no idea what Angelique’s talking about and he tries to figure out technology, appliances, and devices referring to them by some amusing names. Of course, when they go back to his century, Angelique’s equally astonished by what’s normal in Faolan’s life.

Angelique is quite feisty and even though Faolan’s a pirate accustomed to dealing with challenging people, she keeps him on his toes.

Boston is the setting of this book. Although I’m from Alberta Canada, I’ve been to Boston a few times. I love the history there. It was easy to include a few historical mentions. A special weekend in Maine is also important to Angelique and Faolan’s love story. Maine, reminds me very much of Ireland, which other than with my grandkids, is my favorite place to be.

I want to share a scene from shortly after Angelique and Faolan meet. I’ve taken a few different snippets from that meeting. To set it up, Angelique is hopelessly unlucky in love. Therefore, during a full moon on Halloween night (which is also her birthday) Angelique’s friend, Newt encourages her to do a summoning spell for her perfect man. She lists everything she’d want in this perfect match and does the spell. When nothing happens that night, Angelique believes it didn’t work.

The next morning she finds Faolan inside her back door. He appears to be injured, but she thinks Newt set it up as a joke and that Faolan is an actor and not actually even hurt.

 “Is this part of the act so you’ll have to take off your shirt and wow me with your great body?”

“You think me an actor? You wound me, madam!”

After a confusing discussion, she finally realizes he really is wounded. She insists on stitching it for she’s a healer and has had some formal medical training.

“Sit here,” she pointed to the wooden bench. “I’d let you sit on the comfier chair but that’s authentic Victorian fabric. I’d prefer you didn’t bleed on it.”

“How very compassionate,” he sarcastically said. “You have a modern home, madam.”

“I’m not a madam. Call me Angelique.”

“It would be inappropriate to speak with such familiarity when we’re newly acquainted.”

“Staying in character, huh? So, did you get knifed last night?”

“It wasn’t a mere knife but a sword.”

“If you say so. Well, obviously you’re going to have to take off your shirt.”

He nodded, removing the overcoat. She hung the weighty coat on the hook on the bathroom door. He struggled to unfasten the ties on his tunic, then pulled it over his head. She wasn’t sure what caught her attention most––his impressively broad, tanned muscular chest and arms; firm rippled stomach or the deep gash on his shoulder.

She draped his bloodstained tunic over the bathtub, glancing at the collar to see if there was a tag for a costume shop or a reenactment company, but there was neither. Locating the first-aid kit, she took out bandages, antiseptic and lidocaine, found the needle and medical grade thread.

“This is going to hurt,” she warned, placing the cloth soaked in antiseptic to his wound.

He flinched but didn’t make a sound.

“Evidently this isn’t your first violent encounter,” she said observing scars on his chest and stomach.

“Not nearly,” he said. “You do have a gentle touch.”

“This wound is really deep. Maybe you should see a doctor. You might need antibiotics or a tetanus shot.”

“I don’t require mollycoddling.”

“You’re able to move and lift your arm so there’s probably no nerve damage, but you should have tests done.”

“Don’t make a flummery of this. Simply sew it up. I have important business to attend to.”

“You won’t be attending to anything today. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“It is of no matter.”

“Are you dim-witted?” she asked what he’d previously asked her.

He smiled an unbelievably magnetic smile. His intense light blue eyes were warmer when he smiled.

“Perhaps I might be given drink to numb my pain.”

“You apparently drank all my whiskey. I have a little rum and beer. Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

She returned and passed him a glass. He took a mouthful, made a face, promptly stood and spat it in the sink.

“What foul swill is this?”

“It’s spiced rum.”

“It could not be classified as rum.”

“Well, Captain Morgan, drink the beer instead.”

“You speak of Morgan the Terrible, the infamous Welshman who sailed the Caribbean?”

“He’s more famous for his rum. You might end up like Captain Hook if your wound isn’t properly attended to.”

“I’ve never heard of this Hook.”

“Not a fan of J.M. Barrie?”

“A fan? I don’t know this Barrie either. Does he sail as well?”

She shook her head thoroughly amused. “I was merely suggesting the possibility of needing a hook.”

She held out the can of beer. He appeared uncertain, so she pulled the tab. When it fizzed, he started.

“Well try it. I’m not about to poison you,” Angelique said.

“The previous drink would suggest otherwise.”

“You’re really Irish and not just very good at faking an Irish accent,” she asked.

“Of course I’m Irish. Why would I wish to sound so if I wasn’t?”

“My spell specified my perfect man should have an Irish accent. My friend, Newt, went all out in finding someone who’d fit the bill.”

“You think me your perfect man?”

She stared at his ruggedly handsome face, his alluring blue eyes that seemed to draw her gaze, his gorgeous chest, amazing biceps, ripped stomach and muscular thighs in his tight-fitting pants. She turned away, her cheeks starting to flame.

“Sit up straight. This will hurt.”

“I’m not unaccustomed to pain, madam.”

“If you don’t call me something other than that, I might cause you more pain.”

He smiled at that, an even sexier smile.

“Since you help me in my time of need and have an angelic presence, I shall call you Angel, if that pleases you?”

“Whatever floats your boat.”

“My boat? You know of my ship?”

“You have a ship?” she asked.

“Most privateers do.”

“Tell me about your ship then.”

“My first was a sloop. Now I possess a brigantine.”

“What do you do with your brigantine?”

“Often intercept ships from England headed to America.”

“I see,” she said feeling entertained. “What’s on these ships you’re intercepting?”

“Weapons, gunpowder, tea.”

“Tea? Are you an actor from the Tea Party Museum?”

“Again, I am not an actor.”

“I worked at that museum a few summers when I was younger. I’ve lived here in Boston most of my life.”

“Here in Boston? We’re in America?”

His surprise didn’t seem feigned.

“Where did you think we were?” she asked finishing the last stitch.

“When last I recall I was on my ship off the coast of Ireland.”

She touched his forehead. He wasn’t fevered. Maybe he was delusional, mentally ill or just very drunk.

“Are you a sorceress,” he asked possibly sensing her healing magic.

“People would call me a witch.”

“Aren’t you afraid of being sent to the stake for admitting that?”

“Not in this century, no.”

She cut the thread and covered the wound with a large bandage.

“You should rest at home,” Angelique said. “I’ll call you a cab.”

“My home is my ship,” he replied.

“Then have the cab take you to Boston Harbor.”

“My ship is in a cove not far from Ireland.”

“Oh for God’s sake, just come sleep it off. We’ll talk again when you’re sober.”

He followed her down the hallway. She stared up at him. She was five foot five but felt dwarfed by him. He must be six foot three or four.

“I’ll need to get into my spare room where my books and computer are. You’re so big and tall, you wouldn’t even fit on my antique settee or chaise longue. I suppose you’ll have to sleep in my bed.”

“You wish me to sleep in your bed?” He did something incredibly sexy with his eyebrows.

“Not with me!”

“I do find you most fetching.”

“Fetching?” She smirked.

“Beautiful, lovely, pretty, desirous.”

“I know what fetching means. I just haven’t heard anyone actually say it. I’ve only read it in historical romance novels.”

She stared at him and his unfaltering resolve to stay in character.

“What year do you believe this is?”

“It’s 1773,” he said without hesitation.

“So you’re an actor or a reenactor of the events leading to the American Revolution, then?”

“For the last damn time, I’m not an actor, madam.”

“For the last damn time, I’m not a madam,” she said putting her hands on her hips, glowering.

“You’re even more fetching when your cheeks flush and your eyes flash with passion. Maybe we should lie together.”

He nodded toward her large brass bed.

“I wondered when you’d throw in the rakish bit. Newt must have told you about that, too. But I also said I’d want you to carry me to bed and wildly ravish me.”

He glanced at his wound and sighed.

“I could readily carry you even if you didn’t possess a petite feminine form, but your carefully placed needlework may come awry.”

“Another time, then,” she laughingly said.

Thanks again, Nan. It’s been wonderful being here. If people want to find out more about my Witches of Time, Irish Witch, or Vikings of Highgard series, the links will be posted.

Buy links for The Witch’s Journey

Amazon | B&N Nook | Apple Books | Kobo | Amazon UK