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Treacle and Treason

The Edge Series

Decadent Publishing Company

Heat Rating: SCORCHING
Word Count: 5,000
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It’s Bonfire Night, but the fireworks in Estella’s boudoir are more impressive than any rocket or sparkler. She has more pressing things on her mind than trivial traditions like burning the Guy and crunching her canines on treacle toffee. A spot of unrequited love, and her little deady bear’s rotting body.

What better way to distract herself than to entertain you with a ghostly retelling of the infamous Guy Fawkes and the Fifth of November legend.

In York, England—new job, new life—Tansy finds herself both fascinated and scared by the haunted history this cobbled-street city has to offer. Determined not to let her fears chase her back to her small home town, she spends the night in the birth place of Guy Fawkes on the anniversary of his arrest. When she comes face to face with the spirit of Britain’s most notorious conspirer, he kisses her oh so scandalously. The ghost of his lover joins the interlude, and takes over Tansy’s body. Possessed by Marie, she is powerless to interrupt the passion exploding between them. Not that she’d want to. Pleasure abound, their story is unraveled…

…and it’s nothing like the history books depict.

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Could she spend the night in Guy Fawkes’ home? Did she have the balls, or rather the boobs, to do it? Either way, she’d die trying; show this big city she meant business, that a bunch of ghost stories weren’t going to run her out of town. Nu-uh. This bank teller was here to stay. She liked her new job. Moving from her home town—a small, coal mining village in South Yorkshire—took guts. She intended to plant roots in York.

“Remember, remember, the fifth of November. Gunpowder, treason and plot. I see no reason why gunpowder, treason should ever be forgot.” She chanted the infamous rhyme while sneaking toward the basement made of legend; the ghost of the infamous betrayer himself had been spotted there on several occasions, and on the fifth of November, no less.

“Show yourself, Guy Fawkes,” she whispered.

“Miss, you’re trespassing.”

She spun and spat out her rehearsed excuse. “I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere, so sorry.”

But during her imaginary practice run, not once had she bumped into a sexpot. Not one dressed up as Guy himself, anyway. Very authentic, with the hat and shoe buckles. The works; even had a curled-up moustache. He looked like he’d stepped out of a history book or off the cover of one of her romance books. Gorgeous. Any minute, she expected him to pop the buttons off his shirt and show his manly six-pack. Oh yeah, baby. She could work with that.

“My mistake, miss. I didn’t know it was you.” He took his hat off and brought it to his chest for an exaggerated bow. All the while, he stared at her with eyes aglint with mischief. Perfect, because that’s what Tansy looked for in a man.

He moved in close, his breath skimming her lips, and claimed her mouth. His passion overwhelmed her; suffocating, intoxicating. Can’t breathe.