What Beth Is Saying...
Married to my high school sweetheart, I live on a farm in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia surrounded by my children, grandbabies, and assorted animals. An avid gardener, my love of herbs and heirloom plants figures into my work. The rich history of Virginia, the Native Americans and the people who journeyed here from far beyond her borders are at the heart of my inspiration. In addition to American settings, I also write historical and time travel romances set in the British Isles.
Recently I branched out beyond romance with a nonfiction book about country life entitled Shenandoah Watercolors, available as a Kindle and Nookbook.
What Others Are Saying...
"When I think of a historical romance, I think of Beth Trissel."~Bella Wolfe, You Gotta Read
"Beth Trissel is a skilled storyteller and scene-builder. She immediately plunges the reader into action and excitement with a vivid sense of time and place."~Historical Romance Author Kris Kennedy (for historical romance novel Enemy of the King)
"Ms. Trissel makes wonderful use of descriptive language. I felt as if I were actually there."~Poinsettia, Long and Short Reviews
"Ms. Trissel brings the countryside and its people alive with her fascinating details."~Danielle, Coffee Time Romance and More
Back Cover Copy
As the French Revolution rages, the English nobility offer sanctuary to many a refugee. Captain Dalton Evans arrives in Dover to meet a distant cousin, expecting to see a spoiled aristocrat. Instead, he’s conquered by the simplicity of his new charge. And his best friend Thomas Archer isn’t immune to her artless charm, either.
Cecile Beaumont didn’t choose to travel across the Channel. And she certainly didn’t expect that impersonating her own mistress would introduce her to a most mesmerizing man. Now she must play out the masquerade, or risk life, freedom – and her heart.~
Excerpt: Into The Lions Heart
Damn and blast! Tom and another man hoisted them upright in the prow.
“Thanks,” Dalton grunted, biting his tongue in the presence of a lady. “All right?” he shouted at her, and shifted her securely onto the seat beside him.
“Oui!” she sputtered when she’d recovered her breath.
She shook all over—must be chilled to the bone. They’d be fortunate if she didn’t catch her death, probably bruised too from tossing about in the skiff. The sooner she was safely housed indoors by a toasty hearth, the better.
Keeping an arm around the sodden woman, he peered into a striking pair of charcoal-gray eyes set above a pert nose and framed by fine dark brows.
She parted trembling, bluish lips. “Merci Monsieur—Que Dieu vous bénis—Les saints bénis nous en préservent,” she stammered, thanking, blessing him, and calling on the saints.
Dalton was tempted to call on them himself, but her outpouring took him by surprise.
Not content with acknowledging his aid, she turned to Tom, crouched on her other side, and blurted similar gratitude—nearly incoherent in the tumult raging around them. Tom gave a nod through gritted teeth then bent his head over the boat and heaved the contents of his volatile stomach.
She tilted her head at Dalton, eyes crinkled in sympathy. “Mal de mer,” she said, using the French for seasick.~
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