I know I've blogged about this book's sentimental title--amongst friends, it's known as "Goats on a Boat". Why, you may ask? Well, because much of the story takes place on a boat. And because there are goats on that boat--in addition to a runaway heiress, a band of sketchy sailors, and one devilish-hot former privateer.

Why goats? That has to do with shipboard provisions. An early 19th-century ocean crossing was no luxury cruise. The diet consisted of hardtack (also known as ship's biscuit), salted meat (that often went rancid as the voyage progressed), and perhaps a few root vegetables--potatoes, onions, carrots--for the first few weeks out from land. Goats were a portable source of fresh milk, which was a welcome addition to the menu.

Here's a link to a template and directions for making your own paper goat, should you wish to do so! (Thanks to the ever-crafty, beadazzling Sara Lindsey!)

Don't worry--the goats don't take over the boat, or the romance. But if you've been wondering what the "Goats on a Boat" references are about...now you're in on the joke.

Here's a little excerpt, starring said goats, the book's hero, Gray, and one of my very favorite secondary characters, Davy Linnet.

A pale-faced youth trotted across the deck, a thick coil of rope threaded over his arm.

“What’s your name, again?”

“Davy Linnet, sir.”

“How old are you, Davy?”

“Fifteen, sir.”

“Come from the farm, have you?”

The lad shifted his feet. He regarded the goats warily. “Yes, sir.”

“Then I suppose you know how to tend a goat.”

The boy hesitated, looking toward Joss.

“Well?” Gray asked. “Do you know a goat’s teat from her tail, or don’t you?” When the boy still paused, he added, “Speak up now, or I’ll ask you the same about girls.”

“I’ve tended goats, sir. It’s just... I wasn’t expecting to tend them at sea. I rather thought I was finished with that.”

Gray laughed. “A man can’t shake his past, Davy. And don’t I know it."

GOATS ON A BOAT

Chewing their way through bookshelves, starting Tuesday next!

SQUEE!!! Beverley Kendall, another Fanlit friend, has just signed a two-book deal with Kensington!  Her debut historical, tentatively titled A Lady's Compromise, will be coming to a bookstore near you in Fall 2009.  Congratulations, Bev!

Lastly: Arrrh, mateys!  It's International Talk Like A Pirate Day!  I'm celebrating by taking the darelings to ride Pirates of the Caribbean for the one millionth time.

But, since piracy does play a role in my second book, Surrender of a Siren (releasing late August 2009!), I thought I'd leave you a little excerpt, below the fold. 

Sophia’s hand plunked down on the table.  “But privateers … aren’t they nearly the same as pirates?”

“No, miss.  There’s a world of difference between the life of a privateer and a pirate.”

“Less violent?”

Gabriel shook his head.  “About the same, there.”

“More honorable.”

“Not necessarily.  That would depend on the particular privateer and the particular pirate.”

“Then how is it different?”

“Why, privateering’s legal, of course.  Sanctioned by the Crown. Can’t be hanged for a privateer.”

“I see.”

“’Course, the war’s over now.”  Gabriel sprinkled the dish with pepper before removing the pot from the stove.  “No more privateering to be had.  So we’ve got to turn respectable, Gray says.  It was either that, or turn pirate.”  Gabriel winked at her.  “And I’m rather attached to my neck.”

Sophia sipped her tea, amazed.  She was the lone female passenger—the lone passenger, really—aboard a ship crewed entirely by men who might as well be pirates, except that they couldn’t be hanged.  And Mr. Grayson, with his arrogant swagger and mercantile lust, was their erstwhile, unhangable pirate king.

Mercy.

She drained the rest of her tea in one long draught, capped with an audible swallow.  “Thank you for the refreshment,” she said, rising to her feet.  Blood rushed from her head, leaving her dizzy.   The steam was suddenly too thick to breathe.  “I… I believe I’ll go take some fresh air.”

As she hurried on deck, her mind was awhirl.  All that time that Mr. Grayson had been touching her, teasing her… she’d been consorting with a pirate.  If he had the slightest inkling that she carried hundreds of pounds beneath her stays, he’d surely stop at nothing to get it.  And yet, she could not bid caution to overtake the gothic thrill.  For heaven’s sake, a pirate.

She could be in danger, she admonished herself.

She could be plundered.

The possibility really ought to have frightened her more than it did.