Best historical of 2023; read an excerpt, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

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I'm so thrilled my WWII novel won best historical of 2023. I hope you enjoy the excerpt, which changes Norah's journey as she's trapped in France after the Germans invaded.

At the sound of a boot scraping over stone, Norah peeked around the tall rock. Her pulse spiked. The Commandant stood a couple of feet away, straight as a steel beam, arrogant, gazing out over the Atlantic. His Nazi uniform was a terrible mockery to the village of Saint Guénolé.

She’d thought herself secluded here. Why had she taken the chance? She hunkered down and should slip away, since she could be apprehended for spying on the German officer. Though that’s not why she was there. Loathing coated with fear rippled through her.

Almost frozen with inaction, she slid down a little more into the cove of the rocks’ shadows. She glanced at her drawing book. The sketch of the Atlantic Puffin, delicate in its lines traced in colored pencils. The orange legs and strong red and black beak on a body of black, pale gray, and a white underside shimmered on the page. In profile, its eye shone with life, and the puffin looked about to take flight.

A gust of wind tossed her hair into her face, a thick sweep of strawberry-blonde in the scent of brine from the sea.

Did she hear his boots scrape closer? What if he peered over the rocks? Swiping her tresses aside, she shrank deeper into a cleft and glared over the ocean, longing for her home in Yorkshire, angry and upset at being stranded. But she must pretend to be calm, in control.

The Southern Finistère coast, with its rugged, rocky outline, was a buttress against the forceful ocean waves that slapped the stone slope two yards below her toes. The dark indigo of the Bay of Biscay reflected a blue spring sky. Spray filtered through the air, a mist that refreshed her skin—except today. If she could only sneak to the north coast and be capable of swimming the channel.

Inching to the side, Norah crept, head down, out from the semi-circle of tall rocks on the opposite side from the Commandant. Thankful she wore trousers and not a skirt, plus sturdy Oxford shoes, she brushed off her backside. She hurried past the monolithic-like stones with golden lichen clinging to their bases, across an open area of grass and into the bushes then woods. Her pencils rattled in the canvas bag. Her legs grazed against the orange and yellow wildflowers.

A sentry or two always patrolled this area. She tried to remain inconspicuous, but more soldiers had arrived in the last few weeks. The Germans had started to build ports somewhere along here and a special one, heavily guarded, right below the village. She must be more careful.

As she pushed her way through gorse bushes and scratchy plants, sharply fragrant, she pondered the German officer’s reasons for standing at the cliff, which he did often—but never so close to her cove. Was he waiting for reinforcements by sea? Or coveting England across the channel? But that view was on the northern coast of this peninsula that stuck like a fat finger out into the Atlantic.

The Nazis’ bombing raids had already decimated so much in London in the Blitz. They’d also dropped bombs on York, but with minimal damage so far. Her country had been attacked by German planes from September ’40 to last month—the worst raid ever on London. She groaned. Now June, would it start again?

Since last year, Hitler planned an invasion of England, but he had failed to land any troops.

Her stomach clenched with more anger she needed to temper. She increased her stride, sucking in the fresh air. Rustling behind her, footsteps—too close. Someone panting then a hand grabbed her shoulder.

Norah flinched and swung around. A baby-faced soldier in Nazi greenish-gray scowled at her. “What are you doing here?” he demanded in heavily accented, terrible French, two of his teeth jagged like a weasel.

She straightened, chin high, the pad pressed to her stomach. Inside, she trembled. “I live nearby. I was enjoying a walk. I draw birds.” Her French was passable after the year entrenched with her cousin, and her schoolgirl lessons from a decade ago. Her arrival happened only five weeks before the Germans invaded France. A desperate year because of that and for anguished, personal reasons.

The young man pointed at her book and bag, then shouted over his shoulder in German.

Was he alerting his superior? “Please, I’ve done nothing wrong.” She had no desire to come face to face with the Commandant. “You can search me…if you want.” She cringed at that idea.

“I have no choice but to report you.” The soldier shouted again. The officer’s heavy footsteps thudded closer.

He burst through the bushes, tall and broad-shouldered, his expression stern. The two Germans spoke in their guttural language.

Norah wanted to collapse to the ground but refused to show intimidation. Her spine nearly crackled as she held it firm.

The Commandant confronted her, his blue eyes penetrating. “What is your purpose out here at the shore?” He had distinct cheekbones, a handsome face, his lips full; a man of about forty. An iron cross hung at his high collar. “You don’t care to take instruction from we Philistines. Civilians are restricted.”

“I apologize,” she tried to keep the revulsion from her tone, though his near-teasing words —or perhaps a taunt—put her off-balance even more, “I was out for a walk and…I used to walk by the shore. Before—” Before you damned Germans arrived.


Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with her husband and one naughty dachshund.

Norah is caught forging, will August forgive? Outcast Artist in Bretagne by Diane Scott Lewis

 

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My turbulent couple caught up in WWII hide secrets from one another. He's a German officer who hates Hitler. She's an Englishwoman forging passes to help Jewish families escape France. Enjoy an excerpt when Norah is finally caught.

Norah stood tiptoe on a chair and pulled the documents from the attic, the narrow place she’d dusted the best she could. Giselle was coming over for coffee, and to look at what she had. The mayor’s wife had friends who could distribute paperwork and collect information. She had to trust her. Norah felt a burden lifting from her shoulders at no more sneaking around, no more deception.

Last night, as August slept beside her, she decided this was the best option.

She balanced and went to step down from the chair. A paper floated to the floor. The door unlocked and opened. She sucked in her breath.

August stood in the doorway. “What are you doing up there?” He was supposed to be gone, inspecting the airfield.

The chair seemed to shake with her jolt of emotions. She stepped off, the documents smashed to her chest. Her pulse pounded in her ears. “I’m cleaning up some old paperwork. I thought you’d be at Audierne.”

“The inspection was delayed.” He walked forward and picked up the paper from the floor. It was a sketch of her recreation of the Reichsadler, the Nazi eagle over a swastika, required on travel permits. He held it up. “What is this? Norah, mein Gott. You are forging, aren’t you?”

Her breath came in rasps. “Please. Think of the Jewish children.”

“You lied to me. I thought I could trust you.” The hurt in his face jabbed at her, nearly spinning her to the floor.

“August, I…” She had no viable excuse. “I didn’t exactly lie. I never admitted the truth.”

He took the documents from her shivering hands. “Do you know what would happen if Captain Schmidt discovered this? From you, my fiancée. You would face arrest, even torture. Colonel Burmester would be contacted to implicate me. I could be sent from here to Russia, or elsewhere. How would I find you or protect you? I thought you understood.”

“I’m sorry. I thought only of the children, not what could happen to you.” It made such sense when he spoke it. Her head swirled, knees weak.

He slapped the papers on the table, eyes wide and sharp. “What else have you been doing behind my back?”

“Nothing, I swear.” She leaned on the chair for support; icy fear shot through her veins. “I’ll be careful from now on.”

“You must stop at once.” His glare sliced through her, but pain shadowed it. “Do you hear me?”

She knew she was defeated, and she had planned to give up her work. She couldn’t put him in jeopardy. Her body sagged. She struggled to breathe. “I won’t do it anymore. I was quitting anyway.”

He raked a hand through his dark-gold hair, eyes flashing. “How can I believe you? Who else is involved?”

“I can’t reveal that.” Please don’t insist on it!

“If you’re found out, there’s no telling what will happen.” He gripped her shoulders, his fingers on her flesh painful. “Again, how can I trust you? I want so much to. I thought we had something special.”

“We do. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t doing this when we first grew close.” Her eyes dampened with tears. “That sounds worse, but I was convinced my actions would help people.”

“You deceived me.” He cupped her face, his thumbs caressing her cheekbones, his expression miserable. Then he stepped away, shaking his head. “After I warned you, you continued.” He swept his hand toward the table, forehead creased. “Burn those documents and whatever else is up in the attic. Our lives are at stake.”

She nodded, straining to balance herself. “I will. I swear I won’t do it anymore. I want you safe from retribution. I was reckless.”

He stood tall, the commandant once more, as he reached for the doorknob. His flushed cheeks betrayed his upset. “Norah, I understand why you did it. But you should have told me before this. I cautioned you.” The disappointment on his face was obvious, the hurt in his eyes condemning her.

“I’ll destroy them, I promise.” She hated to do it, yet yearned to embrace him, to hold him close. Her pride, her confusion, kept her from begging that he stay. She must not collapse into a grasping female. “Forgive me.”

“I must return to my office. I’ve much to think about. The risks you took. You were dishonest, so heedless.” Words stern over an anxious voice, August was out the door, shutting it after him. A swift, stormy wind had blown over her, scattering her life like dried leaves.

“I didn’t lie. I just didn’t admit to the truth.” Heart like a rock weighing down her chest, she bent to the hearth, blinking back tears. A sob erupted. She must bring him back to her, make him understand. They still loved one another, didn’t they? But to destroy all her hard work. She felt frozen in place, her world crumbling. It’s not fair! I was doing the right thing. She reached into a basket for the kindling August had split for her, as her soul felt cleaved in two.

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with her husband and one naughty dachshund.

The Major faces his nightmares, in my new release, Outcast Artist in Bretagne, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

Just released! Purchase the novel HERE

Read an excerpt: The Major, a man who loathes Hitler's policies, faces a nightmare from his past.

August stretched out on the bed in his cotton pajamas, hand behind his head on the pillow. When he closed his eyes and drifted into half-sleep, instead of the sweet smile of a blonde girl who drew birds, a woman he probably liked too much, Operation Hummingbird, Unternehmen Kolibri, intruded, again, on his thoughts. He tightened his fingers on the sheet he’d jerked up to cover himself.

Seven years before, in 1934, a purge with mass assassinations had taken place. Hitler ordered the murder of top officials, allegedly to prevent a coup—but he wanted complete power. Göring and Himmler had urged him on, aided by the SS and Gestapo.

August pressed on the knot in his stomach that usually formed when he had these ugly memories. He was a captain then.

Kurt von Schleicher, the former chancellor of Germany, had been a friend of his father’s. Schleicher had dared to criticize Hitler’s government, allegedly working behind the scenes against him. August, alerted by his father, had rushed over dressed as a civilian to Schleicher’s home near Potsdam to warn him, to take him and his wife to safety. Almost immediately after August had arrived men in trench coats drove up, knocked, and opened fire.

August grimaced and closed his eyes tighter. Gunfire, the stink of gunpowder, Schleicher and his wife both murdered. Their bodies sprawled in pools of crimson in the hallway. The men had fired at him, hitting him in the side. He felt the sharp spike of pain, the sticky blood on his hands. He’d fallen to the floor and pretended to be dead. A coward! He should have shot one of them. But he had been outnumbered.


Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with her husband and one naughty dachshund.

A Desperate Plea, my upcoming release, Outcast Artist in Bretagne, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

To purchase my novels, click HERE

My book's release has been moved to May!

Click HERE to pre-order the e-book.

Enjoy an excerpt. Norah's young cousin runs down the beach to show how fast he is, but a German sentry grabs him and hauls him away. Norah must confront the Commandant for the boy's release.

At the Town Hall, a guard stepped before her, eyes flinty, his rifle tight against his chest. “What is your business here?”

Norah tensed, her arms rigid at her sides. The ugly swastika flag flapped above her, adding to her distress. “I need to speak to Major von Gottlieb.”

“For what purpose?” The young man’s chin lifted higher, his French adequate.

“It’s urgent.” She swallowed hard. Each moment counted for her to rescue Jean. “Tell him it is Miss Cooper, the woman who draws birds. He knows who I am. I must speak to him, please.”

The guard hesitated. She took a step closer, breath heaving. He finally turned, stepped into the alcove, knocked, and entered the office.

He returned after a minute and motioned with a slice of his hand for her to follow.

Norah walked stiffly in, her courage waning, but her resolve anchored. She’d never been in this office before. And now with the Germans in charge, changing everything—and a child’s fate in her hands.

Major von Gottlieb stood behind his desk, tall and imposing, his expression curious. “What can I do for you, Fräulein Cooper?”

“My young cousin did something foolish, but he’s only a child.” She rubbed her knuckle along her collarbone and explained what happened in barely controlled words. “Please, don’t let anyone hurt him. He’s ten years old, and impulsive.” Tears dampened her eyes, despite her effort to appear tenacious. “Release him to his mother. It’s all a mistake.”

She saw the Major’s gaze change from surprised to concerned.

“Extraordinary. I will investigate at once. Wait here, Fräulein.” The Major thrust on his hat and indicated the chair in front of the desk. He marched from the room and shut the door. She heard strong words exchanged in German, the shuffle of feet.

Norah sank into the leather seat, unsure what to do. Her heart beat so fast, her chest ached. She glanced about the office. A picture of Hitler on the wall made her cringe. On a glass-fronted bookcase full of books was a smaller picture of a woman. Broad-faced but attractive. The Major’s wife?

Mahogany furniture filled the cramped room. The desk was neat, with a tan leather inlay. The room smelled pleasant, of lemon oil. She tried to balance herself as her mind spun.

A small table held a partially finished jigsaw puzzle. She stood to see what it was, to distract her upset.

The door opened behind her. She nearly jumped.

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with her husband and one naughty dachshund.

Romance Is My Passion

To find my BWL novels...

What is Romance?  Is it simply a love story?  While all romances contain a love story, not all love stories are romances. Romances are a genre of fiction. As any other genre, it has conventions, just as mysteries, science fiction or westerns do. 

I love reading good romance novels.  Why? How?  With a grateful nod to poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Let me count the ways….

 

1  Romances have no boundaries.

Romance novels can go back centuries, spanning right through the decades to the present, and into the future. Why? Because love hasn’t changed over the years, plots and genres from historical, to young adult, to paranormal, to romantic drama, comedy. adventure, to western to suspense.  All genres live inside romance.

Nowadays we can read much more about the varieties of love thanks to the LGBTQ community and erotic fiction. At the end of the day:  love is love.

2 Romances can teach 

I know a few things about women’s roles in the first and second World Wars, how women got away with posing as male soldiers in the Civil War…Also how to run a b&b and catch a thief.  Would I pick up a non-ficton book or manual on these subjects? Maybe not.  But through my love of romance novels, I am now far better informed on many subjects. If well-written, the product of the author’s research is in a romance fiction. If a book is set in the 1940s, for example,  you’ll find out the news, slang, what type of clothes people were in fashion, what technology people used to travel and communicate. And it’s all delivered painlessly, as part of a great story. I always value a well researched, informative style of writing, in any genre.

3 Romances feature strong women

Do you like to read about shrinking violets?  With women strictly in the background getting coffee? About women with no voice or opinions?  Well, romance is not your cup of tea.  A good romance novel will show the strengths of a woman, even against adversity. Women will never be stereotyped as weak or “arm candy” or insignificant in romance novels. They are HER journey’s story.

4 Oh, there’s….the sex

Yes, except for in the sweet, close-the-curtain variety, there is, as in life, sex in romance novels. And, as in life, when it comes with consent, and in the right moments, it pulses with joy and wonderful variety!

5 Also relationships

What makes a good relationship? That is a complex question with many answers that are right for different people. By reading romance novels we can compare to our life relationships. That’s why it’s always puzzled me why men who keep loudly wondering “what do women want?” don’t read romance novels.  The answer lies within, fellas. 

6 And always, hope.

Anything  wrong with a little daydreaming of the perfect mate?  How else do we to know what to look for in life?

7 Romances make us laugh, cry…and wait!

That is Charles Dickens’ prescription for good storytelling.  We all like a laugh. There is often humor in romance. The laugh out loud kind, the clever wit, the  sharp one-liners. And who doesn’t like a good cry? Sadness and setbacks get our emotions stirring. And mixing in in a good galloping plot full of conflict, make us wait for ….

8.  Oh, those happy endings

Finally there is that much-derided guaranteed “happy ever after. “  Yes, you’ll find happy endings in romances as sure as the murder will be solved in mysteries and the cattle delivered in westerns. If the romance is good, that happy ending will be well-earned and worth the wait!