Promo: The Curse of Maiden Scars by Nicolette Croft
Today, I'm delighted to welcome author Nicolette Croft. We're sharing a fabulous excerpt from her intriguing novel, The Curse of Maiden Scars. I've added it to my TBR list. It sounds like a fascinating tale.
The Curse of Maiden Scars is currently on blog tour with The Coffee Pot Book Club. Check out all the other tour stops for more enticing excerpts HERE!
Finding a niche in the lakeshore, I sat down on a dry boulder and signaled for Max to join me. A shallow stream babbled into the lake, singing a tune for our respite. I playfully removed my socks and shoes and plunged my toes into the water, letting out a squeal of shock at the chill.
A smile scratched the corner of Max’s lips.
“Something funny?” I flicked water at him with my foot, splashing him more than I intended.
At first, frozen in a wide-mouthed expression, he quickly transformed into rueful friskiness. “You’ll get yours.” He kicked his shoes onto the riverbank and strode into the lake, socks and all. Tugging off his shirt and plunging it deep into the water, he flung it at me, smacking me in the face. It stuck to my hair like al dente pasta glued against the kitchen tile wall.
Wrenching his shirt from my head, I was warmed by his laughter. Waist deep in the water, head turned high with hilarity, his coloring faintly improved. He morphed back into my little brother. Clutching my chest with mirth, I fought to maintain my balance on the rock and landed bum-first in the lake, right next to him, water cascading over him. When I sputtered to the surface, the newly baptized Max was hooting and pointing at me in amusement.
“You are a mess,” he playfully scolded.
My cap hung low over my brow. Branches and damp leaves clung to my tangles. Although thankful for the momentary joy, the frigid water chilled me, and I sought the sunshine warming the dry riverbank. Trudging my way out and marking the sand with deep footprints, I collected my shoes and huddled on the shore.
“Where are you going?” he shouted.
I removed the outer layer of my dressing and was clad in my shift. I stretched the dress over a warm boulder, hoping it would dry faster from the heat beneath and the sun above. Nestling into the earth, I began the daunting task of combing my hair through with my fingers. Max scooted alongside me and stripped off his outer jacket and trousers, leaving him in thin shirt and knee-length pantaloons.
I glanced at him, and he at me. His familiar smile made me feel we might look every bit our age and, for a flash, had roused the children we once were.
Max knelt behind me and began working on the tangles, starting at the top where I could not reach. I echoed the efforts at the end. Eventually, we would meet in the middle. I rubbed stretches of slick green slime from my hair. I stifled a gag as I thought of its sickening texture.
Max lingered at the collar of my shift, drawing it low to the middle of my back. I stiffened, knowing what he studied. He tenderly traced the length of the scars. “It’s very purple at the top,” he said, fingering a bump near the meat between my neck and shoulder. “This must have been the hottest part.” He touched lower, tickling me slightly as he progressed toward my spine. “It gets lighter as it goes down. If I didn’t know it was a burn, I would imagine the claw of a lion tore you diagonally from shoulder to waist.”
I enjoyed his image. Surviving a lion attack made me a warrior.
His warm cheek brushed over my shoulder. Tenderly, he breathed down the length of my back to the end of the scar. He pressed his chin against me and bruised me as he neared my neck again. He collapsed onto me in an awkward embrace, his mouth closed in on my skin, much like I imagined a tired child would resign itself to a mother. I scooted away, although I felt the instinct to hold him.
He protectively tucked his left arm in his lap. He appeared to be a fully intact, non-maimed boy from most angles, including my current vantage. We locked eyes, his functioning hand still resting on my shoulder. He slowly revealed the stump of the other arm. I had forgotten how shocking his raw appearance was—a petite boy with a blunted left arm stunted below the elbow joint.
A Yorkshire orphan struggling for opportunity against 18th-century odds reluctantly transforms into a Venetian courtesan during the Empire's last days. 
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