Barbara Monajem

BARBARA M on AJEM

USA Today bestselling author Barbara Monajem wrote her first story at eight years old about apple tree gnomes. After publishing a middle-grade fantasy, she settled on historical mysteries and romances with intrepid heroines and long-suffering heroes (or vice versa). Often there’s bit of fantasy mixed in, because she wants to avoid reality as much as possible.

Barbara used to have two items on her bucket list: to make asparagus pudding and to succeed at knitting socks. She managed the first (don’t ask) but doubts

she’ll ever accomplish the second. This is not a bid for immortality but merely the dismal truth. She lives near Atlanta with an ever-shifting population of relatives, friends, and feline strays.

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Uncaged welcomes Barbara Monajem

Welcome to Uncaged! You’re here to tell us about Love and the Shameless Lady, a book in your Scandalous Kisses series. Can you tell us more about this book, and what you may have coming in the near future?

Love and the Shameless Lady is one of my favorite books for two reasons: first, because the heroine, Daisy Warren, is way out of her normal environment. She’s a disgraced lady who lives in a tumbledown inn. She bakes in the kitchen, serves ale to the sailors and smugglers, and plays the piano and sings rude songs for them. The second reason is because Daisy is also a writer. In her spare time, she writes romantic adventure stories with intrepid heroines who make their own happy endings. It’s often said to write what you know. I don’t quite agree with this (I’ve never lived in Regency England, nor have I served ale to smugglers, nor do I sing worth beans, etc.), but it is fun to write about writing, one aspect of life that I do know quite well.

My upcoming book, The Infidelity Curse, will come out in late spring or early summer. The hero comes from a long line of Earls who were cursed with unfaithful wives. He tries his best not to fall in love with a lady touched by scandalous accusations. Of course, he doesn’t succeed—luckily, because the lady is just what

What is the most difficult scene for you to write? What is the easiest?

The most difficult scenes are always the ones where I don’t quite know what should happen next. Sometimes I ponder for days. Other times I just start writing and see what happens, then go back and revise until I know what’s going on. The easiest scene is the first one in a new book. I adore new beginnings, and the first scene is always clear in my mind when I start.

Do you have a favorite character you’ve written?

I rarely have a favorite anything—there are too many lovely characters, books, foods, people, etc., in the world. However, I guess I would say Daisy Warren (mentioned above) is one of my favorites, as is Bridget O’Shaughnessy Black, who falls in love with Daisy’s brother Colin in The Rake’s Irish Lady. Also, I’m very fond of Noelle de Vallon, the daring Frenchwoman in The Smuggler’s Escape, because she’s the first historical heroine I wrote.

Has there been a character that’s been hard to write about?

Yes – Gloriana Warren, Daisy and Colin’s cousin. She is first introduced in Love and the Shameless Lady, where she’s quite obnoxious. It was a lot of work redeeming her in her own story, The Redemption of the Shrew.

How do you come up with the title to your books?

With difficulty! I come up with a bunch of terrible titles and then plead for help fixing them.

What behind-the-scenes tidbit in your life would probably surprise your readers the most?

I was a mail-order bride! Well, not in the traditional sense, but my husband did propose by mail. :)

A combination, I guess, because usually I start with a character in a particular situation that leads to a plot. I’m not fond of plotting ahead of time. I usually start writing and see what happens, which is inefficient but fun.

What are some things you like to do to relax when you aren’t writing or working?

Reading. Reading. Reading, and some kinds of cooking. I like making soups, and I used to love baking, but now that I eat mostly low carb, baking is sort of depressing. :)

If you could have one all-year season, which would it be and why?

No, no, no!! I enjoy all the seasons.

How many hours a day do you write?

This varies widely. Sometimes not at all, sometimes several hours.

On average, how long does it take to write a full novel?

Seven to nine months, but sometimes I start a story and then move on to something else, returning to the original story months or years later (such as The Smuggler’s Escape, which was published many years after I wrote it). I’m not very consistent, and because of this, I usually have two or three projects going at once so that I’m always making some sort of progress. Ebooks are so convenient, especially in bed! I still read some physical books, though, because they’re easier to flip back and forth in. I’m not into audio because I really don’t like having earbuds in my ears. However, sometimes I’ll ‘read’ a long book via audio while driving. Right now, I’m reading a mystery by Cara Black.

What would you like to say to fans, and where can they follow you?

Thank you, thank you! Your kind words about my books are so inspiring. I’m available on Facebook, Bookbub, Goodreads, and Twitter, and of course via the contact tab on my website.

Enjoy an excerpt from Love and the Shameless Lady

Love and the Shamless Lady Barbara Monajem Historical Regency

Disgraced lady Daisy Warren serves ale in a tumbledown inn, sings crude songs for the smugglers, and writes romantic novels in her spare time. Shunned by society, she’s resigned to her lowly life—until someone tries to kill her. Gentleman spy Sir Julian Kerr noses out seditionists and traitors. When he visits the inn to investigate two suspicious Frenchmen, he meets the lovely but hostile Daisy. He doesn’t intend to get involved with her, but he has no choice.

He may save her life – but will Daisy’s bitter past allow her to risk love again?

Daisy Warren set her pen down with a heartfelt sigh. The Lady’s Ruin was her best novel yet. The plot and characters were so outrageous she felt sure they resembled nothing and no one in real life.

Except perhaps Daisy herself, but she didn’t want to think about that just now. The novel was over and done with, and so was the smuggler who’d inspired it—dead, and richly he deserved it. Unfortunately, neither of these facts changed a thing about the life of a ruined lady.

She bundled the pages, wrapped and sealed them, and addressed them to her publisher. In the morning, she would have it sent on the mail coach to London. She set it aside, went down to the taproom of the ramshackle inn where she lived, and indulged in a celebratory brandy.

Tonight she would play the out-of-tune pianoforte and sing for the drunken patrons of the Diving Duck, while her mother turned in her grave. Tomorrow she would begin the sequel—The Lady’s Revenge.

Six months later…

“He’s a good-looking man,” Sally said, wiping three tankards and preparing to fill them. “And one of your sort, too.”

Daisy Warren glanced up from kneading the dough for the cottage loaves. “Not anymore.” She was a ruined woman, and therefore her ‘sort’—in other words, the gently bred—would have nothing to do with her. That didn’t stop her from taking a good long look at the newcomer, plainly visible through the doorway from the kitchen to the coffee room of the Diving Duck. Slouched in a chair, he was entirely at ease, his station in the world assured. A man would practically have to commit murder before being ostracized, whilst a woman had merely to— She stopped that thought before it had a chance to grow into full-blown fury. Anger did no good at all. It changed nothing, except to make her feel ill. Sally rolled her eyes. “The gentry can’t all be prigs.” With practiced ease, she operated the tap with one hand and held the three tankards in the other.

“Most of them are,” Daisy said, punching the dough hard. His fairish hair was a little too long, curling over his cravat. His other clothing was fashionable without being ostentatious, his only jewelry a ruby ring on his left hand. She thought his eyes were blue, but she couldn’t tell from this distance.

God only knew why she found him so interesting. Perhaps because he brought a little culture, a little education, a little worldliness into this godforsaken inn.

Mostly, Daisy was content with her life at the Diving Duck. The smugglers who frequented the place knew by now to treat her with friendly respect, and whenever she wanted to play a proper pianoforte or go for a bruising ride, her brother Colin’s estate wasn’t far away. She would never marry, never have children, but all in all—

Drat, the newcomer had noticed her watching him. She glared and returned to kneading the dough.

“Maybe this one ain’t so bad. I wonder why he’s here.” Sally headed for the coffee room.

“I don’t care.” Daisy was tempted to close the door so she couldn’t see him and therefore he couldn’t see her, but no, she wouldn’t let any man’s appraisal discomfit her. She no longer minded the bold stares of some of the smugglers. They meant nothing by it.

Daisy covered the dough with a cloth and set it aside to rise. The only true advantage to being ruined—and to leaving her brother’s home to live at a disreputable inn—was that she was learning how

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to cook and bake. A Warren doing menial labor! Her mother’s shroud must be twisted into knots by now. Sally returned with several empty tankards. “He’s on a riding tour, visiting Roman ruins.” “Is that so,” Daisy said flatly. A scholar, was he? Thanks to her late father, she had a soft spot for those studying the ancient world, but she knew better than to let nostalgia affect her. He might seem appealing, he might even be knowledgeable, but when it came right down to it, he was just another man. Sally never stopped moving. Already she was wiping the tankards preparatory to filling them again. A group of locals, most of whom were involved in smuggling to some degree, had come in for their customary darts and ale. “Finished with the dough, have you? Then if you don’t mind, Miss Daisy, I think those rock buns are about done.” It had taken Sally months to get used to Daisy in her kitchen, and only recently she’d begun to ask for help rather than waiting for Daisy to volunteer. She would never have done so if Daisy hadn’t proposed writing a cookery book, and said she needed to learn how to do things herself, not just watch how they were done. Daisy opened the oven and shoveled the little cakes out. They were likely to cool as hard as their names indicated, but tasty all the same. “They don’t look bad,” Sally said, “but what we really need is that recipe from Mr. Warren’s cook.” At least they weren’t burned, which they would have been if Sally hadn’t prompted her. Yet another reason why Daisy shouldn’t dwell on handsome men. The real reason, though—the most important one—was that if she let her thoughts wander in that direction, she might consider dallying with one of them again. No, she wasn’t that much of a fool. Once was enough. “Haven’t really tried, have you?” Daisy started. “Tried . . .?” She certainly had tried, and . . . Oh, Sally was still talking about rock buns. “Yes, I did my best to pry the recipe from my brother’s cook, but she says she’s never written it down. She won’t want me in her kitchen watching her make them.” “Tell her she has no choice,” Sally said. “If I was gentry-born, it would be do as I say, or else.” “I daresay, but she’s not my cook, and she’s been with the family for eons, so I couldn’t sack her even if I wanted to. Which I don’t. We’ll find a recipe elsewhere, or we’ll adjust yours until we get them just right.” Nothing like a nice, safe conversation about food to take one’s mind off a man. How could she be interested in men after what she’d gone through? It made no sense at all, and yet she kept on noticing them—their teasing grins, their powerful arms and thighs . . . She must be mad, but she couldn’t help it. “He’s not staying at the inn,” Sally said, “so you needn’t worry he’ll try tiptoeing to your bedchamber at midnight.” “I’m not worried about that,” Daisy scoffed. “The way he’s eyeing you, maybe you should be,” Sally said. ~ ~ ~ “Look, but don’t touch.” Sir Julian Kerr raised a hand of welcome to his host, who’d just walked into the Diving Duck. “Mr. Bennett! I hoped you would find time for a tankard of ale. Writing poetry is all very well, but one must have one’s recreation, too.” “No doubt, Sir Julian, but don’t turn my warning aside.” Mr. Bennett, the retired smuggler in his fifties who was Julian’s contact on his current mission, settled himself in a chair. “Just because she’s in the kitchen doesn’t mean she’s available.” Julian hadn’t the slightest intention of doing more than looking, but he couldn’t resist teasing a little. “Which, the redhead or the dark one?” “Neither.” Bennett called for a heavy-wet. “The redhead is the landlord’s sister, and the dark-haired girl, at whom you continue to stare with your mouth a-cock, keeps a knife and a loaded gun in her chamber. Not only that, if she should happen to screech, the entire household will rise up to defend her.” “Arousing my curiosity is not the best way to discourage me,” Julian said. Bennett went on as if Julian hadn’t spoken. “If you

should happen to escape her fierce protectors, I would advise you to quit the country in a hurry. The last man who did so happened to die anyway, but at least he had a chance at survival.” “I’ll bear that in mind,” Julian said, his curiosity growing. The pretty redhead arrived with a tankard and a saucy grin. Julian wondered what the dark-haired girl’s smile was like. This mission, like most of them, was likely to prove tedious at best and distressing at worst, so why not ponder something more pleasant? The door to the inn banged open, and a little girl ran in. “Mum! Mum!” Tears ran down her face. “Belch can’t walk no more.” “What now?’ the redhead said. “I swear, that dog is ten pecks of trouble and no use at all.” The dark-haired woman came out of the kitchen. “What’s wrong with him, Jenny-love?” “He can’t walk!” The child led her out the door, while the redhead returned to the kitchen. Julian reached the window just in time to see the woman squatting in the dusty yard beside a spotted mutt. He recognized it as the three-legged dog he’d seen basking in the inn yard earlier. A friendly little creature; all that remained of one of his forelegs was a stump. The woman said something to the little girl, who raced back through on the way to the kitchen. “Mum, I need the tweezers and a strip of rag. And some brandy!” Brandy? Curiosity, spiced with a touch of libido, took firm hold, and Julian strolled outdoors to assuage it. The object of his interest now sat on the paving stones in the slanting light of the early evening sun. She caressed the creature with one hand whilst attempting to examine one of its hind feet. Every time she touched the pad, the dog flinched and evaded her grasp. “Blasted mutt.” “Allow me.” Julian sat on the dusty ground near the mutt’s head. The woman’s eyes met his, cool and unfriendly. “He may bite.” Julian smiled his unconcern. She didn’t return the smile, simply lifting a shoulder in a graceful, indifferent shrug. He let the dog get accustomed to his presence before attempting to touch it, then took over stroking it whilst holding it still with the other hand.

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The woman took firm hold of its leg and examined its paw more minutely, murmuring to it all the while. The little girl came out again, carrying the tweezers and an earthenware mug. “Are we going to make him drunk, like when they dug the shot out of Ned’s bum?” The woman laughed. What a pity she was still inspecting the injured paw, or Julian might have had a glimpse of her smile. “It would certainly mask the pain, but no, Jenny, I fear he has pushed a thorn or splinter deep into his paw by walking on it. I’ll use it to clean the wound.” Granted, the brandy here was smuggled and therefore relatively cheap, but it wasn’t that cheap. An odd sort of barmaid, to appropriate the landlord’s brandy to clean a dog’s paw. Except, Julian realized, that she didn’t sound like a barmaid. She spoke like a lady; both her accent and her confident manner spoke of privilege. “Hold him firmly now.” She nipped quickly in with the tweezers and pulled out a long, vicious splinter of glass. “Where the devil did he pick that up?” she muttered. The accent of a lady and the vocabulary of a barmaid. Fascinating. She squeezed a little blood out and poured a drop or two of brandy on the wound. The dog yelped. “Hush. It’s good for you.” She poured once more, then took the strip of rag and bound the foot. “He’ll tear that off as soon as can be,” she told little Jenny. “Ask one of the grooms to carry him to the kitchen. Then stay with him and make him leave his foot alone for a half hour or so.” “I’ll carry him,” Julian said, promptly suiting action to words. “Lead the way, Jenny.” “Thank you, sir,” the little girl said. As they made their way toward the inn door, Julian glanced back. The woman was watching him . . . with interest, he thought, but then her eyes narrowed to cool slits. She picked up the cup and tweezers, and Julian went into the inn. After depositing the dog in a corner of the kitchen, he returned to the coffee room. The dark-haired woman hadn’t followed them into the kitchen, but

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she was no longer outdoors. He dusted his breeches and sat next to Mr. Bennett again. “Who is she?” he asked.

“Can’t help being nosy, can you?” the older man said sourly. “In fact, I’ll wager it’s required for the job.”

“Call it curiosity. I’ve had to develop it.” Julian had learned to let disdain roll off his shoulders. Everyone resented spies, including himself, but it paid well. “When I encounter something unusual, I’m obliged to learn more.”

Mr. Bennett huffed. “Trust me, she’s nothing to do with your job.” He raised his voice. “Sally!” The redhead reappeared and curtsied. “Thank you kindly, sir, for helping out with that godforsaken mutt. I don’t suppose Daisy thanked you.” She grinned, and Julian caught amusement in her eyes. “She’s that unfriendly, sir.”

“It was my pleasure,” Julian said neutrally.

“Do I smell baking?” Mr. Bennett asked. “Your delightful rock buns, perhaps?”

“Oh, you!” Sally said. “They’ve just come out of the oven, Mr. Bennett, but till we get a proper recipe, they’ll be hard as ever. Not fit for a cookery book, that’s for certain.” “Ask Miss Daisy to bring us some, will you?” Sally grimaced doubtfully but sashayed back to the kitchen.

Miss Daisy? Another indication that the dark one was a lady. “Cookery book?”

“Aye, Miss Daisy and Sally are collaborating to write one.” The dark-haired girl glided gracefully into the coffee room with a plate of rock buns and a scowl. She set them on the table and glowered at Mr. Bennett. “They’re fresh from the oven and haven’t hardened yet, so you’d best eat them quickly, although they don’t go at all well with ale.” Interestingly enough, her accent was now much more like that of the locals. “What do you suggest, Miss Daisy? Tea? By the way, allow me to introduce Sir Julian Kerr, a friend and fellow scholar. Sir Julian, Miss Warren.”

Julian stood hurriedly and bowed.

Daisy didn’t bother to curtsey. After another quick glare at Bennett, she put her nose in the air. “Delighted, I’m sure. Tea or coffee, suit yourself, just let Sally know.” Brusque to the point of rudeness, she stalked—still gracefully—back to the kitchen and slammed the door between the two rooms.

What a pity. Despite her bad manners, she was still good to look at. “Who is she?” Julian asked again, reseating himself. “She seems to be a lady by birth, but if so, what’s she doing in an inn frequented by smugglers?”

Mr. Bennett sighed. “Her name is Desdemona Warren, Daisy for short. She’s the sister of Colin Warren, who lives not far from here.” “I don’t believe I’m acquainted with her brother, but the name sounds familiar. Still, none of this explains why his sister—unmarried sister—resides in a disreputable inn.” He took a sip of ale and another bite of the rock bun. Miss Warren was correct. The flavors didn’t go well together.

“Because when only eighteen years old, she dallied with a smuggler, and is now persona non grata with people of her sort.”

Julian choked. “She what?” When his fit of coughing finally subsided, he said, “Her brother turned her into the street, I suppose.”

“No such thing,” Bennett said. “Warren would prefer to keep her safe at home, but she chose to leave because the local gentry will have nothing to do with her. Here we’re not so fussy. Warren gives her an allowance and lets her go her own road.”

Julian tried to imagine permitting a sister of his such freedom, and couldn’t. “No decent brother could allow his sister to live in such a place.” He recalled something Bennett had said earlier. “If she needs a gun and a knife by her at all times . . .” “She doesn’t, but I believe she was fearful at first that every Tom, Dick, and Harry would think her fair game. Now it’s a safeguard, and if it makes her more comfortable, so be it.” The kitchen door banged open. Sally came through with a tray of tankards. Behind her in the kitchen, Miss Desdemona Warren swept the floor with brisk, vigorous strokes.

Unbelievable.

“Besides that, they’re all afraid of her brother, who is a crack shot and an excellent fencer, and most of them wouldn’t want such a termagant in any case.” Julian watched Daisy sweeping until she shut the door again. He still wondered what she looked like when she smiled. The last thing Julian intended was to pursue the intriguing Miss Warren. In the first place, ruined or not, she was a lady, and he was an honorable man with no intention of marrying. In the second place, he was here to become familiar to the locals, so that if a certain French émigré and his servant reappeared, they would have no reason to consider him out of place. “Daisy! Daisy!” One of the locals pounded the table with his empty tankard.

Another joined in. “Aye, play for us, Daisy!” Julian raised his brows at Bennett, who returned the slightest shrug.

Daisy opened the kitchen door and scowled at them, arms akimbo. “I’m busy, ye louts. Do you or don’t you want bread to eat?”

“Aw, leave the baking to Sally,” said the one who’d called her first. “Play for us, love.”

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play just now.” She rejected their pleas with a swing of the hips that would have done justice to any tavern wench. Julian wondered if perhaps he’d drunk too much ale. “Daisy! Daisy!” Soon they were all banging the tables with tankards and fists. Appalled, Julian felt himself darkening with rage. He caught the amused gaze of Mr. Bennett, who shook his head. “Leave them be.” Devil take him, he was as bad as the rest. Julian half stood, fists clenched. He would knock a few heads together, throw a few punches . . . A pair of firm hands pushed him into his chair again. Behind him, his fingers gripping Julian’s shoulders, Mr. Bennett called out, “Come, Miss Daisy, kindly grace us with your presence.”

“Go,” Sally said from behind the kitchen door. “I’ll take care of the bread.”

Daisy muttered something unintelligible.

“I’ll take it out when it’s done. I’ll write down how long it took.”

“But—” Daisy began.

“Coward,” Sally said in a stage whisper.

Julian shoved Mr. Bennett off and leapt to his feet. “You’ll regret this, Sally.” Daisy stormed into the room.

Pure humiliation.

Daisy glowered at the drunken revelers. One would think she’d be accustomed by now, but no. She was used to playing for the smugglers. She even enjoyed it. Liked acting coy and mockthreatening Sally for teasing her. But to play and sing bawdy songs while Sir Julian Kerr watched . . . the mortification was enough to make her ill.

Which was absurd, as she didn’t give a hedgehog’s arse what the man thought of her. She’d been nowhere near as mortified in front of the Frenchman who often came to stay for a few days. Perhaps this was because Sir Julian knew she was a lady, whilst the Frenchman didn’t. Curse Mr. Bennett for introducing her properly.

Sir Julian rose to his feet upon her entrance, a fearsome scowl on his handsome face.

Oh, God, he probably thought she’d been insulted. Well, she didn’t need defending. She would show him just how low she had become.

She sashayed over to the frightful old pianoforte. She had become quite accomplished at swaying her hips like a tavern wench.

Whoops and cheers greeted her. She ran her fingers up and down the keys and played the opening bars of “Watkin’s Ale,” which was the least bawdy song they might enjoy. It even had a moral. She led them through all eight verses, glancing after three or four at Sir Julian. He was slouched in his chair, eyeing her with . . . what? Disbelief? Disgust? She’d give him something to truly disgust him. She didn’t always take requests, but tonight, why not? Most of the men were smugglers, many of them sailors, so their taste in songs was horrid. With a flourish, she played the final chords of “Watkin’s Ale.” “What next, boys? Tonight it’s your turn to choose.” They roared with approval and shouted their requests. ~ ~ ~ Julian watched Daisy’s face for some sign of mortification. None. She was extremely competent on the keyboard, hardly glancing at it as she moved from one key to another, one vulgar song to the next. The instrument was out of tune, but that didn’t seem to matter. She smirked and winked at the men, jested at their requests, glowered at Mr. Bennett, and avoided Julian’s eyes entirely. Did that mean she was embarrassed by his presence? Perhaps. Or perhaps because he was so strongly attracted to her, he was seeking redeeming qualities where there were none. In any event, it was his mission to fit in, so he clapped and cheered with the rest, even joining in when he knew the lyrics. At last, when they were all uproariously drunk on songs and ale, she played “Hush-a-Bye Baby.” They all laughed. Evidently a lullaby meant she was done. She ignored the few desultory pleas for more, curtsied lavishly, and was gone. ~ ~ ~ Daisy grabbed her notebook, pen, and ink from the kitchen, snatched a slice of newly baked bread, and went upstairs without a word to Sally or anyone else.

There. She’d degraded herself once again. It felt horrid, but it was a relief all the same. Since she could never prove herself to be good and worthy, she made a point of showing her worst possible side. She’d done a bang-up job of it tonight.

Sir Julian’s gaze had burned into her the entire time. Was he likely to make an attempt to enter her bedchamber? She didn’t think so. He’d seemed appalled, but then again, men were strange creatures. She locked her door, then verified that her gun was loaded and set it beside her on the desk.

One benefit of being bad: it gave her good ideas for her naughty heroines. Sir Julian was perfect inspiration for the next hero. She would reproduce the very scene below—the bawdy songs, the brooding blue eyes . . . except that the hero would treat the heroine with admiration and respect. Together, they would defeat the villain, fall in love, and live happily ever after.

Daisy dipped her pen in the ink and began to write.