Forbidden

Ranald, a scarred monk in Kelso Abbey, has a fearsome temper. In the abbey, he controls his rage and fights his forbidden desires. After his twin dies, his father obtains a Papal dispensation and demands Ranald marry. The eve before they wed, Catalin seeks to confess her sins to a monk hidden beneath his cowl. He gently stops her. At the altar, she sees Ranald’s tonsure. More

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Published: Sep. 22, 2011
Words: 104,960
Language: English
ISBN: 9781466155343
About Sophia Johnson

What can I tell you that won't bore you to bits like every other profile on here. I'm a woman - you knew that because I write intense,sensual novels where there's a happy ending. I was born and still live in Florida, so I know to be careful of the sun and bite my tongue when I see people trying to burn their skin to a crispy brown.

My husband and I are retired. I didn't start writing until 2000. I do historical romance with history as wall paper - that means I don't bombard you with the politics of the time but do let you know what is the most important thing going on at that time period.

I research to use names and foods, medicines, clothing and language of the time. You'll not picture a dining room table in the middle of a Great Hall when I'm writing, but will get a feel for the way things were done at that time.

The names are the most fun to pick out. Especially for women. They used ungodly ugly names for women then, so I always search for one that will give you the pitcure of the lovely heroine I'm trying to tell you about. Men's names are easier because who wouldn't liked to be called Magnus or somehthing similar? But Magnus wouldn't want to whisper sweet nothings in Wolfleda's ear. *gag* So she became Muriele. Much better isn't it?

Enough about books and a little more about me. My husband and I live with our a long-coat Chihuahua the neighbors call "The Terorist", and a mischievous Papillon call Konner.

I write every day in my home office, in case the tax man asks you, and my husband plays golf three days a week and works in the yard the rest. Oh. And he cooks dinner every night.

Now, what could get more romantic than that?

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