Erinn Ellender Quinn

Redhead Warrior


Erinn Ellender Quinn is a poet, a mystic, a dreamer, and a believer in love at first sight and happy endings.  She loves history, genealogy, myth and legend, and has been known to slip into silver buckled shoes and trod the boards at period dances.  First-hand experience helps her to bring the past to life when writing her sultry historical romances.

Erinn is published in other genres under different names.  Ride the Wind was her debut romance novel.


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Still Life With Scandinavian Sword On A Fur

TOUCH THE WIND (Touch the Wind Book 1)

Touch the Wind by Erinn Ellender Quinn is a swashbuckling historical set in 1727 Caribbean. Justin Vallé is a wanted man who demands the truth, and Christiana Delacorte has lived most of her life in deceit. But her father’s former friend is her best hope to save him. His price?  Her willing presence in his bed. Forbidden desires. Deadly secrets. A race against time, and a journey into dangerous waters. What happens if the man they hope to rescue is being used as bait?

#historicalromance #intrigue #swashbucklingpirates #oldermanyoungerwoman #decidedlydecadent

An Excerpt:

Christiana woke at the sound of hinges in need of oil.  Fixing her gaze on the doorway, she propped herself on one elbow and drew the covers to her chin as a man’s shape crossed the threshold.


 “Oui.”  Closing the door, he teased her.  “You were expecting someone else, ma belle?”

Glad to hear the humor in his voice, she lay back down, wondering what he’d think when he came to bed and found her naked.  Two chaste nights of lying clothed in his arms were too many for her, and her whole body quickened with thoughts of what tonight held in store.

Vallé pulled off his justacorps, shrugged out of his weskit, and placed both of them neatly aside.  He seemed to have some trouble opening his snug-fitting breeches, but once the buttons were freed, his full-sleeved chemise d’homme, gleaming white in the precious moonlight, followed.  He sat on a chair to remove his boots, then untied his garters and rolled down his stockings.  When he peeled down his breeches, a flash of white buttocks contrasted erotically with the sun-browned skin above his waist.

He dragged the black ribbon from his hair, freeing it to fall past his shoulders.  Christiana curled her fingers into the sheet, wanting nothing more than to run them through the white-gold strands, to trace his ear and fondle the single golden hoop he wore, and taste the moan that simple action would elicit.  As it was, she waited, breathless and beguiled, thinking of the pleasure he’d brought her before and wanting it again.

 Needing it again.

He lifted the corner of the sheet.  The mattress dipped, and he slid into place beside her, not bothering to cover himself.

The sheets would be kicked down soon enough.

 “Bonsoir,” he murmured, turning on his side.  Leaning over her, he cupped her face and pressed a kiss upon her lips, then slid his hand downward in a voyage of rediscovery, tracing her neck, her shoulder, the length of her arm, before finding her naked hip.

 “Bon Dieu,” he breathed, leaving his hand in place even as he pulled back.  Blue eyes glittering in the precious light, he watched her while he kneaded her flesh, rubbing her hipbone with his thumb.  He splayed his hand and slid his callused fingers on the smoothness of her belly, drawing erotic patterns that made her flex, restive, beneath him.

Christiana wove her fingers into the thickness of his hair, dragging it back from his face and urging his head down, meeting his parted lips with her own and welcoming the tongue he thrust into her mouth.  As his respiration grew harsh and uneven, the language of his body grew more eloquent.  His knowing hand brushed her most intimate curls, caressed the swollen folds, then slid between them.  A single insistent finger penetrated the tightness of her sheath while his thumb found her aching center of sensation, stroking it with a scorching intimacy that made her twist and pant beneath him.

She was shameless, she knew, but nothing mattered beyond this moment, beyond this bed.  There was only Vallé, and her love for him, and the pleasure she knew that they could bring each other.

He pressed a line of kisses down her throat, nipping it lightly, tasting the slim column before moving lower.  His hair teased her nipple, then his tongue; his hot, wet mouth fastened on the crest and suckled while his fingers quickened their cadence below.  She arched her back and cupped his head, pressing his face into her breast, wanting more, seeking to ease the building ache.  He dragged his teeth across the tip, flicked it with his tongue, then drew it deep into his mouth while he fit a second finger into her.

She gasped at the sensation, pushed her hips off the bed, and rose to meet the next thrust of his hand.  Lifting his head, he smiled in the dark before bending over her.  He nuzzled her breasts, her chest, her belly.  Inhaling sharply, he pressed a kiss on the soft, dark curls and opened his mouth to taste her.

His groan vibrated her tenderest flesh.  Holding her hips still with his hands, he eased himself between thighs that she spread for him.  He thrust out his tongue, a quick dart, then a slow, deep slide to her molten core.  The sensation was hot, wet, wicked, unbearable.  A whimper escaped her, trapped too long in her throat.  She plunged her hands into his gilded hair, intending to pull him away, but he opened his mouth and teased her pearl with his tongue at the same time he pushed his fingers into her.  She found herself clasping his head instead, holding onto him like a lifeline when the sensual tide he educed threatened to drown her.

He tasted her, tongue circling, thrusting deep.  He teased that secret, most sensitive bud and made her writhe with devouring kisses.  His breaths were harsh against her skin, dragon fire searing flesh that wept for want of him.  “Please.  Oh, please,” she begged, unaware of what she asked for but trusting him to know.

He closed his mouth over her again, tasting her thoroughly while she undulated beneath him and groaning in response when she whimpered, relishing the sound of her arousal.  His hand moved: quick, elegant twists that spiraled into her center until she hovered, trembling, on the brink.  Sensing it, he lifted his head and whispered against the most intimate part of her, one callused thumb cherishing its sweetest spot.

“Come, Christiana.  Give this to me….”

He pressed a kiss against each slender thigh, then dipped his head and buried his face against her, nuzzling her belly, rubbing his beard-shadowed chin against her cleft.  Sliding down, he closed his mouth unerringly over her, binding her to him with searing suction.  Instantly she stiffened as she felt the tide break free, washing over her, over him, a second time, and a third.

 “Oui,” he murmured against her, thrusting his tongue inside to taste her passion.  “That’s it, ma belle.”

When she peaked again, she seemed to go outside of herself, only to return to awareness feeling dazed, wrung out, so very, very tired.  She felt Vallé slide up, up, until the sweat-dampened curls on his chest teased her swollen breasts and the hot, hard tip of his manhood pushed slightly inside the wet, warm folds, stretching her open.  His breath was labored, and when he bent his head to kiss her, she tasted herself on his lips, moist and musky, slightly salty, unbelievably erotic.

She smiled at the wonder of it all.  Scooping out the hollow of his back with her palms, she slid her hands down to cup his derriere, nipped his ear, and whispered, “Come, Vallé.  Give this to me….”

Vallé pushed himself deeper into her tightness, eliciting a gasp as she stretched to accommodate him.  He paused, holding himself suspended above her, taking care not to hurt her while he eased his way inside.  His consideration touched her, but once he’d seated himself, she didn’t want gentleness.  She wanted his passion, full-blown and magnificent, and made no secret of it.

“Take me,” she whispered, fondling his earring while she teased his other ear with lips and teeth and tongue.  “Take me.  Have me.  I won’t break.”

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Still Life With Scandinavian Sword On A Fur

RIDE THE WIND (Touch the Wind Book 2)

An Excerpt:

Ian frowned to think that she was still reading his mind.  Jaysus, Joseph and Mary, would he never have any privacy with her? he wondered.  The idea was damned disconcerting.

“I expect we’ll be able tae move ye tae the big house in a day or two,” she promised, scooting off the counterpane and letting the insect netting close behind her.  “It’s just tha’ here, ye’re closer at hand.”

“Wouldn’t want to inconvenience you,” he mumbled.  He knew it was rather childlike but he was unable to help it.  Months of torture and a botched prison escape had a way of making a man not quite himself, but he couldn’t tell her that, any more than he could tell her his real name, not until it was cleared.

“Please, call me Beth,” she offered, tossing another bone.  “And ‘tis a matter of degrees,” she said.  “Ye’re gang tae be a bother, regardless.  I thought tae make it easy on me mam.  She’s no’ getting any younger, ye ken.”

Thrilled to realize that his fevered brain could actually follow her reasoning despite the brogue, Ian waved his hand, bestowing absolution.  The Widow Gordon was, what, in her mid-fifties?  Staid, steady, and still able to tend the plantation’s medicinal herb garden when she wasn’t busy birthing babies or ministering to the sick.  She had a passion for fishing and he wondered if she used the quiet time it afforded to pray the rosary for her heathen daughter or her late husband, whom he’d brought over to manage his stables.  All three had been indentured for seven years.  Fever had carried off the one, but the two females were left, his fisher midwife and his busy, busy beekeeper, together with a small village of other indentures who tilled the soil and reaped the harvest and mucked stalls and sheared sheep and spun and wove, while a pair of hired brothers bred his horses, whose lines had been vastly improved by the blood of Spanish Barbs and Narragansett Pacers.

Even before the late Philip Rhys Davies had raced off on and toppled with the promising Zeus, the prize of The Oaks plantation was a stallion named Zephyr, fifteen-and-a-half hands high and black as midnight, save for a brilliant white blaze that flashed like lightning on the track.  Zephyr was a racer that sired other racers, but the pretty pacers he had thus fathered would be in demand with the fox hunting and pleasure riding denizens of the surrounding counties, once word spread.  Right now his men were working to recover from the loss of Zeus, and Philip.  They managed the breeding, kept Zephyr busy mounting brood mares, and cared for those expecting the next go-round.  They evaluated the one-year-olds and trained the two- and three-year-olds deemed worth the investment, breaking and selling the rest as opportunities arose.

One of the hired brothers, the farrier Thomas, had let it slip that Elsbeth—Beth—Gordon had the real talent for culling goats from sheep.

Beth Gordon, who slept with foxes and talked to bees and communed with horses.  Who worked magick at midnight and refused to let him die whilst she was doing it.  Who’d fought with him and for him and climbed into bed with him when the only way to keep him here was the promise of soft pink lips and delicious pomegranate breasts and those pretty, pretty feet.  Whose naked body could have been his for the taking, except…except…

Dear God.

Nothing.  Nothing.  Jaysus, don’t tell me it’s come to this.

 In prison, he’d had time for reflection between the day’s beatings and the night’s violations, and during one of his bargaining sessions with God, should He deem him worth saving, Ian had offered to leave his sailing and smuggling days behind him and retire to The Oaks as just another gentleman farmer, above reproach of the law.  His daughter’s marriage had started him thinking, had turned his thoughts to the future and whether it might hold someone to share it with.

Good luck with that, when Beth Gordon in her birthday suit couldn’t get a rise out of him.

Maybe it was the laudanum.

God, let it be the laudanum.

 Moon—rose over the wooded hills and called to her pagan blood?

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Still Life With Scandinavian Sword On A Fur

REAP THE WIND (Touch the Wind Book 3)

Kidnapped, rescued, framed for murder, Michal Bethany Lovett is torn from her old life and must now make another. When an Irish sea captain and the son of a Spanish spy both offer her a future, she must choose between a gentle giant and a man who sleeps with a dagger beneath his pillow and a loaded pistol by his bed. But only one of them has the magic of Spain in his blood….

An Excerpt:

He was there.  Somehow she had wanted the Spaniard to come.  She burned for him.  There was no hope for her.  She very much feared that she was already lost.

“Tears?”  He was so attuned to her, he knew she was crying before she realized it herself.

“It hurts,” she admitted, gripping the railing.

“I know,” he said, maintaining distance, making no move to touch her.

“Is there nothing to be done?” she asked, embarrassed by the torment in her voice, wishing she did not sound so desperate, wondering what he must think of her.  “I fear I do not have your strength.”

It was late enough, the rest of the ship was asleep, save for those on the far watch, or below in the wheelhouse.  The Spaniard came to stand behind her.  His breath was hot on the back of her neck.  Dressed in breeches as she was, when he pressed closer, she could feel his arousal, proof that he was not unaffected.

The gentle breeze did nothing to cool the fever in her blood.

“When I was in India,” she whispered, aware of the need for quiet, “my brother got hold of a book, and a girl who could tell me what it said.  There were pictures,” she said, “of men, with women.  They practiced different forms of touching, different paths to pleasure.  There are ways to satisfy…without—without…penetration….”  Oh, if he only knew how hard that was, for a vicar’s daughter to speak it!  “There are other ways, if you think it important that I be a maiden still….”

 “Niña dulce.  Sweet girl,” he said, and taught her but one of them.

He kept his back to the ship, shielding her with his body as he pulled her to him, keeping the sides of their hips against the rail.  Reaching around, he undid the buttons of her jacket and pulled her shirt free of her breeches.  He slid his hands up her body, under her shirt, and claimed her aching breasts.  He whispered for her to unfasten the top two buttons of her breeches, and he slid his fingers down her belly and through her nether curls until he found the hot, moist core of her that lay beyond.  There was a place that crowned it like a jewel, and he cherished it.

Michal turned her head, as hungry for his kiss as she was for the touch of his magician’s hand, but he denied her the taste of him.  Instead he tasted her, the lobe of her ear, the side of her neck, and the base of it.  When he found the spot at the top of her back that made her shiver, he bit it.  Not hard, just the scoring of his teeth. the suction of his mouth, and the pressure of his tongue upon her skin.  The pressure built, and a new tension took hold.  If not for the railing, she feared her trembling legs would not have supported her.

He knew what to do, and she let him.

She bit his finger to keep from crying out when she shattered in his arms.

He was not through, cruel fiend, and broke her twice more before he unfastened the buttons on his breeches, took her hand, and wrapped her fingers around his manhood.  It was long and hard, erotic and exotic, an experience to add spice to her life, to be savored and relived in her memory once he was gone.  The contrast was intriguing: a sheath of supple skin over a pillar of hard, male flesh that more than filled her hand.

She tried not to think of how it might fit, or how it would feel inside her.

Rafe thrust his hips, pushing into her small hand, guiding it with his own and pumping until their fingers found the rhythm that he needed to achieve his own release.  His breath grew harsher.  His rhythm quickened, then broke.  Inhaling sharply, he pulled her hand away but kept stroking himself, pivoting just in time to spill his seed over the side.

Keeping his back to the rest of the ship, he turned her to face him, tucking in her shirt, fastening her borrowed breeches, buttoning the jacket that hid the twin jewels of her breasts.  He had a harder time—his body yearned for her still—but he finally managed the buttons on his breeches.

He smoothed the hair from her heart-shaped face and brushed her lips with his, a silent benediction, marveling that the vicar’s daughter was her own book of revelations.

“I’m sorry if I hurt you.”  Michal lifted his hand and kissed the finger she’d bitten.  “I didn’t realize what would happen when you—when I…when I…came apart.”

“The little death.  La petite mort, the French call it.  Some women know nothing of it, their entire lives.”

And she’d died thrice.  How extraordinary.

Society might dictate that she should be ashamed, but in this moment, she felt deliciously relieved, and oddly grateful.  Lifting her face, she met his enigmatic gaze and simply said, “Thank you.”

Those carved lips curved in a tender smile.  His voice was like black velvet.  “Gracias y de nada.”

She repeated it, and he rewarded her efforts with a true kiss.

Framing her face with his hands, he brushed his lips across hers, then claimed her mouth with his own.  It was exquisite, like making love with mouths and lips and tongue.  He was a magician, stealing her breath so easily, she marveled at it, until something broke the spell he wove.

She felt him change, and knew the moment his awareness went beyond her, and years of training brought his survival instincts to immediate attention.  She had no doubt, when real danger presented itself, they would both emerge unscathed.

Then another shift, and her heart sank to hear the sound of retreating footsteps, knowing only one man aboard with a giant’s stride.  O’Dea.  And she had hurt him.

“I will speak to him,” the Spaniard offered.

“No.  Please.”  Panic flitted across her face.  She wondered how long he’d been there, how much he had seen.

“Just this,” he said.  The last kiss.

She put her fingers to her lips.  They still burned.  And behind them, she still savored the taste of him.

Just the last kiss.  If that was all he’d seen, she supposed she should give thanks.  They might not have dishonored O’Dea in his bed, but she felt incredibly disrespectful at the moment.  And yet, she was not entirely sorry that he’d come.  Finding them above deck, kissing in the shadows, fully clothed…

It could have been much worse.

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Still Life With Scandinavian Sword On A Fur

DARE THE WIND (Touch the Wind Book 4)

An Excerpt:

Tristan peeled off his justacorps, folded it and laid it on his sea chest.  His weskit, boots, and stockings followed.  He was reaching for the buttons on his breeches when he heard the knock on the door.  He pulled it open, expecting to find Caleb.

Instead, it was her.

She was biting her lower lip, as if she had misgivings.  As if she knew it was not wise to bait a bear in his cave but was determined to do it regardless of the consequences.

He said nothing, refusing to make it easy for her.  She was going to have to convince him to let her in or lure him out, and he still didn’t know which it would be.

“May I come in, please?  We need to talk.”

So he’d noticed.  It had just come sooner, rather than later.

He stepped aside.  She came in.  She wore an oriental style wrapper and slippers on her feet, and she’d let down her hair, so that the black curls tumbled past her waist.  Her pale blue eyes were luminous in the moonlight spilling through the windows.  Five days from full, it was enough for her to see the hand he offered.

He led her to the table and sat across from her, trying not to let her feel how she affected him.

He cleared his throat.  “Can I get you anything?” he asked.  “Wine?  Brandy?  Rum?  Whiskey?  Yer brother keeps the ship well-stocked.”

“No,” she said, tearing her gaze away from his tattoos to look at the door.

“It’s not too late,” he said.  “Ye can still leave.  We can talk tomorrow.”

She took a deep breath and squared her soft shoulders.  “No, I’d rather get it over with.”  She looked back at him, then.  “Do you know what I am?” she asked him.

As ucht Dé.  For God’s sake, she was every man’s fantasy come to life and here alone with him.  He was captain of this ship and responsible for everyone aboard, including her and her swordsman brother.

“First and foremost, ye’re Justin Vallé’s sister, and I swore him an oath that I would take care of ye.”

That’s exactly what Jess was counting on.

“I am a muse,” she told him.  “It’s what I do.  I inspire, with my music, with my voice, with my body.  My husband was a poet, did you know that?  He made me look him in the eye while he took my maidenhead.  He committed it to memory and described it in glorious detail in his next book.  He invited the world into our bedroom.  Men and women everywhere wanted a taste of the passion he described.  I was ashamed, and angry.  I grew tired of constantly fending off advances.  I became a recluse for a time.  Bernard lived for his art, and went to salons filled with his adoring fans.  Some were single.  Some were married.  He died in a dual with but one of many cuckolded husbands.”

Jess closed her eyes and took a breath, and let it out softly, slowly, gathering herself.  When she opened her eyes and looked at him, the Irish giant nearly took her breath away.  She’d never felt such motion in his stillness, like a coil wound tight, ready to be unleashed.

What she did next was risky, but she needed to know.  “Tell me of the vicar’s daughter.”

O’Dea rubbed his jaw, as if wondering at the wisdom of answering.  “She married the Spaniard.”

“Tell me about the vicar’s daughter.”

The Captain blew out a harsh laugh and shook his head.  “And what would ye have me say?  That I offered for her, too?  That I made her faint when I kissed her?  That she landed half naked in my arms and for months, all I could see in my dreams were small, coral tipped breasts?”  By the time he finished, he was talking through clenched teeth and was close to tossing her out.

She pretended not to notice.

“Did you cry?” she asked.

He looked at her with some confusion, as if he was uncertain that he’d heard her correctly.  “What?”

She angled her head, studying him.  He did not like being caught off guard.  He did not like being off balance.  She would have to be careful with surprises.

“When you learned that she chose another, did you cry for her?”

“No,” he shifted, uncomfortable in his chair.  “No.  Not that it’s any of your business.”

“But it is,” she insisted.  “Anyone worth having is worth a tear or two.  If you did not cry, she was not meant for you.  She would not have made you happy.  I propose,” she said, “that we help each other.  You need to forget the Spaniard’s wife, and I need to remember what it is like to make love to a man of my choosing.  You promised to take care of me.  My question is, will you, or not?”

“As ucht Dé!  Madame Bougeureau—”

“Jessenia,” she corrected.  “Or Jess.”

He breathed in deeply, as if inhaling her name, fragrant with the scent of jasmine, and shook himself to clear his head.  “Jess,” he grated, “for God’s sake, ye don’t know what ye ask of me.”

“Oh, but I do,” she assured him, meeting his gaze unflinchingly.  “I was thinking of our agreement, what I’d asked you to do, and I had not considered that there might be another option.  Introduce me as yours, and under your protection.  Wheat from the chaff, acceptance and rejection, done in a breath.  No one will question or test it, as they might with only a brother here, one against whom you have already proven yourself.”

Still he resisted.


She leaned on the table and refused to let him look away.  “You said the vicar’s daughter fainted when you kissed her.  That alone should tell you, she wasn’t right for you.  You don’t need a virgin, O’Dea.  You need a woman.  Someone who can inspire you and make certain that you are left satisfied.  If you promise to keep from getting me with child, I promise that you will not be lonely at night.”

She looked at him, while the moonlight bathing her face let him see just how serious she was.  “It will be strictly sex.  I won’t expect more.”

Tristan was tempted to pinch himself.  This beautiful woman was offering him sex with no strings, no entanglements, just night after night of mutual pleasure.  He leaned on the table, took a deep breath, and shook his head in disbelief.  It was a long moment before he said anything.

“So,” he said slowly, struggling to accept it, “when will my sheets smell like jasmine…?”

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