Title: Defy the Eagle
Author: Lynn Bartlett
ISBN: 978-0263850765
Publisher: Mills & Boon (19 May 2006) – re-issue. (Originally published by Worldwide Library (1986))
It’s not an erotic novel per se, but if you have a bit of a thing for capture/slave fantasies and enjoy historicals, I think it’s highly likely that you’ll enjoy this book.
Defy the Eagle wasn’t the first romance I ever read but it’s most definitely the one that’s stuck in my head over the years and set the standard for all that have followed. Highly implausible plot? Check. Uber Alpha hero bordering on total wanker? Check. Cover art embarrassing enough in execution to make me hide behind a crate of avocados in order to read it (more on that later)? Check.
The official synopsis from the 2006 edition:
62AD
And Britannia is at war…
Queen Boadicea and her fearless Iceni troops face the disciplined Roman Empire and her sworn enemy Emperor Nero in their fight for freedom. The battle begins in the town of Venta Icenorum, where the beautiful and rebellious Jilana waits to be married and fulfil her duties as an honourable Roman wife and daughter.
Everything changes when Jilana meets Caddaric, an Iceni warrior, who takes her as his slave. Separated by their blood allegiances but brought together through their mutual desire, Jilana and Caddaric are unwittingly caught in a battle of their own.
As Boadicea’s army rages through Londinium and finally on towards Rome, politics and passion collide as Jilana and Caddaric race to stay together and survive the ever increasing threat of the Roman army.
My 14-year-old self stumbled across this doorstop of a novel whilst staying with my dad during the summer holidays. He was renting a furnished flat at the time and Defy the Eagle was languishing on a bookshelf, hidden amidst a seemingly endless row of The Reader’s Digest. Unable to stomach the latter (pun intended), I did what any self-respecting adolescent girl would do: I grabbed the book with the cover that featured a red-haired woman in a ‘toga’ – read: pink mini dress that wouldn’t have been out of place in an Ann Summers catalogue – languishing in the arms of a guy whose stomach appeared to be stuffed with paint rollers. (Interestingly, he also seemed to have had a run-in with a vat of St Tropez, although, I’ll hazard that as advanced as the Romans were, they hadn’t discovered the joys of fake tan.) Continue reading →