This is a tedious, awful book, despite the few sensual scenes (which in themselves are not entirely without titillatory value). A sure way of gaging the tedium quotient of a romantic novel is the frequency with which one starts skipping the main couple's tete-a-tete pages, as this reader had to do on numerous occasions.
That aside, the most objectionable element of the book was the terrible falsification of the past, the thoroughly unbelievable female character(s) and the lack of any truth about women's (especially members of the nobility)social position in the 11th c. Now, one would not normally read historical romance novels for the sake of historical research, nor for gaining some profound insight into what experience must have been like in the remote past(although some romance genre writers do rise way above genre conventions and expectations and brilliantly work historical research into their writing, making their story pulsate with power, pathos and a felt truth. Such writing actively takes up a relation to the past), but I do expect to see some effort put in trying to imagine what would have been like to be a woman in, say, the 11th c., with all the odds stacked against you, all your yearnings not only thwarted but not even acknowledged as yearnings.
How a heroine who comes from such a world struggles against it, what struggles she wins and what struggles she loses in her entanglement with the demands (and frustrations) of love, is what I expect to read. The best in historical romance show us heroes and heroines who radiate out of their own time and face us today. What I don't want is a stick figurine from this century transported onto a sketchy account of 11th c. Scotland. This reader dislikes nothing more than the treatment of the past as a set of props, as an advertising billboard for the self-congratulatory tone of our inarticulate cultures.
'Risking Everything' has a facade of historicity -language, descriptions of weapons, home life, food and clothing- but what would truly elevate these so-called historical elements into interesting fiction is entirely missing. As it is, the above elements remain mere disguises in a bad suburban ballo in maschera, or pathetic heritage industry anachronisms, like those Tower of London actors milling around the tourist throng. The heroine is an irritating cartoonish tomboy, straight out of a Disney computer game, and the hero, with all his stated traumatic experiences and fake angst,remains a blank page with a tumescent 'tarse' (give me Brenda Joyce's tumescent Normans over him, any time).
The story is full of inconsistencies and illogicalities. The pair were supposed to be attracted to each other in their (her) adolescence, and although that attraction is initially stated with pomposity and then restated (when the writer remembers she introduced such an element in her story), it is never once felt in the couple's exchanges -which, in any case, consist mostly in door slamming and infantile tantrums, constant bickering and senseless utterances, and there's so many of them that you are bound to get a headache- nor does it inform the (lack of) development of their passion. The couple's contretemps are endless, tiresome and without any contribution either to plot developments or the mechanics of love.
There are other failings too, such as the hero's stupid conviction that the friends and allies of a life time are the murderers of his first wife! Without any intimation of a potential conflict and a stated big and strong alliance, at a time and place where you needed allies more than oxygen, your best friends suddenly come and murder your wife!!! Nothing is said as to the motivation the hero could have attributed to such an act. There was no land dispute, no forging of different alliances, no vying for power or title that could have lead those friends to up and off the first wife. They had nothing to gain and everything to lose (starting a new bloody conflict while being engaged in so many others). So given this, a writer would have to go to great lengths to explain why the hero thought his friends went suddenly and inexplicably bonkers and killed his wife. And not only that but they left their calling card tartan behind, so he could easily identify them!!! Johnson says nothing about any of this, leaving aside that there was no tartan before the 16th c., and the hero just accepts it at face value without any investigation or reflection on the subject starting a bloody war against his best friends ( who, in vain, protested their innocence). The whole thing stinks of writer manipulation against all the laws of basic logic. The trouble with this kind of thing is that while the writer's life is made very easy, the reader's intelligence is so insulted that she decides never to spend her coin on this kind of tosh again. Once the hero is established, and early on, as the biggest blockhead of the Dark Ages nothing can save him, not his big 'tarse', not his supposed love for the heroine, NOTHING.
There are other titanic logical inconsistencies too. One such is the fact that nothing is made of the stated, early on in the story, adolescent attraction hero and heroine supposedly felt for each other. Given that both families were friends and allies at the time, hence no objection to such a match (on the contrary, you'd expect them to have been betrothed in the cradle), why didn't the hero offer for her? Why did he turn away from the heroine and offered for another woman? We are never told. We have to accept that stuff happens to stuff.
The cartoonish sense of history is so pronounced that I lost all will to live and remember that I ever read such crap. As if having a woman not only train with men in the arts of war, as well as being their trainer, was not ridiculous enough; as if having a woman wearing men's couture in the 11th c was not a silly idea that should have been immediately discarded -it is well known that women were forbidden from putting on male garments (it was considered a sin by the church) and whoever defied the injunction was put to torture and then incarcerated for life (rather than be considered an eccentric and a charming tomboy like the heroine is!!!). As if all of the above was not wall-banging, wall-and-skull-cracking enough, we were also subjected to the spectacle of an 11 c. lady of the nobility getting pregnant by her lover and refusing to marry him, although he was more than willing to marry her! Without roaring with laughter from all that taking the piss, Johnson in all seriousness has her heroine declaring that she prefers to live out of wedlock with the impregnator instead (one does not abandon a formidable tarse, after all). But the tsunami of crap keeps on breaking on the reader's' head, and we are also treated to the spectacle of her entire gang of male relatives applauding her decision, supporting her and telling her things like, 'it's your life and you are free to make your own choices'. They must have read it in in Cosmo. If you can get past phrases like, 'male chauvinistic pig' in A.D. 1069, without reaching for the sick bag then you have much greater immunity to crap than I and you ought to be congratulated.
A good writer of historical romances would always seek imaginative ways to fashion a strong female character OUT OF THE PAST. To give her a world whose symbolic order partly rested on the brutal subjugation of women, and show how such a woman carved a path within that world of terror. A very bad writer (i.e., the majority in the HR genre) would just write a book like Sophia Johnson did, full of projections of excruciating and trite contemporary cliches about relationships, and throw in a backdrop of cheap props just for the sake of shelving this crap under HR. I have only myself to blame for wasting my time on earth in reading books like this, and although I have avoided this writer like the plague ever since, and will continue to do so, the bad odour of this book still lingers.