Carmen Caine

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~ This week is Carmen Caine, and I am so glad she was able to do this interview with me.

Me: Tell us about yourself

Carmen: I am and always have been a dreamer. :)  I started writing when I was about 5 years old by entering a contest at the local library. I remember seeing the poster and wanting to win. It took me a good week to come up with my story: "I like the rain, I like the trees, I like the birds and I like the bees" ... Not exactly breaking new ground there, but I think they gave me second prize because I did it all myself, complete with illustrations. :)  I've been writing ever since.  Not sure why I spend my entire life on this planet pretending I'm someone else in a different place or century, but that's me in a nutshell. :) 

Me: Tell us about your new book?

Carmen: I just finished "The Egg". It was my last book in the Glass Wall series. I wrote this series because it took me almost 45 years to figure out a few things, and I just had to write a story about someone discovering the same set of things in life, about what love really is, and how there really isn't a limit to it. When you love more than one person in your life ( brother, child, grandparent, friend, spouse or whatever ) they don't end up getting smaller and smaller pieces. The opposite happens - everything just grows. Love is the only thing I've come across like that...except maybe the common cold. :) 

Me: When you write, does your real life spill over into your book at any time?

Carmen: Errr... unfortunately, I can't really hide anything. I really don't like people who know me very well to read ANY of my stories... because they see that I've actually shown so much of myself in each book that I write. People, places, observations... people would be surprised just how much truth there is in the Glass Wall ... I really didn't make very much up. :) And I know that sounds crazy... 

Me:  Do you think about a book of yours, being made into a movie, or not when writing?

Carmen:  Well... it plays as a movie in my head. I'm actually just taking notes of what I see. :) 

Me:  When naming your characters, do you give any thought to the actual meaning?

Carmen:  Each of my characters mean something to me, so their names are really important. They usually begin with the same letter as the muse they are based upon. :) 

Me:  What made you want to write and also what made you want to write the genre you are writing?

Carmen:  I was born writing, so I think it is just genetic. As for the genres I write, I've always felt like I'm from a different time. I love the middle ages, so I'll always write medieval books because it is just where I feel I belong. However, I love writing contemporary fantasy, too, because there are so many cool modern words I can't use in my medieval books that I'm just itching to put into sentences because they are so image-evoking.  Like writing about someone's van looking "like she half-expected Scooby Doo to pop out at any second" ... I can't really see how I could get away with sticking that in one of my Scottish highlander books. :) I love words. Sometimes, I'll make up a whole scene just to use the word. 

Me:  If you had to choose, which writer would you consider a mentor?

Carmen:  JRR Tolkein.  While I write Medieval Romances and Contemporary Fantasy, I have this Epic Fantasy book I have been working on for 30 years. I'm almost feeling skilled enough to attempt writing it now. Maybe in a few more books. I have this world in my head that I really want to get out exactly like I see it. So, I'm practicing my craft. :) 

Me:   Do you have any tips for our readers that might dream of writing?

Carmen: The best advice someone gave me was:  Write like you talk and delete every extra word you can.  I still follow those rules. :) 

Me:  Tell us anything you want?

Carmen: I'm an animal lover. I have two children, and one is heading off to college next month, so I've been adding more and more animals in my life the closer the kids get to leaving the nest. :)  I'm up to 12 chickens, 3 goats, 1 llama, 3 cats, and one Doberman. They all have special places in my heart and they're all so very unique. My goats know how to pick the gate locks with their lips so they can go eat the chicken feed. One of my cats has a wicked sense of humor in that when he sees you walk through the house at night in the dark, he'll drop on your shoulders from above and dash away as you scream--I know he thinks its funny. My Dobie "Ajax" (who has the exact same personality as he does in the Glass Wall) opens the doors (pushing AND pulling) so there isn't a room he can't get into. He's the brightest animal I've ever encountered. So as you can see, I didn't really make much up in the Glass Wall ... I just used the people and situations around me. :)

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The Kindling Heart

Preface

Thurston Hall, England

Latter part of the 15th century

“Harlot! Whore!” Wat whistled through his teeth as he unbuckled his belt.

Sinking to her knees, Bree mentally retraced her steps. In the cold before dawn, she had drawn the water and made the porridge before joining the other peasants in the fields to pull onions. These were hardly the pastimes of a whore. She was cold, exhausted and hungry.

“I’ll not have a whore live under my roof!” Wat shouted.

She would never understand why her mother stayed with such a despicable man. Strings of greasy, grey hair plastered his balding scalp; years of grime and other things lived under his blackened nails. He had not bathed since spring. He reeked.

Wat studied her for the slightest hint of rebellion. His fingers twitched in anticipation.

Bowing her head, Bree forced herself to grovel even as she imagined herself screaming defiantly in his face. The man thrived on ale and anger, one feeding the other in an endless cycle of rage and cruelty. She doubted she would escape unscathed, but it was worth a try. She forced her eyes meekly to the floor, outwardly subservient, and waited for an explanation of what was amiss.

“Jenet!” Wat shouted, his beady eyes glinting in pleasure. “Come see what your whore of a daughter is wearing!”

It was the first hint.

A cursory inspection of her shoes, dress and hair revealed nothing. She frowned, slightly perplexed. Last week, her rotting skirt had torn on the brambles, but Wat saw a wicked desire to expose flesh. A month ago, a brown curl escaped its binding as Lord Huntley wandered the fields. It mattered naught that the man was ancient, half-blind and as simple-minded as a child. She was guilty of the worst sin: a brazen seduction of the castle lord. She had paid dearly for both incidents.

Wat gleefully popped his knuckles and smiled. It was a cruel, malicious smile.

“Yes, Wat?” Jenet’s tired voice filtered through the cottage doorway. She paused on the threshold. Though her face still held traces of beauty, years of oppression had taken their toll. Her hazel eyes were as lifeless as the limp hair on her shoulders.

“Look at your daughter!” Wat ordered, spittle flecking his beard. “This time, she has gone too far!”

Bree held her breath and lowered her eyes, lest they betray their emotion as her mother subjected her to a nervous inspection.

The silence lengthened.

Finally, Jenet hesitantly cleared her throat.

Wat exploded, “Can you not see? Only a harlot would adorn her hair to catch a man’s eye! She is a whore!”

Belatedly, Bree recalled the small bit of dried lavender tucked behind her ear. She loved the scent; it always reminded her of spring. She clenched her jaw, furious at herself. Why, oh why, had she not remembered to remove it? Why had she succumbed to the silly impulse in the first place? She could not afford such errors.

“Be rid of it, Bree,” Jenet said flatly, devoid of sympathy.

Obediently, she raised a hand to remove the offending sprig only to have it slapped away.

“That is not enough!” Wat roared. He clenched his belt, a sneer settling on his lips, “Why would you flaunt yourself so boldly? Why?”

Struggling to remain silent, Bree bit her tongue. Hard. She winced as the salty taste of blood spread in her mouth. Soon, her back would be bleeding as well. A cold anger gripped her heart and her jaw clenched. It was a minute gesture.

It was enough for Wat.

He gloated in satisfaction as Jenet shuffled heavily from the room. She never intervened. She simply left. Bree could never decide if it was to defuse the situation or her mother truly did not care.

Wat began to hum as the belt arced in the air.

Chapter 01: The Trap

“A man has the right to discipline his own wife,” Tormod MacLeod, Laird of Dunvegan bellowed to the gathered clansmen, “his God-given right!”

The subdued murmurs of assent following this statement transformed quickly into coughs as Ruan MacLeod strode into the castle’s main hall with a handful of men at his heel.

Tormod stood at the high table, chin raised, observing his younger half-brother moving purposefully in his direction from under partially closed lids.

The brothers shared nothing, save the unusual height of their sire. Ruan favored his mother, the daughter of a lesser Spanish noble. His dark hair was thick, shoulder length, bound by a strip of leather and his eyes darker still, alive with passion. He was lean, muscular and his movements were swift and virile.

Tormod was quite the opposite, boasting the large belly of a man more interested in his cups than anything else. His blue eyes watered continuously in his flaccid face, framed by thinning brown locks that clung to his scalp in wispy strings.

It was not in physical traits alone that the brothers differed. Their temperaments conflicted as well. Ruan was hot-blooded, obsessive and stubbornly loyal while his brother seemingly existed in a perpetual state of lethargy. Tormod excelled only in revenge and the ability to delay a decision as long as possible, particularly dangerous habits for the Laird of Dunvegan to cultivate.

The clansmen craned forward for a better view of the impending clash, the meal instantly forgotten.

“Wife?” Ruan’s deep, rich voice resounded as he stalked toward his brother’s high table, “She is a bairn and naught even ten!”

Tormod swallowed a little but sneered and said, “She was wed proper! Whether ye like it or no--”

“Proper? A bairn?” Ruan’s lip curled in a scathing smile as he surveyed the men clustered in the hall. “I should have had more than a handful riding with me to rescue a wee lass from the hell heaped upon her innocent head. Those gathered here this night are not worthy to bear the good name of MacLeod!”

Uneasiness descended upon the great chamber as a mixed chorus of “Ayes” greeted this statement, most coming from the men clustered behind Ruan but the loudest from a lithe young man at his side.

“Aye, we should not have been so few!” the youth stepped forward to face Tormod in a fearless anger already terrifying to see. A few years would truly make him a forbidding man.

Ewan, heir to the Earldom of Mull was a tall, strapping lad, fair of face and heart; the eldest son of the MacClean of Duart Castle, an ancient and powerful clan. His startling blonde hair fell loose over his shoulders, and he sported a sprig of heather twisted in his bonnet.

“May those that harmed a wee bairn rot in hell!” Ewan clenched his fist and spat.

Tormod cut him short with a scornful laugh and said, “Beware! Ye aren’t Earl of Mull yet, young cur!”

A murmur of displeasure rippled through the hall at that and Tormod tensed, checking his anger with difficulty. While the Earl of Mull was a man well loved, it appeared Ewan was even more so. Dropping his voice so only Ruan and Ewan could hear he jeered, “I doubt our illustrious Earl will be overly pleased when he discovers what Ruan has ensnared ye in this night.”

“It was my own choice--” Ewan began hotly.

“Aye? It was your own choice to ferret the MacDonald’s bride from his very bedchamber on her wedding night?” the Laird of Dunvegan enquired in a cold, cruel humor. “Your father will not be happy you’ve made Fearghus his enemy once again.”

For a brief instant, doubt clouded the young man’s face. Anger quickly replaced it. “How little ye know my father!” he retorted.

“Be at peace, Ewan,” Ruan said, giving the lad’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. Raising his voice, he added, “Be at peace. You’ve shown more loyalty this night than many a MacLeod!”

Ria Cantrell

YAY, This week is Ria. Look at my interview with her. Boy is she a wonderful person. I cannot believe all these wonderful Authors are letting me interview them. I hope you enjoy this interview as much as I do.

Me: Tell us about yourself

Ria: I grew up on Long Island, New York. I have done many interesting things, including being a professional belly dancer, figure skater, singer and medieval re-enactor. I married the love of my life after accidentally meeting on Facebook as a result of a game. We were both bored and playing a vampire game. (I am not one of these vampire groupies, to say the least but I thought the avatar was sexy). I bit him, and he ended up “killing” me. He then apologized and something about the way he wrote “so sorry”… I knew he was from England. We started writing to each other, then chatting. We would talk for hours and hours. He came to the US for us to meet in person in 2010. We were married in 2012. I know, it sounds like a line from one of my stories. He and I share a love of music. He is a British Rocker, but we pool our talents. We share of love of writing. Presently we live in the sunny “banks” of the Gulf of Mexico in SW Florida.

Me: Tell us about your books?

Ria: My books mostly take place in Medieval Europe. They offer heroes steeped in valor and chivalry and strong heroines that know their own minds and hearts. My series, Celtic Storm, focuses around the Clan MacCollum, Clan Campbell and English Chivalry. Enemy clans war with each other until love breaks the bonds of hatred.  In my latest book, Celtic Spirit, love has to overcome centuries of loss, distrust and animosity when my reluctant hero is given a second chance of redemption after a life of dishonor. Only, the cost of such redemption is centuries spent in a limbo-like isolation until he meets a modern day woman who is descended from his enemy Clan. She is faced with a ghost as a castle-mate and he is faced with his greatest fear; to forsake his past and embrace a future in a world not of his own; with a woman representing his greatest hatred.  All of my books have a sense of paranormal and magic. I rely heavily on dream sequences, where clarity comes while the fog of the mind is lifted during sleep. I base the magic on Christian and Celtic-Pagan beliefs. I think my books are emotionally charged and have many twists to explore.

Me: When naming your characters, do you give any thought to the actual meaning?

Ria: I have to laugh. No. I really don’t. The names come to me and I joke that sometimes I think that maybe the “Ancients” are calling to me from the past to tell their story. They sort of take on a life of their own. Having participated in Medieval Re-enactment, I was able to learn many names that were used during those times. Sometimes I name characters after people I know or names that I have liked. Sometimes I even model characters after people and events I have experienced. And…if said person was not nice to me…I may even kill the character off in the end. (Ahhhh the power of the pen…)

Me: What made you want to write and also what made you want to write the genre you are writing?

Ria: All I can say is that I have loved writing since I was a kid. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t want to write. As long as I can remember, I always had notebooks filled with stories, poems, essays, random thoughts. I craved books even as a small child and when my parents would ask me what I wanted them to bring me, I always said a book. I loved to read and hungered for the written word. I can even remember my mom getting mad at me for reading at the breakfast table and after taking my book away, I tried reading cereal boxes or whatever without her knowing. As for the genre, well, I wrote my first romance for a school project where we had to actually bind the book and type the pages ourselves. I think I was 13 at the time. I don’t think Sister Mary Veronica was too pleased about that story. Then, I started reading romances. When I was about 15, my friends and I would have “juice” parties where we would skim through books just to find the juicy bits.  Through life, I enjoy sensuality and so my books evolved into sensual, romances with paranormal twists. As for the paranormal, well let’s just say I have had a good share of those types of experiences as well, but that is an interview for another day.

Me: Do you think, about a book of yours, being made into a movie, or not when writing?

Ria: I think that there are a lot of books of similar genre out there at this time. While the world is starting to acknowledge period pieces more these days, I think it is difficult to catch the eye of the TV world. However, if any of my books should be made into a movie, I think Celtic Spirit would not disappoint.  Hmmm, I wonder who I would get to play my hunky ghost. Seriously, I think it would be a dream come true if such a thing happened. I am happy, though, just to have people read and enjoy my stories.

Me: Do you have any tips for our readers that might dream of writing?

Ria: The best advice I can give to people who want to write is to write often. Write anything. It doesn’t have to be a Pulitzer prize winning piece. It just has to come from your heart. Write every day if you can. Journal. The more you write, the easier it becomes. Write stories that mean something to you. When you write, just let yourself go. You can be as free as you want. Now, in today’s world, it is easy for a writer to publish his or her works. Try to put forth a good story and make sure your grammar and word usage is up to par. If you aren’t sure, have someone edit your work.  Above all, just write.

Me: Tell us anything you want?

Ria: I think it is a privilege to reach people, be it through my music or my written words. I am honored and humbled by the success and interest that my books have received.  Thank you for taking the time to interview me. I want to thank my readers and supporters for spreading the word about my stories. I hope that I can continue to touch their hearts and offer stories of hope, love, passion, courage, and honor. Most of all, I want to thank my husband Paul, who believes in me and promotes me every chance he gets. His support has made my dream a reality.  Bright Blessings to you all!

Don't forget to like her Facebook Author Page, And you can find ALL her books at Amazon. Links below.

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Her Latest Book

Celtic Spirit (Celtic Storm)

*Prologue I *

1370 – Scotland – the Highlands

Derek Campbell had made his way back to his childhood home. He had been away for the past five years giving his service to whomever would pay him the most coin. His loyalty lay with no man. He was as good as a common whore, selling himself to the highest bidder. He offered himself in service to fight and it never mattered what side he fought for. Sometimes in a matter of weeks he fought within two opposing sides, killing those who had only paid him weeks before to line their ranks. One thing about the clans of the highlands, when they weren’t warring with each other, they were warring with the bloody English. He was never shy of work.

Being a mercenary was easy. He could fight and kill and never have to be accountable for his actions because in war there were no rules. He was a man without honor and so plying his services to whatever cause at the moment suited him just fine.

Long ago, he had given up any shred of honor. He could not remember fighting for a just cause; perhaps he never had. The last time he had been near Castle Campbell brought about bitter memories that pricked at his pride more than he cared to admit.

Looking down at the dirt road that led to Castle Campbell, Derek toyed with making his presence known. Enough time had passed and it was about time he claimed what was rightfully his. He heard it was no longer Campbell domain but instead, usurped and taken by the bloody MacCollums. His stupid sister had gotten herself entangled with the Laird’s son, Ruiri, the dreaded Wolf of the Highlands and the mortal enemy of all things Campbell. As far as he knew, though, she had never made claim of the keep and brushed the dirt from her feet on the last day she had stepped there. It was the day his brother Roderick had been laid to rest. Thinking of that day brought fresh humiliation to the forefront of his mind as if it had happened just yesterday. The MacCollum Laird and his other son had given him a sound beating along with a strict warning that if he were to make himself seen again, they would show him no mercy. They promised to meter out the justice due for his part in the abuse of his half-sister, Gabrielle, and they would let vengeance guide them in the judgment. If he hadn’t been surrounded, he would have taken at least one of them to hell with him, but instead they let him go and he slunk off to lick his wounds and nurse his humiliation till it became a living, breathing thing.

How many times had he imagined turning the tides of that day past in his favor and giving those haughty MacCollums the comeuppance they deserved? He remembered having a brief sense of remorse when his sister cried and railed at him that day in the clearing. He almost felt guilty for the times he had mistreated her along with his brother Rod. He almost felt sad for the part he had played in the accident that led to her mother’s death, but as the days and weeks passed, the humiliation and dishonor bestowed upon him ate up any of those feelings that were best served on weaklings.

Planting himself in a tree, he sat on a branch that kept him shielded to view the comings and goings at Castle Campbell. It certainly looked better than the last time he had seen it. It was being restored and he had heard that the MacCollum whelp had gotten herself an English husband and had taken up residence there when she wasn’t back in bloody England. That information infuriated Derek Campbell to the point of violence. If anything, his stupid sister should have taken up residence there; not another feckin’ MacCollum spawn. Certainly not an English dog!

From his perch, he saw the said dog meandering past the portcullis and moat with two little curs toddling alongside of their father. He was oddly dressed. He wore the plaid of the MacCollum bastards. Derek heard it was told that this one was now fully Clan since the marriage to the MacCollum lass and from what Derek could see from his vantage point, it certainly seemed so.

He observed and plotted…and stewed. How was he going to get back what was rightfully his? Plaid or no, this man was as English as could be. He could pretend he was a Highlander all he wanted, but he had the taint of the Britons about him that no amount of plaid could cover. It was high time to put the keep back into the rightful hands of the Campbell. Only, being a mercenary not only afforded him the freedom of not declaring fealty, so too had none declared fealty to him. He was pretty much alone in his quest to take back what he had lost so long ago.

As his heart churned with blackness and hatred pulsed through him, he hatched a vicious and evil plan. He would have his revenge and he would retrieve what had been rightfully his.

Lost in his musings of vengeance, Derek Campbell was not aware of the shifting of the limb he had positioned himself on to spy without notice. When he heard the cracking beneath his feet, it was too late. The limb failed; hurtling him some 50 spans downward, landing him on the hard ground below. The blackness in his heart now drowned out the light of the day as he felt his bones break as he hit the bottom of his plummet. The pain was intense but brief, as he succumbed to nothingness.

*Prologue II*

The little girl went towards her grandfather, so very happy to see him again. Mama had said Grandpa had gone to heaven, but here he was in her room, just after she had had a bad dream.

“Grandpa, Mommy said you went to heaven.”

The grandfather smiled at his beloved darling girl. She climbed up into his lap and rested her head on his shoulder.

“Grandpa, is heaven beautiful?”

“Oh, very beautiful.”

“Will you be going back?”

“I will be going soon, precious girl, but not just yet.”

“Can’t I go with you?”

The grandfather laughed sadly and said, “No, darling, not yet. You have many things to see, but when your time comes, I will be waiting for you.”

The little girl sighed; she was filled with joy now that her grandfather was with her again. She loved him very much and had been so sad when he had gone away. Mama was sadder than she was and cried all the time, it seemed. She couldn’t wait to tell her mother that Grandpa was back. With her hands around his neck, she felt him rocking her in the big chair like he had done so many times in her young life when the things of night scared her. She could hear him humming that tune he always sang or whistled and she no longer felt afraid. She waited for him to finish the song and then she said, “Grandpa, will you come back to play with me?”

“I will always be with you, honey. You can be sure of it.”

She snuggled into his lap and fell asleep. Everything was going to be alright now. Grandfather had come back from heaven and Mommy wouldn’t have to cry anymore.

In the morning, thinking that her grandfather must have tucked her back into bed, Kiera scrambled from under the covers and ran to tell her mother the good news. Her mother was fixing breakfast in the kitchen and she smiled at her little child.

“Mama, I saw Grandpa. He’s back from heaven.”

A frown twisted her mother’s smile and tears instantly welled in her eyes.

“No, Honey. You must have just dreamed that.”

Shaking her head adamantly, the little girl insisted, “No I didn’t. I had a bad dream and woke up and Grandpa was sitting in the rocking chair in my room. I sat in his lap and he sang me a song. He said he would always be with me and that I would see him today. He said he would come back to play with me. Isn’t that wonderful, Mommy? Now you don’t have to be sad anymore.”

“Kiera, your grandfather died. Honey, he won’t be coming back now.”

“No. I saw him. He rocked me in the chair. He was real. I touched him.”

Krista Callum looked at her husband and he just shrugged. Kiera turned to her father and she said, “I saw him, Dad. I did. He is coming back today. He told me heaven was beautiful and that I can’t go there with him yet, but he said he was coming back to play with me.”

Krista sat her daughter down at the table and gave her some breakfast. She said, “Eat your breakfast, while I talk with Daddy for a minute.”

John Callum followed his wife out of the kitchen and when they thought they were out of hearing distance from their daughter, he said, “You don’t suppose….”

“John, no. It can’t be. I don’t want any…weird aberration harming our child.”

“But what if it isn’t an aberration? What if she can see…well, what if she is gifted that way?”

“No. I don’t want to hear it. Our child has a very vivid imagination; that’s all. Now let’s not talk about it again.”

“Alright. If you wish, but you know she isn’t the only one who has been given that gift.”

“That gift, as you call it, is a curse. She will be targeted and ridiculed for it. We will not harbor this, John. I mean it.”

John sighed. His own mother had been clairvoyant and he had grown up nurtured with a natural knowledge of the spirit realm to some extent. He did not share the gift but his mother had been quite gifted when it came to communicating with those who had gone before. Krista was a logical sort of woman and she did not take much stock in such things. She had discounted it to being a little eccentric but that was all. Now it would seem his little daughter may indeed share the gift of her grandmother.

John’s parents were descended from an old line of Scots. He knew that people who shared that heritage had ties to ancient ways that sometimes many could not fully understand. His father was a direct descendent from a clan that had ties to St. Columba, the Irish saint who had brought ancient immigrants to Scotland so many centuries ago. MacCollum they were called; in honor of their patron saint. He supposed that the name Callum was somehow begotten when people came through Ellis Island, to be forever changed for all posterity. John also knew that his mother never denied her gift and he would have to try to explain things to Kiera so that she would not be afraid of it. Of course, he would have to do that when Krista was not in the room.

Kiera heard her parents talking, but she didn’t know what they meant. She didn’t know what an aberration was, but she was sure it was not her grandfather. For if it was, he would never harm her; of that she was certain. She didn’t understand why her mother would not be happy that Grandfather had come home. Well, she was happy. Her mom must have just been confused. Maybe Grandpa was just waiting to surprise her and then she would not have to cry anymore.

Later that day, Krista watched her daughter playing in the yard. It seemed she was talking to someone. She peered through the window to see who her daughter was playing with as she heard the sweet giggles of her child on the afternoon breeze. She could not see anyone. She did not give it much concern, thinking Kiera was just pretending, but then she saw something that made her heart plummet in her chest. Kiera was walking and looking up adoringly at no one and her little hand was raised as if being clasped in the hand of an adult. Krista blanched as she watched her child having a full conversation with someone she could not see. The pot she had been scrubbing clattered to the floor as fear squeezed her heart.

*****

John Callum let himself into his little daughter’s bedroom to tuck her in and to read her a story. Krista had told him what she had witnessed that afternoon in the yard and she had been absolutely terrified. Her child was speaking to a ghost. She wanted no part of that even if it had been the spirit of her father, but John knew he had to try to explain things to his impressionable young child as best as he could.

After reading her a story, he sat on the edge of her bed and he said, “Kiera, your grandfather loved you very much.”

“And I love him. He is my best friend.”

“Well, honey, you know he would never have left you if he didn’t have to. Remember how sick he was?”

The little girl nodded sadly.

“Well, after he got so sick, he died, honey. Do you understand that? Remember when your pet froggy died and we had to bury him in the yard? Remember how I told you he wasn’t coming back? Well Grandpa isn’t coming back either.”

“But he is back, Daddy. I played with him this afternoon. He pushed me on the swing. We had a long talk. He said he would always be with me, but that I might not always see him.”

“That’s right. You won’t. Kiera, I want to talk to you about this so you won’t be afraid.”

“I would never be afraid of Grandpa, Daddy.”

“Well, what I am trying to tell you is that I think you saw the Spirit of your grandpa today.” John Callum wasn’t even sure his young daughter would understand, but she answered, “You mean like a ghost, daddy?”

“Well, yes, kind of like that.”

“No. Ghosts are scary. Grandpa would never scare me.”

“Well that is because he loved you so. Some people don’t have the talent to see their loved ones again after they die. You seem to be able to. Your grandma, my mom was able to, too.”

“Can you, daddy?”

“No, honey I can’t. I wish I could, because I would love to talk to my mom again.”

“And you can’t because she died, too?”

“That’s right, honey. I just wanted to tell you because I don’t want you to be afraid. These Spirits, well, they are kind of like angels. They won’t hurt you. They will always be around you to protect you, okay?”

“Okay, Dad.” Then a frown turned her pretty lips downward. “Dad,” she said quietly.

“Yes, Kiera.”

“Mom doesn’t want me to talk to Grandpa, does she?”

“No, honey. She doesn’t. It scares your mom a little, so try not to upset her about it, okay?”

“I don’t want to tell a lie, Daddy.”

“I don’t want you to either. Give her time. She misses her dad a lot. I will talk to her more about it. Maybe she won’t always be afraid.”

“Daddy, Grandpa didn’t feel like a ghost. He felt real. I could feel him. I could smell him. He was real, Dad. I know he was.”

“I know he was too.”

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Victoria Zak

~ I got these pictures from Eilean Donan Castle on Facebook, You can also see more pPictures on DRWs Website. They took most of the pictures I post.

Andy Hunter from The UK Kit Car Club posted this shot from their visit over the Easter Weekend.

Mists rolling down the hillside earlier today (June 23 2014 )....

~ I have the pleasure of interviewing Victoria Zak. I am so excited. She was also sweet enough to add a chapter of her book below. And doesn't that cover look so yummy. Yea I know hard to look away and read the interview. But please try to pull eyes away and read what she has to say. lol

Me:  Tell us about yourself

Victoria: I’m a mom, a wife, and a writer of romance. 

Me:  Tell us about your book?

Victoria: Highland Burn is the first book in the Guardians of Scotland series. It’s a Scottish historical paranormal romance. Dragon shifters. HB takes place in the early part of the 14^th century in Scotland where two worlds collide, the human and Dragonkine worlds.

Will Love’s Flame Quench the Dragon’s Fire? …

The past never stays in the past, it rears its ugly head eventually. James the Black Douglas knows this all too well. With a past that has left him vengeful and his dragon blood thirsty, his reputation as a ruthless warrior haunts his enemies in their sleep. As his allegiance stands with Robert Bruce, the King of Scotland, he must now repay a debt to the king and agrees to marry his daughter, Abigale Bruce. The problem is he doesn’t want a wife. When flames start to burn out of control between him and the auburn-haired lass, he must decide to either kindle the flames of passion or shelter her from the truth and set her free.

It’s What Shines in the Dark That Brings Forth Your True Light…

Determined to keep his daughter safe and out of the hands of the English, Robert hides Abigale behind the safe walls of a nunnery. After eight long years of living her life in seclusion, Abigale is finally set free. But her new found freedom comes to an abrupt halt when she learns of her betrothal to the infamous Bogeyman – James The Black Douglas. She soon finds herself falling in love with the uncontainable and haunted man. Is her love enough to soften his hardened heart?

Me:  When naming your characters, do you give any thought to the actual meaning?

Victoria: Yes, I do. I base my characters around their names. I really enjoy researching names and the meanings behind the name. It definitely helps me mold my characters.

Me:  What made you want to write and also what made you want to write the genre you are writing?

Victoria: I’ve always had a wild imagination but never had the confidence to actually write the stories down. With the encouragement of a fellow author and friend, I decided to write my stories down.

When I started plotting out my book, I knew that I wanted to write in the romance and paranormal genes. It was a total shock to me when the voices and setting started to become clear to me that my story was going to take place in Scotland. Medieval Scotland to be exact. So with lots of research I came up with Highland Burn.   

Me:   Do you think about a book of your being made into a movie, or do you not think about that when writing? 

Victoria: Well, when I write I can see the scenes unfolding like a movie in my head. I do have a few actors in mind that I picture when writing. Jason Momoa is James Douglas in my mind’s eye and I see Rachel Adams as Abigale Bruce. 

Me:  Do you have any tips for our readers that might dream of writing?

Victoria: Read, read and read some more. And don’t be scared to follow your dreams. 

Me:  Tell us anything you want?

Victoria: Right now I’m getting ready to release Highland Burn on July22 and working on Highland Storm book two of the Guardians of Scotland series. 

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Highland Burn Ch1

The Loch

Late summer of 1314. Medieval Scotland

“Fergus, the water is verra refreshing. Why don’t ye join me?”

The white stallion inhaled deeply then snorted, as he ate from a patch of lush green grass.

“Well, ye dinnae have to be rude about it.” 

Long white hair with streaks of gray fell over his muscled neck as the fine steed shook his head and stomped his hoof. He pulled on a blade of grass, indicating that he was perfectly content grazing near the loch’s edge.

A slight giggle escaped her mouth as she splashed at her horse. 

Abigale Bruce had ridden hard and fast through the glen most of the morn. Since her father’s recent successful victory over the English at the battle of Bannockburn, Abigale had been freed from the nunnery. Her excitement of finally being able to explore her new-found freedom was too much to hold back as she charged through the forest. Now she rewarded Fergus with a patch of grass while she cooled off in the loch. Oh how she cherished these moments; they were few and far between.

Eight long years at Dunfermline Abbey wasn’t the ideal place to grow up, but she had no choice in the matter. Her father, Robert the Bruce, King of Scotland, had placed her there in order to keep her safe from his enemy, the English. Throughout her time at the Abbey, King Edward, the King of England, had gotten close to capturing her a few times, but the small secretive community of nuns had held true to their oath and kept her hidden well.

Unhappy about the newly crowned King of Scotland, the English had captured Abigale’s step-mother, half-sister, and her two aunts, and had also beheaded three of her uncles. Humiliated, held prisoner behind iron bars of a bird cage, and hung from the Tower of London had been the women’s fate. Even though her freedom was taken away, Abigale knew it was nothing compared to what they had gone through. 

Abigale’s trouble had started as soon as she walked through the gates of the abbey. Robert Bruce had given Dunfermline Abbey a generous contribution to repair part of the church that had been attacked by King Edward. In return he requested that Abbot Benard take his daughter in and protect her. With such a gracious amount of coin given, the Abbot could not refuse. Therefore Abigale, at the wee age of ten, had been left at the abbey and placed in the cruel hands of Abbess Margaret.

Since Abbess Margaret was in charge of twelve nuns, she declared she had not the time to look after the wee brat, so she left Sister Kate in charge of Abigale. Abbess Margaret was a beautiful middle-aged woman with short, raven hair, and the ability to inflict the cruelest of punishments, always watching and waiting for Abigale to slip up so she could take pleasure in punishing her. Abigale knew why the woman hated her; she was jealous and thought it unfair that she had special treatment just because she was the king’s daughter. Abigale did have a few exceptions to the rules. Because of her lack of interest in taking the vow become a nun, she didn’t have to cut her hair like the other sisters. Furthermore, she could marry, and own property. Although there was one rule that had to be followed; she had to be obedient. And Abbess Margaret took great pride in punishing a disobedient Abigale. Sending Abigale on a daily pee pot cleaning always seemed to make the corners of her thin lips twitch. “Ye’re no princess, a bastart child who her own father has abandoned.”

After a few missed visits from her father and daily tongue lashings from Abbess Margaret, Abigale started to feel pushed aside and abandoned, yet her spirit held firm. 

Sister Kate had kept a watchful eye on Abigale, keeping her work-load full so she would stay out of trouble, but trouble seemed to follow her wherever she went as if she was born into it. Abbey life wasn’t the life for her. She grew to hate the prayer bells, for they rang eight times during the day starting at the wee hours of night. The blasted bell would ring either when she was sound asleep or assisting a monk in surgery. More times than not she was late and being tardy was frowned upon. The consequences were harsh, in fact they were harsher than falling asleep during worship. Abigale knew this all too well; she had fallen asleep in a choir stall one night. Sister Kate had been the circator that night, pacing up and down the aisle as she shined her bright cresset lamp into the stalls checking if anyone had fallen asleep. A sharp point with a stick to her rib cage had woken Abigale up quickly. Of course she got a rap on the legs for that one. Thank God it was Sister Kate, for she showed her mercy. 

Now that she was home, her father was more than ever adamant about keeping his family safe. He vowed to never allow another Bruce woman to be captured by the filthy Sassenach. Just as Abigale thought she’d regained her freedom, here she was once again with it ripped away from her by an arranged marriage to her father’s first in command. Who better to protect her than the Bogeyman himself?  

Trepidation crept over her back sending a shiver up her spine as she thought about the man her father had arranged for her to marry. “The Black Douglas,” she thought. A man with a reputation that would make the Devil himself shudder with fear. A ruthless warrior who had fought in many battles with her father. The English feared him terribly, making up nursery rhymes warning their wee bairns to “hush before the Black Douglas will get ye”. She’d never met the man before, but the deal was done. Her father had arranged the marriage and Abigale was to abide by his orders. 

Abigale turned to Fergus who was chewing on a blade of grass. “At least ye don’t have to marry the Bogeyman.” She shuddered. Saying it out loud made it all too real. 

For a moment she wondered just what the Black Douglas would look like. Could her father be so cruel as to wed her to an evil, battle-worn old man? Nay, who could possibly be scared of an old man? Then again, a warrior’s reputation lived on even after death. Or mayhap he really was a monster of some sort, a mythical creature of the night that lurked under your bed waiting to nip at your heels. Abigale was letting her imagination get the best of her. Shaking those thoughts from her head she dipped down into the coolness of the loch, washing away every bit of worry. Today was her day and she was going to enjoy the peace that the loch gave her before it was taken away from her.

Coming back up she laid her body out flat to float on top of the water’s surface. Her light linen shift clung to her petite body, long dark auburn hair spread out and floated with the ripples of the water. Closing her eyes, she opened her arms out wide allowing her fears to fall from her body and sink to the bottom of the loch.  

A snapping of twigs alerted Abigale to the fact that she wasn’t alone. Quickly she dipped her body down into the water to hide from what was lurking in the woods. Panic pricked up her spine as she searched the glen’s wooded edge for some kind of movement. Nothing… no movement at all. It must be a small animal frolicking through the thickets. Another snap. This time it sounded too close and too loud to be a small animal.

Abigale turned and faced Fergus.  

Ears pointing in the direction of the snapping sound, Fergus let out a gut deep neigh. 

“Ye heard that too?” she whispered, trying not to draw attention to herself.

Abigale slowly moved toward the water’s edge, not making a sound. The last thing she needed was to be attacked by a wild animal or worst yet… a rogue Highlander.

Dripping wet and cold, Abigale stepped out of the water and headed straight for the huge boulder covered in green moss where her dress and her dirk laid. If instincts had taught her anything, it was to never let your guard down and never leave home without your dirk.

A third snap sounded like it came from behind her and way too close. Taking a steady breath, she grabbed her dirk and spun around to meet her attacker face to face. Lunging the blade forward she pointed it at his throat, the tip inches away from piercing it.

 “Och lass, I will no hurt ye.”  A massive six-foot-four man with vibrant amber eyes stood before her with his hands up in surrender.

Abigale arched a dark brow over deep blue eyes. “How do I know I can trust ye?”

“I have no weapons on me… frisk me if ye dinnae believe me.” With a sly grin he turned around with his arms in the air inviting her eyes to gaze upon every inch of his muscular body. 

Abigale took him up on his offer, for she could not will her eyes off him if she tried. Following his every move, her body became alive. Her hands began to itch as she thought about running them down the corded muscles that lined his abdomen. Hulking arms shimmered in the sunrays as if they had been kissed by the sun and she wondered how his arms would feel wrapped around her body. As he turned around, long black hair hung over his big broad shoulders and stopped at his shoulder blades. His lower back tapered in to a firm backside which was covered in a black and grey plaid. Funny… she had a sudden urge to squeeze his buttocks. God could not have forged a more perfect man, she thought.

Being ten-and-eight, innocent, and sheltered behind the walls of the nunnery, she hadn’t had much of a chance to explore the ways of men. In fact if she wasn’t praying, she was in the infirmary mending men severely wounded from battle, or ill. Sister Kate’s nagging voice reminded her that “Ye only have room for one man in yer heart and He would never steer ye wrong.” Only if Sister Kate could see this man standing before her now, even she would blush. 

“Ye should no be sneaking up on me like that.” Abigale lowered the dirk, but still kept her grip tight.

The alluring man crossed his massive arms in front of his bare chest. “I was taking a rest while out riding when I saw ye over here. Ye know a bonny young lass like yerself should no be oot alone without an escort.”

 “I can take care of myself just fine.”

“Aye, I can see that.” He rubbed his throat.

She stood shivering from the cold or mayhap from the intensity of his gaze; she needed to retrieve her clothes before she caught her death. Then she remembered that she was wearing a thin shift. Surely he could see right through to her naked body? Quickly with her free hand she tried to cover her breasts and still have some dignity. “Would ye kindly turn around now so I can dress?” She motioned with the dirk for him to turn around.

He turned, giving her privacy to dress. “That’s a fine horse ye have there,” he said over his shoulder.

Abigale finished dressing and began to smooth the wrinkles out from her dress with her hands. “That’s Fergus, he’s a gift from my da. A true warhorse.”

Of the few times her father had come to visit her at the abbey, and there were only a few, she remembered the day when he had brought Fergus to her as a gift. A gift perhaps but more like a peace offering for being absent for over a year. Abigale forgave her father, and the white charger quickly became more than a horse, he was a friend.  

“Ye may turn around now.” As Abigale glanced up, her heart skipped a beat as amber eyes pierced her, sending a rush of heat through her body. She licked her lips and struggled to swallow past a dry throat.  How could this man, who she had never met before, make her hunger for something that she had not had yet? Feeling uneasy, she broke their stare and quickly searched for her shoes.

“Are ye a Highlander?” What kind of a question was that? Of course he was a Highlander… that was a plaid he wore. Way to go, Abigale Bruce, he must think I’m a real dunderhead.   

“Why do ye ask?” 

“That is a plaid ye wear? “Abigale leaned against the boulder and bent down to slip her shoes on.”

“Aye.”

“Then ye must be a Highlander.” 

Indeed Highlanders were much different from the English-influenced ways of lowland men like her father. Still both parties had fought for Scotland until the crown and riches were in their grasp. Some would say that greed was the root of all evil. Abigale thought differently. The crown was the root of all evil. Men fought for it, killed for it, and sold their souls for a taste of the crown and the power it held.  The crown grew evil in men and she knew that all too well because it was her father’s own greed for the crown that left her abandoned at the abbey. 

The unsettled nature of Scotland had left Abigale hardened. She’d seen first-hand the aftermath of battles fought; mended wounds, prayed over dead bodies, and even buried the dead. The nunnery where she grew up would set up tents to aid those wounded in battle. Abigale would assist in surgery and her passion grew for healing the sick and mending wounds. Life was to be valued, not destroyed.  

In a way she blamed Lady Scotland for her misfortunes. Her father’s growing need to fight for Scotland had caused her to stay hidden, conceal her true identity, and grow up without a family. Her whole family had been affected by the battles fought for Scotland and the greed of claiming the crown. Though it was true she had long forgiven the Lady; but she could not forget.  

The Highlander seemed far away in thought, because he took a while to answer. “Some would say I’m a Highlander.” He approached Abigale. “May I?” The beautiful stranger reached for a piece of hair that was stuck to her face and tucked it behind her ear. He brushed a callused finger down her cheek to her slender neck leaving a fiery path trailing behind. 

He held her stare and captivated her to the point that she could not form a coherent thought. Her body was no longer hers to control, her heart dropped, and desire pooled in her core setting her body on fire. This Highlander was so close to her she could feel his breath on her skin, she could smell his masculine scent and soon she wanted to taste his lips. 

 

The mysterious man lowered his head, cupped his hand behind her head, and pulled her close to him to claim her lips. Abigale drew in a deep breath in anticipation when suddenly a nudge from behind broke her trance. She turned to find Fergus.

“Fergus!” she scolded. “What’s gotten into ye?” 

Another nudge by a wet grey muzzle almost sent Abigale to the ground until strong arms caught her around the waist. “I got ye lass,” he whispered in her ear.

For some odd reason the deep rich tone of his voice soothed her. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and leaned back against the warmth of his body. Wait… what was she doing? Abigale Bruce, you are to be married.  

Quickly she slipped away from his hold and began to gather up the leather reins. “I should be getting back.” Observing the stallion’s actions, it was clear Fergus did not approve of the stranger. 

Jumping up on the back of Fergus, she turned to face the Highlander. The man rubbed the back of his neck as if he was thanking the white horse for saving his arse from making a huge mistake. 

She dared one last look at him before she rode off into the glen back to the castle where she would prepare for travel to Castle Douglas and marry the Bogeyman. Her eyes roamed his massive body sketching everything about him to memory; his striking amber eyes, strong masculine jaw line, and the way his eyes strayed over her body. She did not want to forget this man. 

If only she did not have to go. Mayhap she could run away with this beautiful man and avoid being married to a monster. Deep down, she was drawn to this mysteriously intriguing, charming and pure male Highlander. He made her think that for once she could be in control of her life and make her own decisions. In a way she envied his freedom. It did not seem fair that she had to marry a man who her father wanted her to marry. Shouldnae one marry for love? But then again, he was a stranger… a mystery. Before she ran away with fantasies she knew better than to think of, she squeezed her legs, sending Fergus into a run. She had to marry the Bogeyman.