I am not much of a TV watcher, but I do have streaming video on my iPad, which is great when I’m riding my stationary bike every morning. I’ve caught up on a couple of movies I wanted to see but never got around to seeing, and now I’m watching some television programs I might never have noticed before.

One is Ripper Street. The series is set in London in the late 1880s and filmed in a way that’s reminiscent of the recent Sherlock Holmes movies with Jude Law and Robert Downey, Jr. The stories are brutal, just as you’d expect life in the east end of London, so the series is dark. But it stars Matthew MacFadyen, and who can resist his voice, his diction? And the episodes – even though they are seriously gritty, are compelling. It’s on BBC America, if you can get that channel. 

Of course I’ve been watching Downton Abbey. But I had no idea what the finale was going to bring. I didn’t even notice the foreshadowing that everyone mentioned afterwards. I was disappointed that it ended the way it did, but I’m sure I’ll take my place in front of the TV when Season 4 begins next year.

I am a sucker for post-apocalyptic themes, and I have to admit I watch The Walking Dead. I almost quit after Season 2, because it seemed like nothing was happening, and I got a bit tired of the two lead men posturing with each other so much (who is tougher? who is manlier? who is in charge?) I wanted everybody to just grow up and be an adult. But Season 3 changed all that, much to my satisfaction. I’d like it if they did some “bigger” things – I’d like to know how the whole world is faring during this Zombie apocalypse.

I watched Once Upon a Time for a season or two, but then it started to bore me. Once the spell was broken and everyone knew who was who… well, I just lost interest. And that Mr. Gold character started to grate on my nerves, so I quit watching entirely, and deleted it from my DVR files.

Another really good one is Copper – the story of an Irish immigrant who is a policeman in 1860s New York City – the roughest part of town, of course. And, like Ripper Street, the episodes aren’t easy. The crimes – the victims and perpetrators – are all too real. You can easily imagine how it was back in those days, when law and order meant the law of the streets.

Last, but not least is Grimm. This one grew on me slowly. I thought the first season was a little bit lame, but as they develop the overall story arc, it gets better and better. I’m antsy for the next season to begin.

What shows are on your list of things to watch? I’m going to pick one commenter and send her a copy of my most recent book, The Warrior Laird.

My guest today is author Jennifer Bernard, who writes for Avon and Avon Impulse, and she’s got a sizzling Fireman series going on these days. Here’s the blurb to her latest book…

There’s a hardnosed new training officer in town, and that’s bad news for the Bachelor Firemen of San Gabriel…

 But GREAT news for firefighter Sabina Jones…maybe.

The toughest captain on the East Coast, single father Rick Roman has come thousands of miles to San Gabriel to put an end to the “Bachelor Firemen” media hype. But when a stunning woman he nearly hooked up with in Reno turns out to be a firefighter from his new station, Roman realizes it’s going to be tough keeping the tabloids at bay.

But there’s even more Sabina isn’t telling him. Before dedicating her life to battling blazes, Sabina led a very different life, one that made her famous. The last thing she wants is to have her secret exposed. The papers, bloggers, and TV gossips will have a field day with that—especially when they sense the obvious sexual heat between Sabina and Chief Roman, who’s torn between firing her…and falling in love with her!

Thanks so much to the Jaunties for inviting me to Bring a Friend Friday! My topic today is very close to my heart: Men Who Cook. On our first date, my future-husband cooked for me. He brought over a salmon he had caught that very day and cleaned it in the backyard. Then he covered the filets with a crust of pine nuts, salt and oregano and fried them in olive oil.

Is it any surprise I was a goner?

But if I thought I was in for a lovely life of delicious meals cooked nightly for me by my wonderful new husband, I was a little off. I do most of the
cooking, though he still handles the salmon. I’m not complaining, just explaining why the hero of my latest book, SEX AND THE SINGLE FIREMAN, loves to cook. If I can’t live it, I’ll write about it! Rick Roman is a big, tall, strong, powerful, commanding alpha-type Battalion Chief from Brooklyn, New York, and he knows his way around a veal piccatta. Is it a stretch to think he knows his way around other activities pleasing to the senses? Absolutely not.

Is it a stretch that a fire chief would be an expert cook? Definitely not! Firefighters rotate cooking duties at the firehouse. The meals I’ve eaten at firehouses aren’t always high-end gourmet, but they’re tasty and filling and usually cooked from scratch. When researching this book, I hunted around online and found some fantastic firehouse cookbooks. These guys really know what they’re talking about! They’re used to cooking for big groups and satisfying the appetites of active men and women. And when the cookbook cover looks like this, how can you complain?

http://www.bramptonfirefighter.com/contact.html
Scanning the various cookbooks, firefighters like meat, they like things spicy, they like primal pleasures like Buffalo wings and pecan pie. But that’s not always the case. A firefighter in Austin, Texas put his entire firehouse on a vegan weight-loss, health-improvement plan and wrote a book about it. The Engine 2 diet would please the most demanding health nut.

But my hero, Chief Roman, is no health nut. He’s more of a sensualist — a lover of Greek olives, a seeker of fresh-baked baguettes, a passionate advocate of the arrabbiata sauce. A single father, he does all the cooking for his thirteen-year old son. He eventually wins the heart of Sabina Jones with, among other things, mushrooms sautéed in butter, folded into a perfect omelet, accompanied by Italian roast coffee and actual cream.

In fact – and I just realized this – in each of the books in the Bachelor Fireman of San Gabriel series so far, the hero at some point cooks a meal for
the heroine. So is there a little wish fulfillment going on here? Do I miss the magic of that first date with my husband? Okay, maybe a little, but the truth is, there’s nothing sexier to me than a guy who knows his way around a kitchen. A big, strong guy bending over a sauté pan on a hot stove? A hunky man presenting you with a delicious dish he concocted just for you?

Now that’s hot.

So… does your significant other like to cook? What’s his specialty? Leave me a comment and I’ll enter you to win a copy of HOT FOR FIREMAN (book 2), in which Ryan Blake cooks his special Thai Chicken Curry dish!

And if that’s not enough… How would you like a fireman from your hometown to appear in the next fireman book, HOW TO TAME A WILD FIREMAN? All you have to do is like my Facebook page or sign up for my newsletter to enter.

The best part of being a romance writer is writing heroes who are manly and powerful, but sweet and tender. It’s also the most challenging task. But we romance writers have had great role models. We’ve seen all kinds of wonderful heroes between the pages of our favorite romance novels — from the men whose words make us melt, to the silent types whose actions speak louder than any words they might say.

Do you remember the heroes of Julie Garwood’s early books? How about Lord Royce, Nicolaa’s hero in The Prize. He was a gruff Norman knight but there was a kind and gentle side to him that was irresistible. And the heat they generated between them…  Oh baby.

Then there was Katherine Woodiwiss and all her wonderful heroes: Lord Saxton, who buys Erienne at an outrageous auction in A Rose in Winter, and Ruark Beauchamp, who is saved from a wrongful execution in Shanna. These were unquestionably
drool-worthy heroes. And what about Jude Devereaux? In Sweet Liar, Jude wrote a hero for everybody’s tastes – Michael Taggert. And Stephen Montgomery, the Englishman who – against all odds – fell in love with Bronwynn, a highland lass. Their larger-than-life love gives me the shivers just thinking about it.

Along came the Clan of the Cave Bear series, which was more about the heroine than the hero, but Jondalar came through, quite amazingly. These books were original and incredibly imaginative. Who would have thought a story about a prehistoric woman would be so fascinating? Or so romantic?

Does anyone remember Judith McNaught’s A Kingdom of Dreams? The conflict and the hero’s love for his woman nearly cost him his life. He was willing to give it in order to prove his love for her. It was maddening and brutal, and yet one of the most powerful love stories I’ve ever read.

Karen Robards wrote some truly fabulous historicals before switching to contemporary romantic suspense. Nobody’s Angel and This Side of Heaven were two sensual historicals set in colonial America. Very hot, very emotional.
Unfortunately, it’s nearly impossible to find a romance set in pre-Revolutionary America any more, and it was such a vast, ‘anything is possible’ time with plenty of opportunity for adventure and romance. And heroes in buckskin?  Daring rescues from dangerous situations? 

My two Highlander books have heroes who are more apt to do something than talk about it, which is really my favorite kind of hero. I want him brawny and brash – a man’s man – but I also want him to be gentle with the heroine. I want her to get under his skin, and make him willing to sacrifice anything for her. (The Highlander’s Desire will be out later this year).

Now that I’ve told you some of my early favorites, what are the books that brought you over to the romance genre? Did you start with historicals like I did? Or was there something else that grabbed you?

…On the way to the holidays. I hosted Thanksgiving, as I always do. Everybody brought parts of the meal – squash, salad, vegetable – so it wasn’t all on me. Because with 24 sitting down to dinner, there is a LOT to do! On top of that, I had a book due at the end of the next week, and I knew I was going to have to really knuckle down and work straight through until that Friday to get it done on time. And then I’d be free during that first week of December to do my Christmas shopping. And I intended to get it all done!

On Deadline Day, I was nearing the end of the manuscript and saw that I had some major plot problems. Then I realized I was writing badly, just to get it done. Which is unlike me! And then it hit me! The reason I wasn’t doing such a good job was because my stomach hurt. A lot. More than it’s ever hurt before (outside of childbirth, and this was continuous…)

I emailed my editor and told her I wouldn’t finish that day, but I’d work on it over the weekend.  Then I went to bed, hoping that if I could sleep for an hour or two, I’d wake up and feel better.

But I couldn’t sleep. My stomach hurt too much. Actually, it wasn’t my entire stomach, but just my lower right side. Of course I know the anatomy. (I wasn’t a critical care nurse for 25 years for nothing!) But I was truly hoping I was wrong. Why couldn’t it be a kidney stone that would just pass? Or a little ovarian problem that would disappear by morning? Or maybe just some really bad gas? What was I doing with appendicitis at my age??? (It usually hits young kids or octogenarians).

I took some acetaminophen and actually did fall asleep for a couple of hours. When I woke up and the pain was still there, my husband said he thought we should go to the ER. My reaction: “On a Friday night? Are you kidding?” (We live in a large urban area, and I know what the ER is like on a Friday night). Besides, if I went to the ER and it turned out to be nothing, well then I would have just wasted a whole lot of time, and gotten into the ER “system” where they’d do a battery of tests and I still might never know what it was.

At about 2 am my dear hubby asked me again about going to the ER. At this point, I could no longer deny what was going on. But I replied: “I don’t want a surgeon who’s had only ONE hour of sleep. I want him or her wide awake. I’m going to try and stick it out until morning.”

Yeah. Really dumb, for someone who should know better.

I did hold out until 5:30 Saturday morning. I was in an ER bed by 6:00, had bloodwork done and an IV in my arm, and was pretty much diagnosed by 6:30. They gave me morphine, which didn’t touch the pain, but gave me a headache. The ER doc ordered a CT scan (to verify his diagnosis – because again… people my age don’t typically get appendicitis). When that was done, my nurse hit me with some IV Dilaudid for pain, and that worked (although it sort of knocked out my respirations and gave my poor husband a panic attack).

This is about the time when “the girls” came in and introduced themselves. I’m talking about three very nice-looking, happy, enthusiastic, late 20-somethings. One of them said: “Hi, I’m Dr. This, and here is Dr. That, and she is Dr. So-and-so. And we’re going to take out your appendix!” All three were senior surgical residents, but they reminded me of my kids!  You know: my children!

Ah well, time marches on, right? My eldest kid is a lawyer. My next one is a medical research scientist. And the third is a professional musician. Who am I to say those children don’t grow up?

Things moved quickly from there. I found myself in the operating room, and they were checking to see if I had any loose teeth before knocking me out and intubating me. I woke up a couple of hours later, in my own room, with my husband and kids waiting. A little sore, but ok. So I got out of bed and went for a walk down the long hall and back. And then I did it again.

Three cheers for laparoscopic surgery! I went home the next day and did very well for about three weeks. Then I hit a wall, and felt like every system in my body was coming apart. I guess I’d been feeling much too good, and so I overdid it a bit. How could I not, when Christmas was just around the corner, and I still had a manuscript to finish? My husband couldn’t help me with the writing, but he did do most of the shopping. I did a good bit of it online, but there was still a lot to do, and I did everything in my power to get it done.

But I learned my lessons.
1. Denial is not necessarily a good thing.
2. When you feel good after an illness, that’s when you need to pace yourself. (My grandmother used to say that).

So … I was supposed to see my doctor two weeks after surgery, which would have been December 15th. I tried to get an appointment, but his schedule was loaded until today!! Six weeks later. Apparently, everyone wants to get in their little surgeries before the year-end and their deductibles kick back in. So, off I go this morning. I’ll see you all later and let you know what he says. (After he’s done yelling at me for waiting so long to go to the ER).

An Unexpected Guest

The Scottish Highlands. Christmas Eve 1690.

Isobel Kincaid did not know what she was going to do. Wee Rory was so very ill, and she was on her own, much as she’d been since that horrid day in June of 1689, when Ket MacGaurie had left Balcraig to join Viscount Dundee’s army in the rebellion against the new British king. Her heart still quaked, all these months later, when she thought of Ket lying dead on the battlefield at Killiecrankie.

She’d called him an arse and worse for leaving her, for leaving their clan to fight for a cause that was doomed to fail. Ach, aye – Isobel wanted King James back on the Scottish throne. Who didn’t? But had that cause been worth his life?

Ach, how she wished she could take back her angry words now, for they were the last Ket had heard from her. ’Twas just that she’d been so very frightened. He was the son of the MacGaurie chieftain, and a prime target for the royalist forces. She’d been terrified that he would be targeted by the enemy.

That she’d been right was of no comfort to her. None at all.

Her poor bairn would grow up without a father now, for there’d been no one like Ket, nor would there ever be another. Isobel had loved him with every fiber of her being. Even now – after more than a year – she could hardly believe he was gone.

And if missing Ket was not bad enough, being cast out and shunned by his mother – and the rest of the clan who followed her, of course – had broken what little piece of her heart had been left after the news of Ket’s demise. The woman even refused to recognize Rory as her grandson, when ’twas well known that Ket and Isobel had had eyes for no others before he’d gone to fight with Dundee.

Only Una MacGaurie denied it. She’d despised Isobel’s mother for being Laird MacGaurie’s first choice for a wife. And her animosity had not abated even when Isobel’s mother had chosen Angus Kincaid and married him instead. In subsequent years, Una’s rancor had extended to Isobel, refusing to accept her as Ket’s choice.

This was nearly the worst Christmas Isobel could remember. Last year, her grief over losing Ket had been raw and overwhelming. ’Twas only through her grandfather’s care and acceptance that she’d survived her pregnancy and moved past the utter devastation of Ket’s loss. This year she had Rory, at least. But Grandfather was gone.

The wind howled and whipped ’round the eaves of Isobel’s croft – the home she’d shared with her grandfather who’d succumbed to age and an assortment of ailments just before the harvest. Somehow, Isobel had gone on, bringing in their crops, and shoring up the cottage against their usual harsh winter. But now, with Rory ill, Isobel was loath to leave him alone, even to visit the privy.

But there was no more peat on the hearth. She needed to go out to the shed to get some more, before the storm got even worse.

She rocked her son in her arms until he drifted off to sleep, then placed him gently on his bed and covered him with a warm woolen blanket. He’d been restless, and Isobel knew he would not sleep for long. But at least his fever had abated and his color was better. She prayed he was on the mend. She quickly wrapped herself in her grandfather’s heavy plaid, pulled on some thick mittens and let herself outside.

The snow was a good many inches deeper than only a few hours before, when she’d ventured out the last time. Now, ’twas up to her knees, and still coming down in thick waves of cottony white. She could barely see the trees on the slopes above her, and couldn’t see the peaks across the valley.

Isobel filled her basket with as much peat as she could carry, but as she turned back toward the cottage, she saw what looked to be a shadowy figure in the distance. ’Twas not easy to make it out, but Isobel was sure the figure was not just a tree. She knew every inch of this land by heart, for she had lived there with her grandfather ever since… well, ever since Ket’s mother had cast her out of Balcraig and caused the clan to shun her.

Isobel could not bear to think of those days, when her own clan had turned its back upon her. ’Twas bad enough that Una MacGaurie had called her a liar and a whore, and refused to recognize her handfast marriage with Ket, the woman had turned her back upon her own bonny grandson.

Isobel put the past behind her and strained her eyes toward the figure in the distance. She decided it must be a man on horseback, though what he would be doing out in the high country during a blizzard was a mystery. Mayhap he’d been on his way to Balcraig and gotten lost in the storm.

Isobel was gripped by a moment of alarm, but as she looked closer, she could see that the rider was slumped over the horse’s neck. He was hurt, or possibly ill. Mayhap he was frostbit, for ’twas bitter cold.

She quickly let herself into the cottage and placed her basket on the hearth. She checked on Rory, and found him still sleeping, his breathing sounding far more normal than it had in days. Moving quietly, Isobel pulled her blanket off the bed and carried it outside.

The horse and man were closer now. ’Twas as though the horse sensed a place where it could shelter, and was coming for it, despite its rider’s inaction. Isobel trudged down the snow-covered trail toward the man, and when she reached him, she tossed the blanket over his shoulders. She went to his far side and pulled the heavy wool down over him, then took the horse’s lead.

The way uphill was a challenge in the wind and snow, and Isobel was worried that her nine month-old bairn would awaken and find himself alone. She moved as fast as she could and somehow managed to get them to the cottage where she helped the man slide down. He stayed on his feet, but just barely, leaning heavily upon Isobel for support.

She pushed open the door and let him in, and he staggered toward the fireplace. In half a second, he was lying down before it, shivering violently.

“I-I’ll be right back,” she said, a bit nervously.

She was reluctant to leave the stranger with Rory, but could not ignore her visitor’s horse. The man appeared to be no threat. At least, not now. She left the cottage and hastily led the beast into her shed where it nickered a greeting to her own gelding. Removing the saddle, she made sure their water was not wholly frozen, and put out some feed for both horses. Then she went back into the cottage.

The man had not moved. He lay huddled under the blanket on his side by the fire, still trembling with the cold.

Isobel tried to get a glimpse of his face, but he was heavily bearded and the blanket covered most of his head. She worked ’round him to add more peat to the fire, and then she heard him groan.

“I know you must be frozen to the bone,” she said. “I’ll heat some—“

“S-stay.” His hand shot out and grabbed her arm.

Isobel yanked it back. “I do not welcome your advance, sir, and if you persist, I will turn you out into the cold to fend for yourself.” Her grandfather’s muzzle loader was hanging over the bedstead and she could have it loaded and ready to fire before her frozen guest could rise to his feet.

“No, I…”

“You may stay here and thaw, but then you must be on your way. Balcraig is only a few miles north. You will find more hospitable lodgings there.”

Isobel took a cautious step back when the man pushed himself up. The blanket fell away from his head, and with trembling hands, he fumbled to cover one of his eyes with a circle of cloth that hung ’round his neck.

Or what was left of it.

Isobel did not recoil at the sight of the man’s scarred face. She’d seen many a clansman return from battle with terrible wounds – lost limbs, horrid scars, damaged or lost eyes.

Her visitor was scarred, too, and when he looked up at her with his one good eye, Isobel’s heart lurched and she dropped to her knees before him. No living man had eyes so very green or black lashes quite so long. No one but her own wee bairn.

“Ket?” she whispered, afraid even to think of the possibility. “Oh dear Lord. Ket?”

It could not be. Not when their clansmen had come home from Killiecrankie, vividly recounting his mortal injuries and death on the field of battle. She clutched her chest where her heart tattooed impossibly hard and fast. Her throat thickened almost painfully.

He took a deep, shuddering breath and nodded. “I did’na think you would know me, lass.”

She let out a sob and reached for him.

He opened the blanket and pulled her into his arms. “Belle.”

She wept against his chest. “How?” She felt her tears running into his plaid, but did naught to stanch them. She thought never to hear anyone call her Belle again. “They said you were killed at Killiecrankie.”

He gave a jerky nod, still shivering from the cold. “I was w-wounded. Badly. B-but someone found me and took me to a surgeon. They said I was close to death for weeks—”

“Oh Ket!”

“When I came to, I could’na remember my own name.”

Isobel cupped his beloved face in her hands and kissed him, enveloping him in the heat of her body. He drew her closer still, and kissed her with the kind of passion she remembered, though it seemed an eternity since she’d felt it.

She pulled back a wee bit, just to look at him, touching his cheeks, his chin, his mouth. ’Twas all too much to take in. “Oh Ket, I missed you so.”

“Aye, lass,” he said. “And I you. I’d hoped to g-get back to you by Ch-Christmas. Did I m-make it?”

“Oh aye, Ket. You’ve made this the best Christmas of my life.”

He frowned. “But what are you doing up here in your grandfather’s croft? Why are you not in Balcraig?”

None of that mattered now. Ket was home, and that was all Isobel cared about. “We’ll speak of that later, love,” she said. “We’ll warm you, and then there’s someone I want you to meet.”

If you enjoyed that, you might also like The Warrior Laird, my most recent book from Avon.
I hope you have a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!
Margo Maguire 

*This was originally posted as part of the An Historical Christmas Eve blog event on Not Another Romance Blog*

Meddling, troublemaking characters we can’t help but love

It’s a fine line between helping and meddling. I’m not sure I know where that line is. Both helpers and meddlers might possess noble intentions, but at some point meddling turns into a mess.

I know of a particularly lady who regularly crosses the line between helping and meddling. If she is aware of the line, she is not particularly bothered by it. Fortunately for us all, this lady is fictional.

Lady Charlotte Brandon, heroine of Three Schemes and a Scandal, is smart and scheming young miss with a generous heart. She just can’t help but get in trouble while trying to sort out the romantic and familiar entanglements of those she loves. Not that they asked her to…

When trying to set up her friend Lucy with the rakish James Beauchamp, who years ago broke her heart, Charlotte becomes locked in a folly with him and their attempts to escape before they’re discovered result in disaster… As she later points out, who knew garden parties were fraught with danger?!

When that incident results in a riff with James and his father, Charlotte goes to extreme lengths to bring about a meeting so that she might mend familiar relations. But somehow that only results in Charlotte and James in another extremely compromising position…which of course they take good advantage of

That is just the beginning of the meddling, scheming, trouble making and falling in love in Three Schemes and a Scandal.

Let it be known that Charlotte’s meddling is not a character trait she inherited from me (though she may have gotten her bossiness from me!). While I freely offer my opinion and advice, I don’t often get involved. The one time I did, it did not end well. Lesson learned!

Well, lesson learned for me anyway. Charlotte’s meddling does end up in happily-ever-after!

How do you deal with meddling characters?

One lucky, random commenter will score a signed copy of The Tattooed Duke!
Anyone is free to comment, but only US addresses are eligible to win. Thanks!

Three Schemes and a Scandal is available now from Amazon and Barnes and Noble! Visit http://www.mayarodale.com for more details, sneak peeks from the story!

 Maya Rodale began reading romance novels in college at her mother’s insistence. She is now the author of numerous “dazzlingly sexy and witty” historical romance novels. A champion of the romance genre and it’s readers, she is also the author of the non-fiction book Dangerous Books For Girls: The Bad Reputation Of Romance Novels, Explained and a co-founder of Lady Jane’s Salon, a national reading series devoted to romantic fiction. Maya lives in New York City with her darling dog and a rogue of her own. Connect with her on twitter or facebook!

Kristan’s post on Monday reminded me of a certain type of person called “underminers.” These are individuals – sometimes good friends! – who say things like:

You look so tired today!

I’m so glad you broke up with that creep.

Oh! I didn’t realize your hair was so naturally… curly.

Aren’t you glad your skin cleared up before the [insert event]?

Once you hear these things, all you can think of is:

Crap. I slept really well last night. Are those little bags around my eyes really that ginormous?

He was a creep? I was totally into that guy. Who else thought he was a creep?

I spent a half hour with my blow dryer this morning to even out all those wacky curls, thank you very much.

Oh. So that giant zit on my chin wasn’t invisible, then?

Then there are the ones who – when you report that “my seven year-old son scored a hat trick in his first hockey game of the season,” they respond with something like  “my son has been the top soccer scorer for years.” Ok, nice. But we weren’t talking about your kid just then. We’ve hashed over his exploits for years. Now it’s Junior’s turn.

I think insecurity gives some people the need to belittle others – oh so subtly – because they don’t want to be seen as too negative. Fortunately, none of my friends fit into this category. I think maybe we’re all past the age where we have something to prove.

My most recent book, The Warrior Laird, is full of doers. And the only undermining that goes on is when the heroine masterfully puts the hero in a position where he has no choice but to help her, maybe even at the cost of losing his own lands. Check it out.

What about you? Do you know an underminer? What was the worst, most undermining thing that she (or he) said?

I am so pleased to announce the release of my first Scottish Highland historical, The Warrior Laird. This is my first real venture into Scotland, although The Bride Hunt, my first book for Avon, had quite a stretch of action that occurred in the Scottish lowlands. But this is the first time I developed Scottish characters with conflicts and issues that are completely Scottish.

The Warrior Laird takes place in 1717, between uprisings to restore James to the Scottish throne. It’s a time of relative peace, although tensions still simmer – between clans, and between the Highlands and the royalists. Dugan MacMillan is the big, brawny guy on the cover to the right. He is laird of his highland clan, and he’s been told by his royalist landlord (the duke of Argyll) that he must come up with an exorbitant amount of money for his rents, or his clan will be evicted.

Dugan has no intention of allowing his clan to become homeless. But he has absolutely no way to raise the kind of money required, not unless he pursues the rumor of a treasure that was hidden by the French during the last uprising. He has one piece of a treasure map that was given to his grandfather during the 1715 uprising, and he knows where to find another piece. He figures (hopes) that will be enough to figure out where the treasure was hidden – if there’s a treasure at all. And if no one else has found it before him.

It’s a huge gamble, but it’s the only chance Dugan has to save his clan, so he goes for it.

In the meantime, Maura Duncanson, 11th child of the royalist earl of Aucharnie, is on the run.  She is the black sheep of the family, banished to live with a cousin in Glasgow. Maura has been waiting two long years for the chance to rescue her youngest sister – a handicapped child her parents sent away to a harsh, out of the way place, due to embarrassment over her physical and mental shortcomings. When the opportunity arises, Maura goes for it, and when she encounters Dugan MacMillan and his two pieces of a treasure map, she realizes that a bit of gold will help her in her search for wee Rosie and …

Hang on. I can’t tell you the whole story! But the back cover blurb is on my website, and you can find a nice, long excerpt here.

I hope you’ll try The Warrior Laird soon!