ARCHIVED FEATURE: A Restless Knight

Genre: Medieval Romance, Scotland
Format: Mass Market Paperback
ISBN: 0-8217-8036-0

A DEFIANT LADY
In Scotland's darkest hour, an English warrior dressed all in black has come for her. Blessed with the kenning, Lady Tamlyn MacShane foresaw this day, when the ruthless Lord Julian Challon would conquer her land--and her heart. She is determined to resist him...but she is no match for his strength...or his sensuality...

A RESOLUTE LORD
To Julian, the proud Scotswoman should be nothing more than a captive. Yet Tamlyn's fiery beauty ensnares him, body and soul. Now, the warrior known as the Black Dragon is in danger of falling under a spell that cannot be broken--the spell of love...

*****
Five-stars. A brilliantly sensual, hauntingly beautiful debut!

~ Dawn Thompson, Author of The Ravencliffe Bride, The Waterlord

You will be enthralled from the moment Norman knight, Julian Challon, the Black Dragon, parts the mists of Glen Shane and comes to Glenrogha to claim his lady, Tamlyn MacShane, and the land awarded him by the conquering king, Edward Longshanks.

It is the year 1296. Julian, a seasoned warrior, wants nothing more than home and hearth, a wife and strong sons now, after years of warring. In anticipation of these things, he comes fresh from bloody battles, bearing deep painful burdens of personal loss too terrible to share. Expecting to deal with men while taking his new holding awarded him by the Crown, he finds instead that three spirited MacShane sisters hold sway over Glenrogha, strong-willed Tamlyn, the youngest of which, is slated to become his bride.

Pagan beauty Tamlyn MacShane is aware of the Black Dragon’s coming. Gifted with the mysterious otherworldly kenning of the fey, she is forewarned with dreams and sensory knowledge. Even though ghost-gray mists shield the ancient passes of Glen Shane, Tamlyn knows the dragon will come, and that his coming will change her safe little comfortable world forever.

At first, when set upon by Challon’s men and rescued by the Dragon himself, Tamlyn chooses not to tell him her true identity. As the story unfolds, their volatile mutual attraction blossoms into a love bound by destiny despite treachery, betrayal, and strong differences that threaten to keep them apart in a land on the brink of chaos at the mercy of Longshanks.

A Restless Knight is a virtual feast for the senses. Ms. MacGillivray weaves history through this breathtakingly sensuous tale like gold threads in a tapestry, with a true mastery that can only come from her heritage. You will be there with these unforgettable characters from the moment the mists part, and they will stay with you long after you consign the book to your keeper shelf. It’s been a long time since I’ve read a real historical romance. This is one I cannot recommend highly enough by a multi-talented star on the rise who promises more of the same. I can’t wait!

~ Kristi Ahlers, Romantic Times, Romance Designs

*****
Five-stars. You Will Fall In Love!!!

Ms. MacGillivray has truly been blessed with the rare gift of being able to tell a story. Her debut effort “A Restless Knight” aptly demonstrates what happens when a writer loves to tell a story readers will care about. This sensually written romance is an eloquent and obvious example of why we read romance!

Julian Challon was once known as the king’s champion, but Challon has lost the taste of fighting and the immense price one must pay for the sick and twisted thinking of a monarch. The last battle he participated in—Berwick--cost him a brother. He wants a new life, one with a warm hearth, children, and maybe even a wife he can care about. But he is unwittingly given a chance of realizing his dream and thereby redeeming his soul. He must secure Glenrogha and marry its mistress, Lady Tamlyn. He will have to walk a fine line in order to get what he wants…but this warrior will not give up. After all, what he wants is worth fighting for.

Lady Tamlyn is a proud Scottish lass. She answers to no man…until the black dragon from her dreams arrives in her little corner of the world. She can’t explain it, but Challon speaks to her and although she wants to defy this Englishman at every turn, her body and heart thwart her. But her life is not hers any longer and her dreams and choices have been stolen from her by royal decree…or have they? Perhaps fate has given her a gift beyond price…the heart of a true warrior.

This story is a richly crafted tapestry of history and romance. Ms. MacGillivray knows how to ensnare and captivate her reader with finely drawn characters and storyline. You will be moved to laughter and tears. A writer who can tap your emotions with words is a gift that should not be overlooked.

*****
Five-stars. Highly recommended reading!
HUNTRESS REVIEWS
(Reviewed by Detra Fitch)

Setting begins in the Scottish Highlands, the year 1296. The Sacred Mists is a warding set long ago by the Daughter of Anne, to ward the Glen Shane. The mists kept the passes hidden by a fog so none could see the entrance... until now.

As revenge upon the Sisters MacShane for scorning his matchmaking efforts for nearly a decade, King Edward sent them dragons for husbands. Julian, Earl of Challon, is known as the Black Dragon. He has been the king's champion for far too long. He and his two brothers, Sir Guillaume and Sir Simon, have tired of war. Edward's insatiable greed and uncontrollable rages have grown stale. The three Dragons of Challon want only to settle down and have families. Sir Julian is to wed Tamlyn MacShane and seize control of the domain known as Glenrogha. This is a task much easier said than done. Tamlyn has good reason to hate Edward and wants nothing to do with the Norman's king. Yet for the sake of her clan, Tamlyn must surrender without a fight. Julian must convince the Scottish wildcat that she would still be the lady of Glenrogha, even though she would no longer be the top person. The Black Dragon would be the true leader, but he would act as a buffer between King Edward and her people.

Tamlyn is the youngest of the sisters and has the blood of the Sidhe within her. She has the gift of sight, of the Kenning. With a touch she knows of the bloody horrors Julian has witnessed and the brother he lost at Berwick. The last thing Tamlyn wants is to see the horrors of Berwick being committed within Glenrogha. With the aid of the Three Wise Ones of the Wood, her Sidhe gift, and her own black dragon, Tamlyn is charged with the task of keeping her people safe. But neither the dragon, nor the wildcat expected to find their soulmates!

*****This terrific Highland tale, with a pinch of Fae magick, captured my attention from the very first page. I was told long ago that an author should write what s/he knows. This way the author can better express the intensity of the characters, the places, and will write the little things known only to those who have experienced them. Author Deborah MacGillivray does this with a style and grace befitting the noble Knights and Clans of Yore. I could see the characters so vividly in my mind that they almost seemed real. The author seemed to breathe life into her characters! For those of you who do not care for Scottish Historical Romances, take a second look at this one. I usually avoid Highland romances, but was told to read it anyway. I am glad I did. I all but inhaled this novel! Highly recommended reading! *****

*****
Five-stars. Forever Singed by The Dragon of Challon
~ Aysel Arwen, author of Romancing the Stars

As I read A Restless Knight by Deborah MacGillivray, I felt the mysterious sway and ebb of the ancient dances at Beltane reverberating through each page. Mysterious, sensual and powerful, this story unfolds through a mist of ancient prophecy and the steel will of those who would look toward the future with great expectation and courage. Lady Tamlyn weaves in and out of Julian's warrior heart, but I felt the author's invisible tug at my spirit—inspiring intimate feelings of being well ravished and truly loved. Scotland, like A Restless Knight, is breathtakingly beautiful in a raw manner that strips passion to its purest form.

MacGillivray tells a poignant story of love and the ugliness of war, but it is the way the words jump off the page and wrap around one's heart and spirit that make it such a potent and memorable read. Each character is given life abundant under MacGillivray's pen, but she has allowed them to take on a life of their own—spinning a tale that wraps back and around on itself in infinite ways. A Restless Knight will forever remain upon my shelf, its pages tinged with tears of great sadness and joy—the Dragon of Challon has singed this reader forever.

Setting: 1296 Scotland

For his loyalty to King Edward, Lord Julian Challon is given Lady Tamlyn and her lands as a prize of war. After years of fighting, Challon desires peace from the nightmares that haunt him, but instead he finds a woman of courage and valor to match his own.

Gifted with “the sight,” Tamlyn knows the Black Dragon is her destiny. Yet she vows not to surrender her home or her heart without a fight.

When Challon rescues Tamlyn from attackers, she keeps her identity secret. As his hostage, she uncovers the depths of his passion, and once he discovers her charade, she is ready to become his bride. However, their powerful love is threatened when Edward calls them to his court and old enemies strive to tear them apart.

Like a bard of old, MacGillivray spins a tale of knights and ladies, battles of will and trials by combat, myth and magic, sexual tension and classic captive/captor romance. Sensual

~ Romantic Times 2006

I spent the last twenty years helping my grandfather, a retired British Historian, sort, restore and rewrite the history of our family in Scotland and England. That's where I came across the basis for my historical novel set in the year before the rising of William Wallace. I was working on pages for the history of my family in the late 1200s and thought it a perfect story for a marvelous historical romance. I currently reside one-half of the year in Britain, the rest in Kentucky--a pattern of my whole life. Receiving my education on both sides of the Pond gives me an unique perspective into both countries. I am a reviewer on staff at The Best Reviews, Paranormal Romance Reviews, Sensual Romance Reviews and Rambles, a Celtic e-magazine. I am the Reviewers International Organization Award of Excellence Chair (2003-2007) and Assistant Editor of their monthly newsletter for the last two years (2003-2005). I am a member of: RWA (Romance Writers of America) and History Fiction Writers Society of Britain.

I have two series of Romances--A Contemporary Paranormal series, first two THE INVASION OF FALGANNON ISLE (DECEMBER 2006) and RIDING THE THUNDER (TBA 2007) to be published by Dorchester Publishing. The second series is Scottish Medieval Historicals. The first, A RESTLESS KNIGHT will be released by Kensington Books in July 2006 followed by RAVENHAWKE, A Knight To Remember in August 2007.

I am co-editor and co-publisher of a small print publisher, Highland Press, and have stories appearing in NO LAW AGAINST LOVE--"BAD CAT", "GETTING IT IN THE END", and "DOUBLE, DOUBLE, TOIL & TROUBLE"; BLUE MOON MAGIC has "RIDER IN THE STORM"; BLUE MOON ENCHANTMENT has "DEVIL IN SPURS"; and RECIPE FOR LOVE has "CHICKEN WHAT DU HELL?". In October, I will have a one-woman anthology of cat romances in CAT O'NINE TALES.

The shrill cry rent the stillness of the isolated Highland glen. Startled, scores of ravens took to the sky. Their cacophony echoed the call…my lady, my lady. For a peculiar instant the world held its breath as the heavens were turned black.

Tamlyn MacShane paused from picking the first violets of spring. Straightening, she arched her shoulders to relieve the crick in her back. Loch winds lifted, swirling about her, playfully tugging wisps of her honey-colored hair from the simple braid hanging down her back. She brushed the stray strands from her face, her eyes following the spiraling path of the noisy blackbirds.

Her fey gift to sense things and the peculiar behavior of the birds summoned fragments of the lingering nightmare that had awoken her this morn. Vague, just at the edge of her thoughts…something about screaming ravens and a coming storm. She shivered.

Shaking the somber fit of mind, Tamlyn smiled at the boy tumbling to a stop at her feet. “Och, Connor Og, catch a breath before you turn the shade of these violets.”

“Him…the one heard tell about.” His words were whispered in fear. “Riders from Lochshane brought word―Kinmarch had been put to siege by the English king―the dread Edward Longshanks. Raised the Dragon Standard they did. Your da is feared dead.” Tears streaked down his dusty face.

Hadrian of Kinmarch dead? Nonsense. With the power of the kenning, she’d have felt that. “The laird is not dead, lad. I’d feel it here.” Her fisted hand clenched to the center of her chest.

The frown on the boy’s face softened. “Mayhap it is so. You were touched by the blood of the Sidhe. Still, they sighted his standard on the road from Lochshane near the sacred passes—the green dragon on the field of black!”

“The Dragon of Challon―he comes?” For an instant laughter bubbled up in her throat. Surely this was a jest. A dragon coming on St. George’s Day? Her smile faded, then her heart jumped as if she’d taken a pinch too much foxglove.

Dropping the basket of violets, Tamlyn hastened to the far side of the hill where she’d left the mare munching grass. Bansidhe ignored her as she knelt to unfasten the leather straps hobbling its fetlocks. Pushing her mantle over her shoulders, she attempted to mount, but the horse jerked the reins from her hands, stubbornly wishing to remain and eat its fill of the spring faerygrass.

“Few animals dare to eat the blades within a faery ring, so you believe the Wee Ones think you special. Do not fash me or I shall speak to the tanner about lining my new mantle with dapple hide, you silly beastie.”

The mare’s head snapped up with the recoil of a whip. Its whole body stiffened. Taking advantage, Tamlyn scrambled upon its back. The palfrey ignored her heels kicking against its ribs as it issued a shrill whinny.

A rumble came from the distance, deep as thunder from a summer storm, only steady, persistent. The sound sent a shiver up her spine, the eerie noise preternatural― almost with the portent of the Bansidhe’s wail. Once more, dark impressions rose of the nightmare that had broke her slumber at dawn. Trembling, Tamlyn pushed the thoughts aside. A storm must be building on the other side of the passes. She turned to search the purple hills ringing Glen Shane. The morning sky near Dun Kinmarch was strangely gray.

Coldness streaked with icy fingers through her soul…as if someone of great power just crossed through the sacred passes.

Finally, the horse obeyed her tugging on the reins. Tamlyn felt a rising urgency to reach Glenrogha. Her mantle flying behind, she leaned forward, encouraging her mount to break into a gallop. Once they reached the flatland, she glanced over her shoulder. The skyline above Kinmarch was blacker. No storm filled the heavens with this spreading shadow.

Topping the rise, Tamlyn spotted warriors mounted upon heavy horses of war pouring into the glen. English! The mists that had shielded the sacred passes of Glen Shane for centuries had failed to hide their valley. How could this be?

A vanguard emerged from the stand of ancient evergreens. Breaking away, several riders traveled at a swift pace. Their monstrous horses chewed up the turf with broad strides. At first she thought they had not spotted her.

Shouts told otherwise. Slapping the reins against the horse’s neck, Tamlyn chose a path into the grove. It curved around the hill, then along the steep cliffs of Lochshane Mòhr. She used the narrow trail to weave through the dense oaks, limes and elms.

The horsemen were compelled to pick their way amidst the undergrowth of rose briars and woodbine. Her smaller mount wove like a needle, threading passage into the forest. She breathed easier as the pursuers lagged behind.

Her best hope was to flank the riders, then double back to the sea caves that ran under Glenrogha’s cliffs. A secret passage connected beneath the ancient Pict Broch, which would allowed her to come up within the safety of the fortress. Breaking free of the woods, she urged Bansidhe onward.

Five horsemen cleared the trees bordering Glenrogha’s dead-angle. The fearsome warhorses churned soft dirt clods high in the air.

Tamlyn’s mantle flew into her face and tangled about her arms and the bridle, costing precious time. Fleeing to the tidal caves would only reveal their existence to the men following. That path was now blocked. All she could do was make for her sister’s fief of Kinloch.

Her lips pressed thin, feeling the palfrey’s exertion. If she could just reach the forest of Kinloch, escape would be possible. Suddenly, the mares’s hoof hit a depression in the rain-soaked earth, and Tamlyn and the horse went flying heels over head into the ground. Head spinning, she staggered to her feet, then nearly fell as searing pain shot up her right leg.

Three warriors were upon her before the dizziness cleared. Shaking, she warily faced the enemy as they dismounted. In cornered animal panic, she tried to shove past them. With the twisted ankle she couldn’t run. Laughing, taunting, they shoved her from one to the other—pack dogs tormenting helpless prey. They wore the green and black of the Dragon of Challon, the dragon rampant emblazoned upon their chests.

Tamlyn knew she was tall for a Scots lass, yet she had to look up at these Norman warriors. With helms off, their dark hair gleamed, a match to their piercing eyes.

“I’d rather kiss a bloody leper!” Tamlyn spat the words. Never would she allow them to see she tasted fear.

“No lepers here, but you may lavish kisses upon my pet snake.” The others laughed when the knight lowered his head trying to kiss her.

Tamlyn flinched as the meaning of the Norman words sank in. Widening, her eyes stared in revulsion. She shoved against his covered breastplate, sending him backward against his horse.

A handsome warrior stepped to box her in. He spoke in a soothing tone. “No need to fear us, sweetling. We’re a damn sight cleaner than your filthy, skirt-clad countrymen.”

Tamlyn swallowed the lump in her throat, the kenning seeing into their minds. These vile dogs intended to rape her! Forcing back mind-numbing dread, she focused on reaching the dagger in her boot.

Beginning a spell of warding, her lips barely mouthed the ancient words of empowerment, “Adhnadhe oothras beytharde dethiale―” She paused, horror spreading through her as she realized the ancient spell of protection summoned the breath of the dragon. Wrapped up in casting the charm, Tamlyn was caught off guard as the youngest knight seized her about the waist, then spun her around, pushing her back against the chest of another man.

Two more mounted warriors cantered up, wearing the Plantagenet colors of scarlet and gold. Three faded golden leopards were on their surcoats. One called, “Might’ve knowed Sir Dirk would flush out a bit of quim.”

Tamlyn pushed this knight as she had the other. Solid, immovable, he towered over her. Hard, jet-black eyes roamed over her peasant’s sark.

Placing a hand on either shoulder, Sir Dirk slid them up her throat, a bizarre gesture of threat and sensuality that paralyzed her. “You prove a surprise. They warned us Scots females were sisters to swine and had blue scales upon their bellies and breasts.”

“These prideful Scots are raised with tongues too free. Let them learn,” the second man growled, “starting with this bitch.”

She tried to push away from the knight. Repulsed, Tamlyn watched as his hands splayed over her flesh. A smile curved his face as he clutched the bodice in his fists and ripped it down the middle. The thin material offered little resistance. Cheeks burning bright, her hands flew up to cover her full breasts.

Sword-callused hands took hold of her wrists. Bending them back, the knight compelled Tamlyn to release the grip on the torn sark. He leaned toward her and lowered his mouth to the slope of her pale breast. Her twisting against his hold only elicited an evil grin. Foul darkness possessed this man’s soul.

“Truly, Dirk of Pendegast deserves his name. He is the finest swordsman of the Black Dragon,” one laughed.

The knight nudged the material of the ripped sark with his nose until her pale breast was exposed. Leering, he announced, “No scale of any shade.”

Seething with humiliation and rage, her body arched as his hot lips latched around her areola and sucked painfully hard. A whimper, a wounded animal sound shuddered through her. Tears scalded her eyes. Again, she silently chanted the charm of making, this time to draw within herself, bespell her mind far away where it could not be touched by their brutality.

The tall knight bore her down to the ground with the weight of his body. His muscular thigh pushed through the split in the long mail hauberk, shoving roughly between her legs. Swallowing bile, Tamlyn nearly strangled on the bitter, hot taste. She was terrified she might vomit, fearful she’d drown in it as they raped her.

Her shaking fingers brushed the top of her knife. As Sir Dirk raised up slightly to fumble with the lacings on his chausses, her hand closed about the hilt.

“Get up.” Tamlyn wedged the razor-honed blade against her attacker’s throat, forcing him to rise. “Else I’ll split your gullet and watch your blood water the earth.” Pearls of blood beaded from the pressure.

Another knight came up behind her. His rough hands wrapped around her wrist. The sudden movement jerked the knife tip to gouge into Sir Dirk’s flesh along his jaw.

“Leave go, bitch, else I will snap your wrist like a pigeon bone,” Sir Geoffrey threatened. He squeezed until the knife fell from her grip.

Sir Dirk’s countenance soured as his hand traced over his jaw, dragging the long fingers through the oozing blood. Black eyes narrowed on her, reptilian in their fury, utterly devoid of mercy. He roughly smeared his blood across her exposed breast. “Mayhap I shall kill the whore, then swive her.”

He backhanded Tamlyn, so hard her ears rang. Blinding pain drove her to her knees. She lifted the back of her hand to her nose and dabbed at the blood trickling from her right nostril. More pooled in her throat, tasting coppery.

Weak, forced to remain kneeling, her other hand pathetically clutched the front of her torn sark. Swallowing fear, Tamlyn raised her trembling chin in defiance. She flashed hatred through unwanted tears, awaiting his next blow, damning him. She braced herself as he drew his hand back.

A lone rider drove the magnificent black stallion across the dead-angle, bearing down on them, then reined the animal to a halt. It reared high, so powerful that its hooves slashed the air. The warrior dismounted with an inherent grace and recoiled power of a panther.

Hindered by their shifting positions, Tamlyn saw only glimpses of the sixth man. She held no hope for aid or mercy from one more of their breed. Just another dog of an English king, just another man to rape her.

Apprehension rippled through the guilt-ridden men as they fell back, creating room for him. Despite the heavy mail and plate weighting his body, he strode into the center of the group with regal bearing. Though a shade shorter than the others, he wasn’t in the least intimidated by the taller men. His presence conveyed a raw, elemental power, the likes Tamlyn had never encountered. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she stared at him.

The armor covering his upper arms and thighs, the mail habergeon, mantle and surcoat were black. All black.

He removed his helm and pushed back the mail hood. His locks of the same unrelenting shade of pitch were not in the Norman style, but long, curling softly about his ears and brushing the metal gorget that covered the back of his neck.

He was handsome—no, beautiful. The air surrounding this dark warrior seemed to stir as scorching energy discharged from him with the sizzle and crackle of lightning.

He handed the helm to Sir Geoffrey with no more regard than he would afford a servant. Aware of the men’s unease, he clearly played on that. Stalling, he removed his black leather gauntlets with deft precision and then passed them off as well. With an arch of the black brow he conveyed disdain for the other men.

His keen attention fixed on Tamlyn. Heads bowed, the others let him through to her without one word uttered. Tamlyn trembled, knowing few men wielded such a chilling command.

His elegant fingers captured her chin, lifted it, forcing her to meet his stare. Eyes the shade of green garnets, they were ringed with lashes so long a woman would cry envy. When she stared into them, the world narrowed. Nothing else existed.

His jaw was strong, square. The small mouth, etched with sensual curves, was seductive, though touched with a trace of what might be cruelty. Two black curls carelessly fell over the high forehead, a countenance sinful in ways no mere mortal man had right to be.

Tamlyn sensed a willful, razor-sharp intelligence within this warrior. He was the last man she would want to face as an adversary.

Images possessed her, singed her with an ancient fire…of her hands on the bare flesh of his chest, how it would feel to be kissed by this black knight. Shocked, she nearly reeled backward. By what conjury did he put these visions in her mind? This warrior was dangerously beautiful, a killer angel with soul-stealing eyes. She trembled with fear, but could not take her gaze from him.

“My orders were not clear?” He turned to frown at the group, yet never wholly removed his focus from her. Angry green eyes encountered only downcast faces.

A mercenary blurted, “Bloody wench pulled a blade on Sir Dirk. She cut him.” He flipped the knife tip first into the soil at the commander’s feet.

“After he tried to rape her?” His voice was smooth as black velvet, compelling as the night. He smiled, warmth even flickered in the spellcasting eyes. Tamlyn sensed he was far from pleased by their actions. Had he been a cat, his tail would be snapping. “So, a mere Scots wench armed with a small knife held off five—five—of Edward’s warriors who dared disobey my command. You were warned to handle Glen Shane’s people softly.”

“She’s naught but a common wench.” The second mercenary spit on the ground. “A castle worker or some swine girl from a croft.”

Disdain flashed in the warrior’s eyes, then they returned, roving over Tamlyn’s curves in a way that missed few details. Nevertheless, it was impossible for her to scry his feelings. He kept them behind a will of iron, a master of the game.

“What is your name, lass?” his husky voice asked, edged with impatience. He glanced at Bansidhe, grazing not far from them. “No serving wench has a mare of such quality. Yet your clothes are shabby. Do you work at Glenrogha?”

“I am a simple lass, my lord. These are men’s matters.” Tamlyn felt sick considering how few of the guard remained within the fortress’ walls.

A faint lift of his brow signaled his doubt. “Simple? Not with unyielding audacity in those gold eyes. You grasp our language.” The man observed too much. Grabbing her free wrist, he examined her palm. “Not the hand of a highborn lady or a commoner. How long can Glenrogha hold against siege?”

“I ken not, my lord. Winter just passed. Supplies should be hard pressed.” No truth to that, the fortress could hold out for months.

His lips spread into a smile, slightly lopsided. “I repeat, what do they call you?’ His soft voice belied the steel underneath. A voice, if he so chose, could hold dark allure.

“Òinnseach,” she replied in a private jest at his expense, knowing he could not understand her godforsaken tongue.

Tamlyn’s eyes widened with astonishment. She was more startled than he’d been when she spoke French.

“Yes, cat-eyes, I comprehend enough of your patter to keep my throat from getting split.” He released the grip on her wrist. Bending down on his knee, he extracted the weapon from the ground and wiped the blade on the side of his thigh. “A sgian dubh― black knife.”

Tamlyn watched him study the details, his thumb rubbing the runes carved into the hilt. As she struggled to rise, he lifted the hem of her faded kirtle, locating the hidden sheath for the dagger inside the edge of the right boot.

“Leave go,” she snapped, skittish at being touched. This man terrified her in a manner she couldn’t understand.

Tucking her knife under his belt, he eyed Tamlyn in appraisal. “You conjure riddles, my fool. I might presume you to be leman to the lord here, only it seems the Earl Hadrian gives the fiefs of Lochshane, Kinloch and Glenrogha to his three lady daughters. In this backward land men commit the unnatural folly of allowing women to rule fortresses.”

“Hadrian MacShane is laird to the lands of Clan Shane, but he gives no power to his lady daughters. They hold titles in their own right through Clan Ogilvie.”

“Blatherskite,” he scoffed, raising a chuckle from his men, “women thinking they can control a fortress.”

Tamlyn glowered. “Alba breeds women with strength and intelligence. No ease will you discover in the taking of the lands of the Ogilvies.”

His sensual mouth lifted at the right corner. “Already I claimed Lochshane, my fool. We met little resistance.”

Clinging to aloof pride, Tamlyn stood her ground whilst he rose, nearly pressing his body against hers. Blood thundered within her as heat from his body buffeted her senses. Yet she refused to be bullyragged by a man only half a head taller than she. Unblinking, she met his warlock eyes as his breath fanned across her face.

“Lochshane fell before alarm could be raised. Riders reached Glenrogha. You will find no ease in this undertaking.”

“We shall see.” With an arch of his brow, he swung back to the soldiers. “I have little taste to find my men acting like a pack of rutting beasts. I shall deal with you after the fortresses are taken. Place her on Lasher. Fetch the palfrey. We rejoin my host.”

Fires of Bel! Tamlyn faced the terrible Black Dragon! She should’ve guessed by the midnight armor, mail and mantle. She’d pondered why the English called this lord the Black Dragon when his standard was a green dragon on a field of deepest black. One glimpse of the imposing warrior and she knew, it was not the colors of heraldry to which they referred, but the man himself. Awe filled her as she stared at him, trying not to gape.

Tales of Welsh villages leveled under the Dragon’s command were whispered so they didn’t carry to the ears of bairns. Worse were the rumors of the sack of Berwick, over a fortnight’s passing. Scots feared thousands had perished in a nightmare of slaughter and flames.

As she fumbled with the sark’s drawstring, tightening it to close the ripped front, her eyes strayed to the imposing figure of the knight in black. Tamlyn felt torn, unable to believe that this man with the angelic countenance was capable of slaughtering all in England’s path, putting them to the sword and scorching the very earth.

She jumped when hands took hold of her arms. Sir Dirk’s glower chilled Tamlyn’s blood as he obeyed his liege’s bidding. He shoved her toward the midnight charger of the Dragon.

The black saddle rested upon material of dark green, covering the animal from withers to flanks. Recoiling, she knew her fears were valid. This man was no ordinary commander, but the king’s champion, Julian Challon.

The earl mounted with lionesque grace, seating himself against the high back of the creaking saddle to leave room for her. Resisting for an instant, her heels dug into the soft ground.

The stallion reared slightly, bouncing upon hooves. “Beware, fool. Lasher is unaccustomed to carrying two. I hold no desire to see you trampled under his hooves. He is a trained killer,” the earl cautioned.

The knight picked her up and deposited her atop the horse. From above the knee, her legs were bared. Worse, she rested against the leather and metal covered thighs of this Norman. She blushed hotly at the intimate position.

Tamlyn turned in the saddle. He was so close. Too close. His warm breath feathered across her cheek. Even so, she challenged and held his eyes.

“Aye. A truth you would do well to remember.” A strange, almost poignant light flickered within those mysterious depths, then vanished as if never had been, displaced by the fierce determination in the set of his jaw.

The Dragon spurred the horse to rear, throwing her back against his armored chest. He placed his hand on her waist to anchor her. In reaction, her muscles tightened under the pressure. She couldn’t seem to breathe.

Tamlyn looked down to see his thumb rested on the bare skin exposed by the rip in the sark. The thumb burned, a brand on her flesh.

She was still dizzy from the fall. That little compared to the way this warrior’s touch sent her blood to thrumming. She turned to study his face. No emotions played in those green eyes, yet their force rocked her to the core.

On your website, I see a cat named Foutchie has a blog. Is she more of an attack-cat, or a writerly cat?

A bit of both, I fear. She was so small when I found her, that she slept in my lap while I wrote at the computer. Now she thinks the computers are hers. She is very involved with the whole writing process and each phase has her vetting and seal of approval.

What person most influenced your life and what is the most precious gift given to you by that person?

Actually, two people equally. I spent have of my life in Britain, half in USA, so I guess it follows one person on each shore helped mold me into the person I am. Both were firmly convinced I would be a writer.

My mum encouraged me, gave me the dream. She thought I would write mysteries. I may still, but it would be a romantic mystery. She told me tales of Billy Goat Gruff, the Cu Dubh (Black Dog) and the Cait Sidhe (Cat Faeries).

My grandfather figured I would be a non-fiction history writer. He loved history; it was his passion, his life. I think he expected the grandchildren to follow his love. He used to conduct "summer school". While other kids were playing, swimming or riding horses, we were stuck for a half a day in his classroom. He even had set up part of the library to resemble a class room--old-fashioned desks even! He went through Greek and Roman Mythology, Aesop’s Fables, then real history. Of course, I didn't get faerytales from him. I heard tales of James Douglas, William Wallace and the Bruce. I was nine before I understood fully that Douglas and Wallace were not "great uncles"!

I surprised--maybe shocked--them both by seeking romance for the outlet for my talent. I just love romance, it fuels life.

You are the #1 Amazon.ca reviewer. Tell us what gives you such a passion for reviewing?

The Canadian ranking is recent as they only began giving a rank. I am #26 on Amazon US (much harder to get) and #9 on UK. I was #2 at one point, but with my writing I just don't have enough time to keep up with reviewing as I once did. I think what gave me the passion was injustice. I had a friend, loved the book she'd written and she collected some really stupid reviews on Amazon.com. She asked me what I really thought of her book, I told her, then asked why. She said she really wished reviewers were more like me, because she had gotten some silly reviews for a book she loved. I tend to love to fight for underdogs, so I went and posted my review for her. Started adding one for all her books. Then I did the same for her friend. Suddenly, books that had been sitting in the warehouse for a couple years were selling out. They checked where the books were going and discovered it was Amazon.com. I saw it made a difference.

The hero in A Restless Knight is incredible. How did Julian Challon come into existence?

Actually, Julian is modeled after a real life person. At that point, I was working for my grandfather as his research assistant and ghostwriter. He would translate old family papers from Gaelic and then I would rewrite them in a more readable form for family archives. I came across a story of my great-great-grandparents about 26 generations back, in the time of William Wallace. I say story, because it was written in storyteller form and some facts were not verifiable. It made me wonder if I wasn't looking at a "story" written by a family member about his ancestors as much as full factual history. The puzzle bothered me and I spent several years trying to verify things. I kept hitting the same wall. It was more story. So then I decided a 15th Century story is pretty amazing in itself and just accepted it as lore. One night I began dreaming about the woman and her story. It kept coming to me in pieces.

Of course, I was getting her "version". I knew I had to write it. Only, as I wrote it, Julian came alive. He was totally different in character than her side. I think he insisted on equal time. Boy, did he insist!

Lady Tamlyn is just as interesting. She's a strong, yet feminine woman with deep passion. How did she come to you?

Tamlyn was someone I identified with. A fighter, yet her fight against the English saw her falling in love with an Englishman. Complex situation for a woman. So much inner turmoil.

A Restless Knight is set in Scotland. I understand your Dorchester release, THE INVASION OF FALGANNON ISLE is also set in Scotland on a fantasy island. Tell us about your connection with Scotland.

I was born there, but didn't get to stay...lol. My editor for Dorchester asked me my hometown recently, and I had to stop. I never really had a hometown. I was always living out in areas where there were no towns or villages. My mum suffered from post-partum depression in a period where it was not understood. She was also manic-depressive, now called Bi-Polar, and again, it wasn't understood or treated. After my birth, she took me to the states. Thus started my living with a foot on both sides of the Pond. Often I felt I never fit in either culture. Too Yank to be Brit, too Scot to be Yank. So I watched people. I especially love small community life, the oddball characters. They are 30 years behind the times, out-of-fashion and couldn’t care less. Life is slower, enjoyed more. And everything is up for a good laugh. I see so many people doing a Men in Kilt books, many never setting foot on Scottish soil and they made a lot of silly errors. I wanted to do a book that touched of this small community life, a side of Scotland the Hunks in the Heather books missed.

Considering your background, why do you write romance rather than straight Historicals?

My grandfather loves to drag me to old-school-tie historical dinners. In my "area" I can discuss lore and history until I bore people to death or make them snore. I often look at history in a different fashion. I think he envisioned me doing coffee table books, lots of artwork and ancient lore. I may still. Carmon Deyo, an artist, and I have plans to do a Pict-Celt lore book, me doing the history and lore, her doing silk paintings for each. We have already done some stuff in this venue and she has a showing of her paintings and my lore at Barnes and Noble's gallery.

What makes a novel satisfying to you?

The hero. If you can give me a hero I would leave my husband for, then you did your job.

You write wonderful novels, but tell us about the other things you write.

Currently, I am finishing Riding The Thunder for Dorchester; it's the second in the series after The Invasion of Falgannon Isle. I have seven books in this series, about seven sisters who find love better the second time around. They are contemporaries, but each has a paranormal thread to it. I am also finishing the sequel to A Restless Knight, currently called Ravenhawke, but I figure that will be changed to have Knight in the title!

I also do short stories for Highland Press. NO LAW AGAINST LOVE has three of my cat romances. Bad Cat, Getting It In The End, and Double, Double, Toil & Trouble were in that book. They are lighter romances that always have a silly cat involved in the romance. Just out, The Once in a Blue Moon Anthologies --Blue Moon Magic (Rider In The Storm) and Blue Moon Enchantment (Devil In Spurs). In October I shall be doing a one-woman anthology of 9 cat romances called Cat O'nine Tales. However, you can get a sneak preview of my anthology as Simon the Cat will show up in Jacquie Rogers’ Faery Special Romances. This is my one-woman anthology released by Highland Press just before mine.

You've designed several bookcovers and you do beautiful work. Which art calls you more--writing or graphics?

Oh writing. I love to do the covers and would love to have access to the hunks like Tim Adams, the model on my A Restless Knight. Maybe someday. But I could live without the graphics. That is new talent only discovered since 2001. Writing is part of me. Take that away from me and I would likely climb the walls!

What do you do to relax and rejuvenate yourself?

Watch Ian McShane! I love movies. Have oodles - I do mean oodles of DVDs. Rocky & Bullwinkle, Benny Hill, Everything Ian McShane ever did. Nero Wolf, The Avengers, The Prisoner, Miami Vice, all Hammer moves, tons of BAD B-horror films. I love old B&W horror movies. Play with Foutchie. She has a 9-level cat tree and I must play with her. Love reading reviews on Amazon, check out what respected reviewers say about books. When I have the time, I love to dance until the cows come home. DH does a mean rumba!!