BOOK OF THE WEEK: The Invasion Of Falgannon Isle - Deborah MacGillivray

THE INVASION OF FALGANNON ISLE
by Deborah MacGillivray

Genre: LoveSpell Romance
Format: Paperback
ISBN: 0505526913

Buy This Book:
Available at: Amazon

FROM THE BACK COVER:

213 SINGLE SCOTSMEN
There was something about the Brigadoon-like Falgannon, something that kept most of its male inhabitants unwed. From Michael the Story to Callum the Bicycle—and we mustn’t forget The Cat Dudley, the slyest poker-playing moggie in the Outer Hebrides—every male of the Isle had happiness dependent upon that of its Lady. So things had been since Pictish times, and so they would be long after the present day.

Despite her machinations, to this point B.A. Montgomerie had been unable to make her men happy. Her first marriage had been against their advice. Her husband had been Irish, true; but he had failed to meet other necessary requirements…and things had ended badly. Now, another son of Eire had arrived and was making the natives restless. Yes, everyone could sense Desmond Mershan’s conquering Viking spirit and his desire for B.A. And while the men of Falgannon would never let anything happen that she didn’t want, this Irishman had come to pillage and loot, and nothing was going to stop him. B.A. could taste the battle to come.

MEET THE AUTHOR:

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.

READ AN EXCERPT:

Book 1
Seven Sisters of Colford Hall

Chapter 1

Falgannon Isle, Hebrides of Scotland, Present Day

“So much is riding on this venture.” B.A. Montgomerie spoke her pensive concern to the empty room.

Rubbing the bridge of her nose, she blinked, her eyes strained from staring for three hours at the website for IsleOfLove.co.uk. Not satisfied with the results, she sat tinkering with the new homepage. She needed glasses. Another entry on her endless to-do list. And like most of those items, it’d have to wait until her next trip to the mainland. She knew she shouldn’t keep pushing when it became hard to focus; she’d end up with a headache. Only, she so wanted the website to be perfect-the future of Falgannon Isle rode on its success. Changing the html to narrow the width of the gold foil border, she stared at the results.

Ladies, tired of the bustle of life, stress of big city living? Fed up with men who only want one-night-stands and leave you with ‘the fuzzy end of the lollipop and a tube of toothpaste all squished out?’ Hate traffic jams, telemarketers calling at 8:00 a.m. and long queues at the grocery? Sick of noise pollution?

Do you dream of romance?more importantly?that special man wishing matrimony?

If so, consider a vacation to Falgannon Isle…a wee bit of heaven in the Outer Hebrides of Scotland…where magic exists. Our pace is relaxed, the scenery majestic. The climate is mild since the isle is in the Gulf Stream. Summer twilight lasts forever…ideal for long, romantic walks. There are white beaches with tidal pools for swimming, lovely green hillocks to wander and explore. A Medieval castle, a stone ring and ancient Pictish ruins dot the hillsides. I cannot imagine a more romantic place on earth, one more breathtakingly beautiful, that stirs the soul…spellbinds the heart!

Ah, you say, the gorgeous landscape is fine, but how can there be romance if you don’t have someone with whom you can share it?

Ladies, listen up!

Falgannon Isle has 213 braw Scots lads eager to find a bride. You see, there’s a shortage of marriageable aged women on the isle. Yes, over two hundred males, ages eighteen to forty-seven, and all most anxious to make your acquaintance!

Just fill out this application and submit a recent picture. If chosen, you’ll receive airfare, lodging and expenses to reach our remote little isle. You’ll have two weeks to explore the ruins, walk on the sands in the gloaming…maybe find that special man waiting for you to fill his heart.

If you don’t like our isle and think this life isn’t for you, well you’ve had a free vacation. However, I’m betting there’s a handsome Islander who can convince you to stay forever.

Come for the vacation of a lifetime…remain for love…

Need incentives? Click on our Bachelor Registry and see dozens of our braw Scots lads impatient to welcome you to our island.

Address queries to B.A. Montgomerie@Isle_Of_Love.co.uk


B.A. smiled at the laptop’s screen, hope in her heart. Satisfied, she hit the FTP button to upload the page to make it live. The monitor suddenly switched to page not found.

“Bloody hell! Not again!” Used to the Net being turtle slow on Falgannon, she reached for the telephone to make sure. “Dead. Grrrr…I’d sell my soul for the rare beastie broadband.”

“Any word yet, lass?” a voice called from the front of the store.

B.A. considered ignoring Callum since he’d already asked the same question five times in the past hour. In an irritating fashion, he began to beat a restless tattoo on the oak counter as if it was a set of bongos, saying he wasn’t going away until she answered. Shutting down the computer as she rose from the desk chair, she went out into the storefront.

Redheaded Callum Mackenzie’s grey eyes blazed with anticipation, similar to a four-year-old peeking at presents under the tree on Christmas morn. Willing to stoop to a little mental torture, just to break the ennui of the afternoon, B.A. pretended she had no idea what he wanted.

“And what can I be helping you with, Callum the Bicycle?”

The odd appellation linked to Callum’s name stemmed from him running the bicycle shop. After all these years, B.A. still smiled at the islanders quirkiness. On Falgannon, it wasn’t the village oddball or black sheep whose name was coupled with some descriptive tag, but the whole bloody isle! Gravestones in the ancient churchyard illustrated this wasn’t passing eccentricity, but tradition born from necessity-or stubbornness. Currently residing on the island-and driving her batty-were five Michaels, six Callums and eight Anguses, all with the last name of Mackenzie, Grant or Fraser. Adding in all the generations going back before King Kenneth I, it was hard to tell one from another, so ages ago her islanders began tagging each Falgannonian with a ‘label’ to set them apart.

Callum’s face pruned with dismay. “B.A., teasing us simple lads is bloody impolite, if you want my opinion! One might infer you hate men the way you torment the male folk of the isle.”

Michael the Fiddle ambled up behind his cousin. Of course, on Falgannon-population 297-family lines were so tangled islanders joked it was possible to end up being a fifth-cousin to yourself! Michael hailed from the sandy-haired Mackenzie line. Quite beautiful males, they reminded B.A. of a Byronic poet; their soulful grey eyes could lure a lass to stare into them for hours.

Only that was the problem, B.A. knew too well. 213 males lived on her isle, each eager for a lass of his own. The quandary arose because the only unmarried ladies were Oonanne and Morag-but they didn’t count since they were gay-and the Marys-Mary Annis and Mary Agnes, sixty-seven-year-old twins.

And herself. BarbaraAnne Montgomerie-Deshaunt-thirty-seven, widowed seven years, owner of Falgannon Isle. The one woman none of the males could court.

B.A knew if an outlander asked any of the men why with such a dearth of women the lone eligible one wasn’t wooed, you’d get that prune face and a sharp retort, “Are you daft in the head, man?”

She sighed. She was the Lady Of The Isle, a title passed to her at seventeen upon the death of her grandmother, Maeve. The eldest female of her line had always ruled this tiny speck of an island, going back to Pictish times, and none trifled with their Lady. All manner of catastrophes befell the feckless lad who tried. Hadn’t Michael the Story warned oft enough of The Curse and its ghastly repercussions, a fate dire enough to ensure no male on the isle dare more than cast an admiring eye in her direction?

“What did B.A. say, Callum?” Michael shifted in his size-eleven Reeboks as if ants infested his knickers.

B.A. reached for her shawl and slid the soft wool about her shoulders. Autumn’s chill embraced the isle, the sun setting earlier each day. “Afternoon, Michael the Fiddle. Enjoy walking in the soft last night?”

“Aye, the rain was soothing. I spotted you near Maulkin Tower in the gloaming. Benefit from the wee stretch of legs before bed?” Michael smiled at her with lovesick, puppy eyes.

Not vain, she knew men looked. But then The Curse never struck down a lad for admiring.

Michael’s smile vanished as Callum gave him the point of his elbow. “Eegit, herself is yanking our chains, are you not, B.A.? ‘Tis them Yank ways you acquired going to school in the Colonies corrupting you. Ashamed you should be.”

“Here now, our B.A. would do no such thing,” Janet Grant chided, breezing through the side door to B.A.’s left.

Toting a basket of gourds, the gorgeous redhead paused to flutter her eyelashes and flash a dazzling smile at the two men. Both Mackenzies rushed to lift the counter’s trap to let Janet pass, bonking noggins with a crack.

B.A. shook her head, thinking the visitors due shortly-the ones Callum kept inquiring about every ten minutes-couldn’t arrive soon enough. Springtime, these past six years, was rough when a young man’s fancy turned to romance and there were no lasses to serenade by the light of the moon. Only, come autumn when nights grew longer, Falgannon males got quite cranky as they envisioned spending those winter months alone.

Janet Grant, called Janet the Red-though island males sniggered bawdier nicknames behind her back-sashayed between the hormone-riddled Mackenzies. She winked at B.A., reveling in what she did to the lads. B.A. knew Janet was a born flirt. What woman wouldn’t relish being center of attention on an island of love-starved men?

Well, other than me, B.A thought.

“Our B.A. is too serious to pull a kitty’s tail,” Janet teased, arranging the gourds inside the glass case at the front of the store. A loud blast from the ferry’s horn announced its arrival, causing Janet to jerk up and hit her head. She cursed. “Och, Angus, you sad excuse for a husband, I may yet take a knife to you in your sleep.” Rubbing her scalp, she rushed to the window to observe the ferryboat pulling into harbor.

“Best up his insurance first.” Michael howled.

On Falgannon, Ferry docking passed as high entertainment, right up there with watching Friday nights as Wee Dougie chased the old men?lovingly called the Morn B.A. Club-around with his scooter after the ceilidh.

Janet gasped. “Would you be looking at that.”

On tiptoes, Janet leaned into the casement for a clearer view, her heart-shaped derrière wiggling in Marilyn Monroe fashion. B.A. knew that undulating pulchritude generally held the Mackenzies transfixed as vipers before a snake charmer…so to speak. However, with the promise of the arrival of ‘wild females’ muddling their brains, they nearly toppled Janet from her perch.

“Have the lasses come, Janet the Red?” both males asked in unison.

“Not unless you fancy them near giants and on the masculine side.” Janet’s fiery red hair rippled as her head bobbed negative. She practically purred, “Verra masculine.”

“What we dinna need on this bloody rock…more men,” Michael grumbled.

B.A. couldn’t decide who looked more dejected, Callum or Michael. Their apathy and Janet’s hip swishing-similar to a kitty in heat-tweaked B.A.’s curiosity. Obviously, they were getting visitors, just not the ones expected. Once in a Blue Moon, tourists found the way to her hidden isle.

Inquisitive, B.A. leaned on the counter to catch a glimpse of the unloading ferry. She observed three men disembark and start up Harbor Hill. One was medium height with blue-black hair, the other two, near giants, were bright blond.

“The Vikings are invading Falgannon, you think, Janet?” Michael joked, then bumped his hip against hers.

“Sure and all, you’d expect to see those two in them hats with horns.” She giggled, flushing.

B.A. smirked, knowing Janet probably pictured herself ravished by the Barbarian Horde-the horns on hats not the ones on her friend’s mind! Untying her apron, B.A. lifted the trap and stepped to the other side of the counter, almost hearing the redhead’s thoughts-wonder if he's that big all over?

Near her age, B.A. got along well with Janet, the bride Angus fetched from Ireland six years ago, but pondered if their marriage would last. She doubted it, not with The Curse having the isle in its grip.

Down at the pub, the old duffers comprising the Morn, B.A. Club ran a pool on how long she’d stick it out on their bucolic island. Janet surprised everyone staying this long. B.A. feared her fun loving friend would one day grow bored with winter’s isolation and run off with a lad tired of island life.

“St. Columba,” Callum exclaimed. “They’re reversing a Range Rover off Ferry.”

“Where the Vikings think to drive that juggernaut?” asked Michael, pushing his cousin aside to look. “They make a circle of the isle in three shakes of a stick, then what? ‘Tis daft.”

Janet winked at B.A. “Typical males-if they cannot have a lass to ogle a car will do.”

“I thank you not to be insulting me, Janet the Red.” Michael sniffed, though his eyes remained glued on the car.

B.A. spied Wee Gordie Grant-so called because he was eleven and had no trade with which to link his name-dash up the hill toward the general store, obviously carrying the alarm of the Viking invasion. Brass bells over the door chimed heralding the lad’s arrival. He knocked into Callum, panted, “Pardon me, Janet the Red,” then continued on to slam into the counter.
In excited gasps, he blurted, “You see, B.A.? Angus the Ferry unloaded a machine! Did you order one, B.A.? Can I go driving in it with you?” and thirty other non-stop questions.

Callum came over and rapped the top of the child’s head. “That’s for calling me Janet, you eegit.”

B.A. watched the racket outside escalate. The Morn, B.A. Club members piled out of the Hanged Man to witness Falgannon under siege from Viking raiders, first time in 743 years. The Escape Artists-five foxhounds, fugitives from the kennels-got into the act, yapping and jumping in the air for attention. This drew the Marys and their tubby tabby, The Cat Dudley.

Willie the Writer, Robbie the Butcher and Innis the Thatcher brought up the rear of the impromptu parade. Wee Dougie Mackenzie puttered up on his scooter, riding ovals about the whole procession, the two-cycle engine’s irritating noise the perfect touch to the three-ring-circus. The hullabaloo caused the cat to slap the hounds as if the whole affair was their fault.

B.A. chuckled at the antics of her beloved islanders and their delightful ability to turn the mundane into high camp. The Vikings’ invasion was doomed facing that formidable welcome!

Walking behind the counter, B.A. reached for the aspirin bottle kept by the register. She shook out two, hesitated, and added a third. Sometimes being the owner of an isle where the inhabitants reveled in their madcap, Brigadoon ways really called for that third aspirin. She twisted the top on a Pepsi and washed down the tablets. Keeping an eye on the hubbub cresting the steep hill, she strangled on the soda when she again spotted the black-haired man at the center of the group.

For that suspended heartbeat, she thought she saw Evian.

Hope rose wild and unchecked as a vision played through her mind that Evian had somehow survived the plane crash. Picked up at sea by Norwegian fishermen, he’d been unable to recall who he was and it’d taken all this time to regain his memory. As her heart swelled painfully with longing, beating for the first time in seven years, the crowd drew closer and parted so she saw the man full in the face. The face of a stranger.

In that breath she lost her husband a second time.

Too much to absorb, she slammed down the Pepsi and fled to the backroom. Leaning against the wall, her legs barely held her upright. She tilted her head back and closed her eyes against the wave of emotion so strong it was crippling. The pain hadn’t been this bad for a long time. In the early days after the crash she’d been gutted. Over time, she survived by wrapping her heart in cotton and getting through one day at a time. Only…sometimes she was so lonely.

Minutes passed before the droning in her head receded enough to hear the crowd making the welkin ring on the store’s porch. Naturally, the Outlanders would stop here. A private isle, no one could land on Falgannon unless they registered with the Harbormaster. Foolishly defying The Curse, Davey the Harbor had abandoned the job to go wife hunting in Edinburgh, so the task temporarily fell to her.

Swallowing raw emotions, B.A. gathered the tattered ribbons of her composure and strode back to the storefront as the bells chimed ballyhooing the Vikings’ arrival.

The Cat Dudley in the lead, three men came through the door, dodging The Escape Artists as the yapping hounds circled through their legs and tugged at their pant cuffs. B.A. sniggered, surprised no one tripped due to the animal brigade’s antics.

And yes, it seemed the Vikings had landed. The two taller men were stereotypical Norsemen. With long, white-blond hair and a rugged face that’d see women fall at his feet, the first towered over everyone. A ruddy cast touched the complexion of the second, with waves of straw-blond hair framing his handsome face. His vivid blue eyes flashed in devilish mirth as he spotted Janet staring at them in the same manner The Escape Artists would a steak.

Their virile perfection left B.A. unmoved. She assessed them and judged both as healthy males, but no more emotionally involving than sizing up Campbell Grant’s blue-ribbon bull.

It was the third man-the one with the raven-black hair-who drew her eyes. If a Viking, he had Black Irish blood in him coming through a female stolen in a long ago raid. Both blonds stepped to either side of the aisle to let him pass, a gesture of deference. Almost a head taller, they were physically dominating, but he was the power. B.A. sensed this clearly as if both men had gone down on one knee in obeisance. With a panther’s grace he strode to the counter and bent to set the Louis Vuitton duffle on the floor. B.A.’s breathing clutched, girding herself to confront the invader. Dizziness buzzed in her blood.

Then he raised up, meeting her stare...and everything stilled.

Not a blue of any shade, his eyes were pale green-warlock eyes-capable of freezing with the arch of his black brow. Lifting her chin, B.A. fought a frisson as they locked on her. Peripherally aware of the moggie pussyfooting on the countertop, he ran his hand along its spine.

The gesture triggered vivid images within B.A., of that hand upon her body, stroking in the same sensual magic. A premonition? She blinked, loath to recognizing the prospect.

She was right-he was a bloody warlock!

The Cat Dudley arched under his hand for maximum contact, turned and head-butted his elbow for more pets. Turncoat, B.A. thought.

Security came in the fact the stranger looked nothing like Evian, B.A. assured herself as she appraised him. Quite healthy, no middle-age paunch hid under the expensively tailored silk shirt and black leather jacket. Though probably in his early forties, most would judge him a decade younger. It was the lines bracketing his mouth that gave him away, hinting at someone who’d lived longer and seen disappointments, hardening him.

Long black lashes were unblinking over penetrating eyes. A feral stillness about him conjured the image of a panther, so beautiful, so compelling. She itched to reach out and stroke him as he did the cat. Self-preservation stayed her hand, fearful he’d strike in a wink of an eye.

Outside of wavy blue-black hair, little about the invader evoked the memory of Evian. Her tension should ease seeing this man didn’t resemble her dead husband. Once more she was safe, buffeted by the cocoon the island provided; she didn’t have to feel, didn’t risk her soul. How could any man reach through the wall she built for protection?

Inexplicably, alarmingly, this man did. He unnerved her, put her on the defensive. An air of mystery, of relentless calculation, swirled in the jade eyes setting off tocsins within B.A. Her fae sense whispered warning his coming to the isle had something to do with her; he’d change her world if she permitted it.

Din from the crowd abated as they watched the invader and ‘their B.A.’ locked in a staring contest. She knew it bordered on droll for neither of them to break the ice and speak first, but strangely, she held back, waiting…watching.

His right brow arched, conceding this round. “I’m searching for B.A. Montgomerie. Is he about?” Lilt of the Irish touched the deep melodic voice, sending shivers up her spine.

Twitters rippled through the crowd over his error. A tattletale, Wee Gordie opened his mouth to correct him, but Callum grabbed the child’s shoulder and placed a hand over Gordie’s gub to silence the jabber-box.

The Viking leader turned to each side, looking at the grinning villagers-again that cold air of assessing. Coming back to B.A., his gaze narrowed on her, shocking her to discover those ice-green eyes were capable of heat. They raked slowly over her face, the dark gold hair fanning about her shoulders, down to her breasts and then lower in a path of scorching fire before traveling back to lock stares. Appraisal finished, he watched her as if he knew things about her, secrets, things she loathed to admit, DARED her to admit. The well-formed lips parted in his panther’s appreciation, his jungle arrogance saying he’d put his mark on her.

The impact of this man hit her senses-hard-reaching past her guard. Her traitorous body roared to life. Breasts heavy, tips sensitive, without glancing down she knew the thin silk of her gold blouse outlined the crowns of her betraying nipples. Lifting her chin, she tugged the shawl about her as a blanket of armour.

“What might you wish with B.A. Montgomerie?” she inquired.

“We’ve business. My commitment was originally with Sean Montgomerie, but my solicitor wired of his passing in May. I must instead deal with his heir, B.A. Montgomerie. I wonder if you’d give me his directions?”

Go out the door, turn right and keep walking in a straight line  is what she chafed to reply, meaning he’d walk into the bay. Then she wouldn’t have to deal with the rising panic he provoked within her. Forcing a smile, she struggled to ignore the fire in those challenging eyes.

“I’m B.A. Montgomerie.”

He arched a brow. “A woman? B.A. Montgomerie is a woman?”

Wee Gordie escaped Callum’s constraint and blurted from a safe distance, “Aye, she’s the Lady Of The Isle like her seanamhair Maeve was.”

“Lady Of The Isle? Is that similar to Lady Of The Lake?” A smile twitched at the corner of his made-for-sin mouth. “Then you and I have matters that need sorting out.”

“And you are?” she queried.

He tilted his head, vouchsafing her another point. “Desmond Mershan. I presume you’re expecting me?” He held out his hand.

B.A. stared at the long magician’s fingers as if they were cobras. His polished manner triggered warning-bells within her, cautioning Desmond Mershan lied through those pearly white teeth-predator’s teeth. He knew precisely who she was. This man wasn’t stupid. Incisive, shrewd intelligence radiated through those pale eyes. That alone told her if he had business with her grandfather, he wouldn’t come to Falgannon without knowing every detail about the isle, about B.A. Montgomerie. He strangely played out this charade. Lying. Why? B.A. attempted to shake that impression, but it lingered.

“You presumed wrong.”

Impatience flared in his expression, yet even that struck B.A. as having a thespian air. “Details were fixed at the first of the year with Sean Montgomerie, owner of the isle?”

“I’m owner,” she informed him, “have been for twenty years.”

The golden moggie stood and put his paws on Mershan’s chest, meowing for attention. Mershan shifted to evade the pesky feline, but finally gave in and scratched its chin. “Affectionate animal.”

That drew guffaws from the crowd, prompting Callum to grumble, “Despite the wee beastie from Hell greeting you as a long lost friend, if you look up cantankerous in a dictionary, you’ll see a picture of The Cat Dudley for illustration.”

Blinking innocently, Kitty bumped the invader, reminding him to keep fingers moving. B.A. rolled her eyes in disbelief when he rumbled as though the man were 100% catnip.

"As I was saying, my arrangements were with the old laird of the island?”

“I own Falgannon, not my grandfather. He only handled investments for the isle and with my approval. I’ve never heard of you or any arrangements.”

Gently pushing away the persistent cat, he smiled. “I’m exhausted, so are my companions. If you’d point us to lodgings, we can sort this out after I have a couple aspirins and a drink. Say over supper?”

The penetrating eyes traced over her with blistering sexual fire. Confident of acquiescence, he reclaimed the expensive duffle.

So the warlock was being charming? She almost huffed her doubt. Supper? Those soporific eyes promised a meal-a bedtime story and breakfast! “No one lands on my island without prior permission. I’ve no idea what you?”

Reaching inside his jacket, he pulled out an envelope and sighed. “Permission to land, Lady of the Isle. While you get up to speed, I’d appreciate a meal and a bath.”

“Read it, B.A.,” Wee Gordie urged, only to be hushed by several islanders.

B.A. no more wished to accept it than she had to shake his hand. Maeve had taught her to be wary of a warlock, distrustful of accepting anything from him. More importantly, never to pass him any object he requested-especially salt-you’d give away a part of yourself, empowering his control over you. B.A. never met anyone who qualified as a warlock, but she’d bet Maeve’s silver torque she stared one in the face.

The envelope dropped to the counter. It took all her concentration to maintain the calm facade. Nerves raw, after years of the buffer between the world and her, this man broke down barriers and sent emotions careening like balls in a pinball machine.

He arched a black brow, mocking, signaling awareness of her fear. Worse, B.A. read in those pale gleaming eyes her response pleased him. “If you’ll point my companions and me in the right direction?”

“It’s directions you need?” B.A. felt devilment twitch at the corner of her mouth. Someone unfamiliar with her might mistake it for a dimple. “Start up Harbour Hill, turn right and follow the cobbled road. It takes you where you need to go.”

Tilting his head in thanks, a sexy smile tugged at the full mouth. A mouth that conjured images of long, deep kisses. “I shall see you later?”

Sooner than you think, B.A. vowed silently, ignoring what that smile did to her heart.

If he attached significance to snickers when he passed, he gave no indication. The three men started up the hill road, the silly dogs falling in, yapping and bounding about them, followed by the putt-putt-putt of Wee Dougie’s scooter playing caboose.

B.A. waited until they moved beyond the range of the store, then rushed to the porch to watch. With athletic strides, they quickly passed the postcard perfect businesses and homes. The cobbled road circled the isle’s southern tip, with the neat row of two-story, stone buildings lining the inner curve. Doors kept opening as her Falgannonians came to eyeball the Vikings and their bizarre entourage vanish around the bend.

Hurrying inside, B.A. went to the counter to see what answers the envelope held. Closest, Michael peered at the expensive vellum as if it’d pop open and a jack-in-the-box would spring forth. B.A. joined him in glaring at the envelope. She needed a long stick to touch it, make certain it was safe, maybe whack it a few times just to be sure.

Sharing her sentiment, Michael snagged a pencil and poked it.

B.A.’s mouth flattened in a frown as she snatched it away and lifted the flap. While her eyes scanned the photocopies, the shawl snaked down one shoulder.

Eyes alight with assessment, Callum leaned on the counter. “Interesting bloke, wouldn’t you agree, B.A.?”

“As interesting as a panther on a leash. I should count my fingers to see if any are missing.”

“Oh aye, B.A., it’s easy to discern how uninteresting you found this Desmond feller.” Seeing the silk clad breast proclaiming her arousal, Callum and Michael exchanged knowing male glances, then burst into laughter.

Adjusting the shawl, B.A. stuck her tongue out at them. She couldn’t even summon a scathing retort, too distracted by studying the copies of letters between Sean and Mershan.

Robbie the Butcher rushed in. “A wicked lass you are, B.A., sending them to trod the town circle. Another five minutes they’ll be returning. Quick, what’s it say?”

“Some arrangement Sean set up last winter. The Vikings are to survey the land on the eastern slope.” She rattled the pages in the air. “Nothing was in the investment portfolio given to me upon Sean’s death. While I gave leave to invest the island’s money, I dunna believe he’d undertake something of this magnitude without my permission.”

The bells over the door ting-a-linged, causing B.A. to glance up as Willie the Writer hurried inside. A beloved islander joke, he churned out bestselling cowboy romances set in the States under the penname Willa Macgregor. A hoot, since farthest west he’d ever been was Belfast.

“A naughty lass you are, B.A. Villagers are rushing to see the excitement. I fear the lads’ll jump to the conclusion it’s the Yank lasses finally come. Expect tempers when they discover it’s only a wee Viking invasion,” he cautioned.

The racket of Wee Dougie’s scooter grew audible in the distance as the crowd rounded the far bend, giving B.A. little time to gather her wits. She needed to ring her brother, the family solicitor; he’d know if this was legit or Desmond Mershan was a snake-oil salesman.

She reached for the phone on the wall, only Callum, Michael and Willie cried in unison, “Blower’s down.”

“Oh, yeah.” She questioned, “Where’s Jock the Repair, MacGyver of the East? With the matchmaking project, we need to be online 24/7 not seven hours out of twenty-four.”

“He’s fixing Davey the Weaver’s washer-machine,” Callum answered. “B.A., since we’re discussing our sorry state of communications on our fair isle-or lack of them-you ken our system needs redoing. With the Yank lasses coming, they’ll expect some conveniences. They won’t believe we only have five phones on the whole bloody isle. Any chance of dragging the island into this millennium? Poor sweet things will probably faint when you say no cell-phones.”

Willie bragged, “Dell is sending me a grand laptop with bells and whistles. I finally ordered a copy of The Return Of The King video game. I get to be Gandalf and kill Orcs.”

“Och, you should be buying a Mac,” Robbie chided, “support the homeland businesses.”

Despite the exasperation of the situation, B.A. smiled. Her islanders had it fixed in their brains, since the computers were Macs they naturally were a product of Scotland. She’d given up trying to correct them; once they glommed onto an idea, it stuck in their brains.

“B.A., this Desmond feller won’t appreciate your sending him on a wee tour of our downtown business district.”
Keeping a watchful eye out at the front of the store, Robbie asked, “Who were you going to ring, lass?”

“My brother the solicitor. Moot now. These papers appear to be a contract between Mershan and The Montgomerie.”

“Contract?” several echoed in query.

“If it’s not a scam, Sean sought to turn us into an exclusive tourist spot. Mershan is here to judge if it’s feasible to place a hotel on the isle’s eastern tip.”

The irksome putt-putt noise increased, silencing the whole store.

“Look at this. It’s like a bloody May Day parade,” Robbie called from the porch.

B.A. came up behind them, watching Mershan and his Viking bodyguards stalk down Lower Harbour Road in determined strides, The Escape Artists barking and rollicking about them. In the lead strutting proudly was The Cat Dudley-a feline parade marshal-and yes, a large portion of the isle’s populace was now in tow. Eleven were on bicycles, while Ian and Brian Fraser rode on horses. Wee Dougie, on that blasted scooter, trailed after the islanders afoot, staying just out of reach of everyone.

“The invaders approach,” B.A muttered drolly.

Rushing behind the counter, she checked in off-chance Jock duct-taped the phone to working in the past few minutes. No such luck. She stood tapping the envelope against her chin while the din outside increased.

Metal-tipped cane clicking on the wood floor, Angus the Ancient tottered in, leaving the door open. “You’ve done it now, B.A., sending them Vikings on a Gooseberry Fool’s walk. That black-headed feller has steam rolling out his ears. Dunna ken him to be thrilled a’tall being butt of your joke, lass.”

Silence descended causing B.A. to turn. Abruptly, the storefront shook with the force of a small blast. For a fleeting second, B.A. wondered if they’d suffered an earthquake. But no, someone had slammed the door with such violence everything on the shelves rattled. Not seismic activity, but another force of nature.

He stood there.

Her stomach dropped. Maybe she had been a little abrupt in handling him. Well, it was his own bloody fault, setting off such frantic emotions within her!

“Och, now you’re in for it, B.A.,” Angus chided, waving a shaky finger at her.

Mershan’s leather jacket was off, draped in the crook of his arm and partially over the duffle he carried. Lasers of fury, the ice-green eyes targeted her, and despite sexual-tension crackling in the air, she was positive it wasn’t lust. Though his chest rose and fell, she noted it was in effort to control his anger not from the walk’s exertion; he hadn’t broken a sweat from the tour of the tiny village, showing his peak physical condition.

All the better to throttle you, B.A., her mind whispered as she battled the instinct to run.

“He’s right,” Mershan growled, “I’m not happy.” He dropped the bag and coat on the floor as if needing both hands free.

All the better to wrap around your neck, B.A., echoed through her brain.

Desmond took a step toward her. B.A. took one back. She feared no man, but for the first time in her life one rattled her.

Frozen in a fight-or-flight response, it took seconds to recognize an odd creaking came overhead. Jerking her gaze to the ceiling, her eyes locked on the old shark’s jaw suspended by a wooden peg from the rafter. Hung before she was born, it suddenly dropped, hurtling straight at them. She stood too stunned to move. With feline reflexes Mershan yanked her aside, shielding her with his body. Razor sharp teeth just missed them, shattering about them. Chunks of the brittle bone ricocheted into the pyramid display of soup cans, sending them dodging again.

Twining around Mershan’s ankles, Dudley squalled when his tail was stepped on. Reverting to his nasty little self, he protested by sinking his claws into Desmond’s right calf, then followed with his patented vampire-bite.

The man howled. The cat yowled. Cat dangling from his leg, Desmond danced over bone chunks and rolling cans.

B.A. knew Dudley had fixed in his brain the source of all evils in his kittydom originated with Callum. Thus, she wasn’t surprised when he released his hold on Mershan and launched that fat tabby body at the thigh of his nemesis, glomming on just as Callum’s foot landed on a rolling can.

No time to regain footing, Desmond ducked to avoid Callum’s flailing. Callum, with the tabby hanging on, went flying backward. He collided into the off balance Desmond; both men and cat crashed into the five-tiered rack of the jars of sweets.

Two dozen glass containers shattered, flinging shards, jawbreakers and gumballs scattering across the wooden floor. Everyone danced trying to dodge the confections and glass. The hard candies acted like ball bearings while cream-filled treats squished to a slippery goop. B.A. gaped in horror as Desmond skated on the jawbreakers, losing balance. His feet flew into the air. Going down, he cracked his head against the floor.

To escape the chaos, Dudley leapt to the countertop. He flopped down on his hip and stuck his hind leg in the air. With a loud sneeze of disdain, he started giving it a tongue bath.

“Demon-cat! I’m going to burn you in the Wicker Man come May Day,” Callum snarled from his knees.

For several heartbeats, B.A.’s mind reeled, waiting for the invader to get up. He didn’t move. No rise and fall of his chest was visible. Step-by-step, everyone made their way over to the felled man and peered at his still form.

B.A. glanced up to see her villagers crammed against the bay windows and door; noses pressed to the glass, they resembled creatures from the X-Files. With unabashed glee, they howled at the Marx Brothers antics inside.

Robbie shook his head in disbelief. “You have to admit, B.A. this is the most excitement we’ve had on the isle since the floating of the sheep last June, when we prepared them for sheering by tossing them into the creek to wash them.

“B.A.,” Angus muttered reproach, “you’ve gotten yourself in a pretty pickle. Gone and murdered the Viking leader. Ashamed you should be.”

Panic setting in, she knelt beside the almost too beautiful man-the man alarmingly still. “He isn’t dead,” she pronounced with a conviction she didn’t entirely feel. Swallowing tension, B.A.’s hands hovered just above Mershan afraid to touch him. “I…dunna…think.”

With a thespian wink, Angus shook his cane in touch of farce to reinforce his idiotic statement. “Told Sean Montgomerie he should’ve beaten her regularly as a child. He dinna listen. Now his granddaughter has gone and kilt this feller. ‘Tis a sad day. Our Lady Of The Isle is a murderess.”

“Oh, Angus, put a sock in it,” B.A. snapped, feeling her life suddenly had spun out of control.

ROMANCE READERS CHATS WITH THE AUTHOR:

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!!