Maeve Greyson's Blog, page 10

Ramsay lifted his head and stared into her eyes for a long heart-pounding moment. “You are my happiness,” he said in low rasping whisper. “You alone. D’ye ken what I’m sayin’? Nothing else matters but you.” Preorder your copy today! Amazon Apple Books B&N Google Play Kobo

“Ye speak of things, lass—no’ of people in the future. Do things mean so much t’ye?”Dwyn’s unblinking stare was growing more uncomfortable by the minute. It was like he was peeling away all her layers and exposing her most vulnerable thoughts. Katie looked to Ramsay, but his body language said he wanted to hear what she had to say too.“No.” Katie lifted her chin, taking the dare. No one could ever say she was a chickenshit. “As my Papa used to say, thingspass through our lives—easy to gain, easy to lose. What matters in life is making memories with someone you love. Memories that no one—not time, the gods, angels, or demons can ever take away.”Preorder today to enjoy on January 22, 2019! 

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I adore Toothless! He's such a sweetie. I hope you don't mind my sharing this video with you. I thought it a lovely break from all the stressful holiday fooferall! :)

Welcome to Mistress Maeve’s Christmas village. I’m Dobbins the postman and so very happy to greet you and wish you the merriest of Christmases.

Mistress Maeve doesn’t know it, but all of us here in Christmas village are, in fact, real. We live our lives and carry on quite nicely when she’s not looking—even when she thinks we’re boxed up and tucked away in storage.

Unfortunately, Mistress Maeve’s cat, Spaz, is very much aware of us and the vile beast has become somewhat of a pain in our backsides. He delights in knocking us off our feet when Mistress Maeve is about, and we have to remain on our backs in the snow until she looks away.
See the house with the porch full of cats? That’s my home. I admit I don’t have the heart to turn away a stray of any kind, but my home is filled with the love they give me in return for a meal and a warm place to rest their weary heads.

Looks like old Mr. Macintosh’s pump is froze-up again. Mrs. Macintosh must be doing laundry even in all this snow. That long underwear on the line will freeze for sure.
I’ll leave you now to wander about on your own without my blatherin’ in your ear. My wife tells me I do tend to go on too much so I’m doin’ my best to keep that in mind whenever new folks come to visit.

But once again, I do wish you a fine merry Christmas and a prosperous and healthy New Year to boot.

Your new wee friend,
Dobbins

“Nay, m’love, I canna stop.” He slowly rose from his seat, keeping his voice soft and low, barely louder than the sound of the rain. “Yer the first woman in sixteen years . . .” His words stalled. Was he really ready to reveal his scarred heart and his painful history to an outsider, to a woman? A twenty-first-century woman who more than likely had ne’er heard of the MacDara druids or the druid clans?

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Katie Jenson never dreamed that a time-traveling Highland warrior would be her greatest archeological find.
“Now what?” Katie asked.
When Ramsay finally spoke, the deep richness of his voice was low and steady. He talked as though in a trance. “As of this evenin’, ye are now the wife and soulmate of Ramsay Danann MacDara. Third son to the MacDara high chieftain. Born at MacDara Broch in the Highlands of Scotland . . . in the year 884.”
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Damn. He’s right where he belongs.

The certainty hit her as soon as she saw him. Hit. Her. Hard. So hard, she caught her breath and froze in the archway opening into the great hall.

Ramsay stood on the dais at one end of the cavernous meeting room that sprawled the length and width of the keep. The great hall, as it was known by all, comprised the center core of the stronghold—and Ramsay now reigned supreme over it.

Formidable. Imposing. Arresting. All those adjectives fell short when it came to describing the mesmerizing man who had obviously not only found his element but totally embraced it.

He clutched his spear at his side like a king—no like a Greek god, like Zeus himself holding his scepter as he surveyed Olympus. A different breastplate from the one he’d worn earlier covered his chest. This one reminded Katie of the one Ramsay’s father had worn back at the altar. Highly polished iron and brass pieces shaped into what she was certain were meaningful symbols were inset into the piece of thick leather armor that had been dyed black and oiled to a fine sheen that reflected the light from the torches and the candles.

Wide stance. Broad shoulders thrown back. Head held high. A heart-stopping leader overseeing all his subjects. When his piercing gaze landed on her, Katie swallowed hard and an involuntary shiver of damn rippled through her. This wasn’t Ramsay, the sweet, hesitant introvert of Brady, North Carolina. This man was Ramsay, the fearless warlord.

He smiled. A real smile that proudly shone from his eyes, then he held out his hand and waited.
A gentle but firm push nudged at the small of her back. “Go to him, m’lady,” Flora whispered from behind her. “Dinna fash, I’ll be a standin’ to the side of the pedestal if ye have need of the slightest thing.”

Oddly enough, the knowledge that the mere slip of a girl that she’d just met would be nearby did make her feel somewhat better.

Katie stepped into the room and the rumbling undertone of the multiple conversations evaporated, leaving behind a nerve-jarring silence. She swallowed hard and kept her focus locked on Ramsay as she made her way to the dais and took his hand.

“Yer breathtaking,” Ramsay said as he beamed at her with a look she’d never seen on any man’s face before. It was a shiver-inducing mixture of pride, adoration, and pure primal hunger. He steadied her as she navigated the pair of wide stone steps of the dais, assisting her struggle to keep her long skirts from grabbing her feet and throwing her to the ground.

He kept his gaze locked on her face as he met her on the middle step and pressed his mouth close to her ear right before she’d reached the top. “Truly breathtaking, dear one, and yer all mine.”
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Many genre choices a burdened author doth make.Ever since I started releasing my stories into the wild—kind of like a catch and release program—I’ve been hard pressed to nail down my “brand”. Authors are always advised, and rightly so, to establish their brand. It helps readers. It helps marketing. It helps publishers. It helps eeeeerbody up in here. But it kinda makes me squirm.

My tagline: Magical Romance Sifting through Time was about as close as I could get to branding what I write because my stories vary. A lot. The only constant in all my stories is my beloved Highlanders.

My most recent series: Highland Protectors runs along the lines of contemporary, time-travel, historical romance with a backstory sprinkle of druid magic and Celtic goddesses. The first two books are primarily in the present and the third book…uhm…isn’t. *wink* Can’t give away too much, now can I? But anyway, how’s that for a sampler plate of genres within the same series?

For more information on all my books, click HERE In my current writing project, I’m attempting to discipline myself and stick to one genre. I know. Kind of scary. It’s pure historical romance set in seventeenth century Scotland. No time travel. No druids or witchcraft. No Celtic hocus pocus. I’m tempted, mind you, but so far, I’m nearly half done with the draft of the first book and I haven’t cheated even once.

But I am curious. Are you a reader of many genres? My faves are historical, regency, and time-travel romances. I cut my proverbial reading teeth on Barbara Cartland romances.

What genre or genres do you enjoy?