Blog Tour: The Queen of Swords by Nina Mason

When Graham Logan, a Scottish earl turned vampire by a dark wizard’s curse, draws the Queen of Swords, he knows he’s about to meet the love of his life. For the third time. But surrendering his heart will mean risking her life…or making her what he is. Neither of which his morals will permit him to do. Graham, who believes he lost his soul to the curse, rages at God: Why give her back only to take her again?

Cat Fingal, the third incarnation of Graham’s twin flame, won’t let him escape so easily. As soon as they meet, she feels she knows him and begins having past-life flashbacks. A white witch, she casts a spell to summon him, wanting answers and to fill the void she’s felt all her life.

Graham has other problems, too. Like the seductress who wants him for herself and the dark wizard who cursed him and killed his beloved the first two times.

Will he find a way to save her this time around? Or will she save him?

Kindle | Paperback

12th May. Visited Caitriona tonight for the first time since becoming a monster. She slept, unaware of my presence, & for a time, I was content simply to observe. As the hours passed, I began to wonder what might happen if she awoke to find me in her room. Would she think me a wraith? Would she think it a dream? Desiring to know, & to get closer, I sat down on the corner of the bed, alert for any stirrings. Seeing none, I crawled up the bed until I reached her side. Still she did not stir. Ever so carefully, I set my head upon the pillow next to hers. She slept on. Drinking in her scent, I felt contentment for the first time since fate & Fitzgerald tore us apart. I closed my eyes & must have drifted off, because next I knew, her arm fell across my chest. Startled awake, I found her blinking at me in disbelief.

I lay there, still as death, waiting for her to react. Her hand moved up my chest to my face. She dragged her fingers across my jaw, pressed them against my lips, touched the end of my nose, my eyebrows, my forehead. As she combed back my hair, she whispered: “This must be a dream. But you feel so real, so alive. I don’t ken how such a thing is possible; nor do I care. I only pray I shall never awaken.”

I kept still. I could hear her heartbeat, smell her blood, but her blood was not what I craved. She set her head on my chest & started to sob.

“Am I dreaming?” she asked, soft & low.

“Aye.”

She raised herself up, came over me & pressed her mouth against mine.

“Can we make love in my dream?”

“Aye.”

When it was over, I collapsed beside her, feeling so elated, so profoundly moved, I very nearly wept.

She set her head against my chest. “Will you promise me something?”

“Anything, m’aingael.”

“Always come to me like this in my dreams.”

Nina Mason is a hopeful romantic with strong affinities for history, mythology, and the metaphysical. She strives to write the same kind of books she loves to read: those that entertain, edify, educate, and enlighten. Three of her books will be published in 2014: The Queen of Swords, an urban fantasy/paranormal romance; The Knight of Wands, book one in the Knights of Avalon Series; and The Tin Man, a political thriller about the dangers posed by media monopolies.  She is currently at work on Book Two of the Knights of Avalon series and is itching to get back to a book she started a while back about a merman who falls for an oil company spokeswoman after a phantom tanker capsizes on the coast of the Hebrides islands. When not writing, Nina works as a communications consultant, doll maker, and home stager. Born and raised in Southern California, she now lives in Woodstock, Georgia, with her husband, teenage daughter, two rescue cats, and a Westie named Robert.

Social-media links:

Website: http://ninamasonauthor.com

Blog: http://ninamasonromance.blogspot.com

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/ninamasonromance

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Sneaky peek! To Dream of a Highlander

I'm sharing a snippet from my upcoming book, To Dream of a Highlander which releases on the 11th April. Squeeeee!

She needed to escape. But how? The keep was surrounded, the fighting fierce. She risked death by stepping outside the upper chambers. Her father had told her to remain inside. Catriona swallowed the knot in her throat. She’d heard enough tales of Norse barbarity. Rapes, pillaging. Was this what they were to expect? Would she die this day?

With a final glance around the room, she made her decision. She would not die here, cowering and quivering, with the acrid scent of death in her nostrils as night fell around them. Hurrying to the door, she twisted the handle, grimacing as the iron squeaked. She peered through the small gap. A whistle of air. The sounds of dying men and crumbling masonry. But no enemy.

Skirts in hand, she scurried along the corridor and followed the spiral steps down to the hall. No one paid any heed to her but Catriona saw everything she needed to. The men-at-arms had retreated into the castle and were busy shoring up the defences of the hall. Laird Malcolm, her father, directed the men to place strong wooden beams across the entrance.

Catriona shook her head. For all the good it would do them. Those doors were not strong enough to hold back a horde of Norsemen—or Vikings as the men referred to them. Slippers crunching across the rushes, she made her way to the kitchen stairs and descended. A few men and women cowered behind the large oak table.

“Lady Catriona,” the cook hissed, standing and weighing a cooking knife in his hand. “Come, lass, and hide.”

“Nay, I’ll no’ stay here. The enemy will break through at any moment.”

The big ruddy man snorted. “And where shall ye go, wee Catriona? Ye’ll no’ survive out there.” He motioned with his knife out of the small rear door.

“I’ll seek shelter with the villagers.”

“If ye can even reach them. Ye’ll be spotted by a Viking for sure. Dinnae be foolish. A lass like ye is a fine prize for a lusty Viking.”

She stiffened at this, aware her looks had brought her much unwanted attention over the years. Since she had come of age many men had tried to sway her into bed. While her sister relished the attention, she did not. She would not give herself up so readily to a Norseman.

“Pray come with me,” she implored as crashing sounded above and several women released sounds of distress.

“Nay. ‘Tis guaranteed death to go out there. Here, we stand a chance.”

 Catriona suppressed a frustrated curse. Did they not see it was better to at least try? Mayhap they would be well, she told herself as she spun away.

“Good luck to ye, lass,” Cook murmured behind her.

Pressing through the door, she blew out a heavy breath. She refused to cower and await death. The men-at-arms had been talking of what might happen should the Norse break through—some of them cruelly teasing her with tales. A few whom she had declined took particular delight in describing how a Viking planned to take his pleasure with her.

Catriona closed the door and flattened her back against it, willing her imaginings away. Hopefully the servants would remain unharmed but a lass like herself… she'd had troubles enough over her years. She would not stay to discover if the tales were true.

Her father would be furious to find her gone, but she cared little what he thought. He only wanted her to continue their ruse. The household knew of their plan and she had been playing at being Lady Katelyn for any visitors to Bute since her sister’s death, while they waited for word from Katelyn’s betrothed. Until the Norse landed on their shores, that was.

Breath held, the clatter of swords and footsteps grew close. The stickiness on her palms increased and she smoothed them over her gown. Her chest constricted. Someone approached down the narrow corridor leading out of the kitchen and to the rear of the keep. Her escape was blocked. 

She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a cry. Shouts sent a shiver through her, the fear clawing up her throat making it almost impossible to breathe. Shadows slithered across the walls, distorted by the few lit torches. How had the Norsemen found the secret passage? Should she go back into the kitchen? Nay, if she did, she would lead them directly to the rest of the household. Her only choice was to confront the invaders.

Trembling, she edged away from the door and followed the curve of the passageway. It seemed to Catriona that a wild, brawling mass of limbs and armour had plunged into the small space. She no longer had trouble breathing but her body failed her—left her frozen. She stood as still as prey beneath a hawk while the stench of sweat and blood assaulted her.

His foreign appearance, the long hair and unusual clothing startled her and a hand clenched around her arm, snapping her out of her daze. A squeak escaped her, a noise that should have been a scream should her throat have cooperated. Body shaking, she dragged her gaze fearfully up to meet the cold blue of the Norseman’s eyes. Was it horror playing with her mind or was he truly the size of a giant?

He thrust her against the wall, causing her head to crack against the stone while he muttered something in his foreign tongue. Catriona noted the blood on his hands had transferred to her gown. The blood of the soldiers of Bute. How bad had the slaughter been?

His blood slickened hand travelled up to her face to curl around her cheek. A cry threatened to spill from her mouth but she held it at bay. She failed to supress her shudder as his rancid breath washed over her. Reluctantly, she dragged her gaze to his. Mayhap if she begged…? But, nay, the frigidness still lingered in his eyes. She only hoped he ravished her and left her be. She steeled her resolve. The sea of nausea in her stomach ebbed.

“Do what ye will,” she whispered, closing her eyes. 

A REAL Day in the Life of an Author or Why did I waste a whole day on Facebook?

I once wrote a post like this for a guest spot I believe. A Day in the Life of... It was all LIES. I believe I even tried to put across that I actually had a life outside of writing, which of course, I don't, but I didn't want to sound so sad.

Here is how my day truly goes:

5.55am Alarm goes off. Lie there for 5 minutes and fight dog for bed space while scrolling through Facebook. Already feel inadequate when I see someone releasing their sixth book of the year.

6.00am Deal with animals. Turn on laptop. Bash out 1000 words while still half asleep. This will be the best work of the day.

6.30am Make kids and hubby's lunches. Tackle one chore for the day while there's no interruptions. Wake up family. Cups of tea all round.

7.00am Get dressed, try to look like a respectable member of society. Cajole children into getting dressed. Fail to get hubby out of bed. Run around like a madwoman trying to squeeze three days of chores into one morning as can't function in messy house.

8.25am Usher kids and dog out door having just about fed and dressed them and coaxed husband out of bed.

9.00am Have some vague kind of breakfast--usually some horrible 'greens' drink which I'm secretly convinced keeps my muse going. Bash out another 1k.

10.00 am Have a nap.

11.30 am. Wake up from nap and ponder story. Realise the stuff I wrote at 9.00am was terrible. Go into panic. Change plot in head. Start to make lunch with a heavy heart, dreading opening the laptop again and seeing what rubbish I wrote.

12.00 pm Eat lunch, check emails. Answer emails, send off review copies, post on Facebook, answer more emails. Create a banner for new release. Create a teaser for new release. Put together a media kit for new release. Book ads for new release. Consider re-opening Twitter account then realise it's pointless and boring and I have too many things on my plate already.

1.00pm See horrible review. Suffer from crippling doubt and decide to give up writing forever. Message friends for comfort. Receive comfort but are convinced they're only saying it to be nice and they think you're crap too. Have discussion about what terrible writers we are before talking ourselves out of it. Wonder how some authors never seem fazed by anything.

2.00pm Write some stuff at a snail's pace. Smack head against table. Curse characters for not doing what I want. Consider another career. Browse Facebook and suffer from more doubt when fellow author is at number one for whatever category. What am I doing wrong? It must be because I'm crap.

3.00pm Do more chores because somehow the house got messy even though I was either sleeping, Facebooking or writing.

4.00pm Walk dog and collect children. Feed them, feed animals, do homework. More admin stuff. Blog posts to write. Emails to answer. Website to update.

5.00 pm Start cooking dinner. Clean up yet more mess and do yet more chores.

More Facebook. Suffer crippling jealously when I see a friend at a cool convention I'll never go to because a) The general public aren't ready for me and b) I can't afford to fly to the US where all the cool stuff happens.

6.00 pm Burn dinner after inspiration finally takes hold and I frantically bash out whatever I can.

7.00 pm Clear up burnt dinner. Put kids to bed. Have a bath. Vaguely acknowledge husband. Look at cats on Facebook and beta read story for friend while worrying I'll seem too harsh. Read a Buzz feed post about authors, nod along and swear I'll be more productive from now on. (Insert self-doubt/guilt here)

9.00 pm Husband starts getting annoyed and making growling sounds from the couch. Why can't my work day end at 5.00 pm like normal people? he asks. Reluctantly leave WIP and try to make an effort to behave like a normal human being whose work day has ended.

11.00pm Bed. Lie in bed for an hour or two plotting story or going through all the things I didn't achieve. Mentally pen all the emails I didn't write.

2.00am Amazing idea for story! Must write it down!!!