Interview with Gayle Callen, author of THE GROOM WORE PLAID
1)
Would you fall in love with Owen if you were given the chance?
Of
course I would! I really liked the pull inside him between the scientist
marveling at the eighteenth century inventions, and the clan chief who felt a
primitive need to protect his people—and the woman he’s vowed to marry, Maggie.
2) What
are Owen's 5 best traits? His 5 worst?
5 Best
traits: honest, intelligent, protective, passionate, logical
5 Worst
traits: stubborn, reckless, disbelieving, dominating, possessive
3) Are
there any scenes you would rewrite if you could?
In the
prologue, when Maggie tries to explain that she has dreams that come true, I
would love to have had Owen believe her right away. But then there’d be no
conflict! So I created him as a man who believes in science and proof, a Highlander
raised in England, who has to learn about the mystical ways of Scotland. I like
it when my characters have to learn lessons and grow as people, just as they’re
falling in love.
4) What
is your favorite scene in the book?
I
really like the scene where Maggie stands up to Owen and refuses to marry him.
She tells him about her premonition of his death, and even though he doesn’t
believe her, she’s strong and proud and will find a way to satisfy the marriage
contract between their clans, even if she has to do it herself.
5) Tell
the readers why they should pick up your book!
I hope
there are lots of good reasons. ;) I really enjoy the setting, the 1720s in the
Highlands, right between two clan uprisings against the English. That gave my
characters lots of conflict. Also, I enjoyed creating two characters who have a
deep attraction to each other, but have to fight it—she because she can’t marry
Owen without seeing him die, and he because he refuses to lose control of his
desire.
6) Are
you currently writing another novel we can enjoy?
I’m
about to start writing the third story in my “Highland Weddings” trilogy, about
Owen’s sister Cat losing her memory and encountering a dangerous, outlawed clan
chief. This will be published in 2017. But I also write contemporary romances
as Emma Cane. I’ll have a new series out in September, with AT FAIRFIELD
ORCHARD as the first book, about a troubled woman who returns home to help her
family orchard, and the college professor whose research gets in the way of her
plans.
Thanks so much for the great
interview questions!
About the Book
Falling in love means
tempting fate in this passionate new novel in USA Today bestselling author
Gayle Callen’s Highland Wedding series.
Maggie McCallum’s dreams
about her new fiancé aren’t the romantic sort. It’s not just that she was
bartered to Owen Duff like a piece of property to end a clan feud. She’s also
haunted by premonitions of his death on their upcoming wedding day. Yet the
exasperating Highlander won’t let her call it off, even though his life and his
clan are both in jeopardy.
Owen has wanted Maggie in
his bed since he first glimpsed her years ago. If their union restores peace
between their clans, so much the better. But while lusting after another
chief’s sister had its risks, growing to trust Maggie is far more dangerous.
Owen is falling deeply in love with the one woman he cannot hope to claim…and
survive.
Purchase Here:
THE GROOM WORE PLAID –
About the Author
After a detour through
fitness instructing and computer programming, GAYLE CALLEN found the life she’d
always dreamed of as a romance writer. This USA Today bestselling author has
written more than twenty historical romances for Avon Books, and her novels have
won the Holt Medallion, the Laurel Wreath Award, the Booksellers’ Best Award,
and been translated into eleven different languages. The mother of three grown
children, an avid crafter, singer, and outdoor enthusiast, Gayle lives in
Central New York with her dog Uma and her husband, Jim the Romance Hero. She
also writes contemporary romances as Emma Cane.
Connect with Gayle Callen
Goodreads – http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/46974.Gayle_CallenGIVEAWAY:
a Rafflecopter giveaway
EXCERPT:
Excerpt:
Scotland, 1717
Maggie
McCallum was only sixteen and Owen Duff eighteen the autumn their families
spent in Edinburgh. Her mother had said she was too young for courtship, but
Maggie secretly scoffed at that. Men looked at her now, and she was finally
allowing herself to give a flirtatious look back.
And
then at a dancing assembly, she saw Owen, Viscount Duncraggan, heir to the
earldom of Aberfoyle. She’d met him only once before, at a dinner with their parents.
She’d been twelve, he fourteen, and he’d ignored her. Now a friend giggled and
pointed him out.
“He’s
from the Duff clan,” the girl said. “Even I ken that the McCallums and the
Duffs have always despised each other.”
Maggie
nodded without really listening. She was staring at Owen with wide, curious
eyes. He did not wear a belted plaid as so many of her family did, but an
expensive tailored coat and waistcoat over knee breeches, and the polished
sword at his hip sparkled in the candlelight when he strode across the dance
floor to bow to a blushing girl. He had a thin face and bony shoulders that
hinted at the broad strength of the man he would become. His sandy hair was
gathered in a haphazard queue on his neck, loose strands brushing his cheeks as
if he were too busy to be bothered fastening it more securely.
“Isn’t
your brother to marry his sister? Ye’ll be practically family.”
Family
or not, Maggie knew better than to be the McCallum who approached a Duff in
public, right in front of her mother. She thought of her brother’s misery at
marrying a woman he didn’t know or love, the way he’d done foolish, reckless
things in anger when he’d first discovered his fate at thirteen. Maggie had
pitied him, and felt guilty that she was secretly glad it wasn’t she forced to
marry a Duff.
Her
next meeting with Owen wasn’t auspicious—she merely passed him on the stairs
outside her flat on High Street, as dusk settled in dark waves on Edinburgh.
The tall building with a dozen floors housed all manner of people, from the
chimney sweep in the cellar to the dancing master in the garret. The best
floors were reserved for noblemen, and though her father didn’t have a title,
he was the chief of the Clan McCallum. Her mother had leased the flat to be
near the earl’s family, since her son was marrying into them, but she did not
want her daughter involved beyond what civility expected.
Upon
seeing Maggie, Owen came to a stop on the stairs and grinned that grin that
lived in her dreams for many years to come. His warm brown eyes made her think
of the chocolate English ladies favored for their morning drink, and as they
took her in, skimming her form, she felt as suitably overheated as that cup
she’d only once clutched in her hands on a cold winter morning in the Highlands.
She
wanted to scold him for his bold gaze but then she saw the round tube he
carried.
“Is
that a telescope?” she demanded.
Those
eyes now brightened with more than warmth. “Aye, I’m heading out to gaze upon
the stars. Have ye looked through one before?”
She
shook her head. She’d done nothing more intellectual than read passages from
the Bible—she hadn’t been allowed more, had no access to other books. Knowing
there was a whole world of knowledge out there made her ache with regret and
frustration.
He
held out a hand. “I’m Owen. Do ye want to come?”
She
hesitated, realizing he didn’t recognize her. In that long moment she thought
of her grandparents already preparing for bed, the fact that she’d just seen
her mother into a sedan chair to meet with friends, and that her brother lived
in his own flat near the university. She was alone.
Owen
stood a couple stairs below her, and that put them at just about the same
height. She stared into his eyes again, and the admiration and curiosity made
her unfurl like a blossom in springtime.
But
she had to be honest. Taking a deep breath, she said, “I’m Maggie McCallum.
’Tis my brother who’s to marry your sister.”
He
looked at her for a long moment, and the first feelings of regret and
resignation washed through her.
But
Owen didn’t rush away, only extended his hand closer to her. “Nice to meet ye,
Maggie. Do ye still want to come with a dreaded Duff?”
She
bit her lip to keep from giggling like a foolish girl. She was sixteen, a woman
now. He obviously didn’t remember her from four years before. Maybe that was
for the best. Putting her hand in his, she let him lead her out into the
twilight.
During
the next few weeks, Owen was the excitement in days that were once dreary and
repetitive. Sneaking away to ride down to the shore at the Firth of Forth,
boating, exploring the grounds of Edinburgh Castle, or even meandering through
shops seemed like wild adventures when she was at Owen’s side.
Rather
than deter her, the very forbiddance of a friendship between them caused her to
be far too reckless. He was so very different from the men she knew. He
discussed physics and chemistry and astronomy as if she was as smart as he. She
saw his wonder in the world, but when she asked if he would be a scientist, his
expression turned hard as he said his father had forbidden it. He was the heir
to an earldom, and would be educated as such. If he didn’t study the classics,
his father would refuse him attendance at university next year.
Maggie
sympathized, and distracted him from his sad and angry thoughts, but she could
not stop dwelling on her own confusion. Every moment she spent in his company,
Owen seemed more and more familiar to her, as if they’d met much earlier in
their childhood, though he swore they had not. Sometimes it was as if a ghost
of a dream teased her from just beyond the shadows, and she shivered.
Her
dreams were nothing to make light of. More than once, she’d dreamed something
that eventually came true. The family of a little boy in her clan had thought
him drowned and were about to give up the search, when a dream led her to the
bedraggled boy huddled beneath a cliff. Another dream foretold the suicide of a
young woman whom Maggie’s father had abused. Maggie hadn’t understood what she
was seeing until it had actually come true, which was often the case. And then
it had been too late to help the girl. Maggie’s mother had taken her away from
Larig Castle and back to Edinburgh, to keep her safe from her father.
But
Owen? Could he have been part of a dream she couldn’t remember? The puzzle of
it flooded her mind when she was separated from him, but the hours they were
together were full of happy laughter, insightful discussion, and endless
moments where she stared into his face when he wasn’t looking and imagined herself
married to him. Maybe her mind was simply trying to tell her that he was her
destiny, that they were meant to be together. She wanted him to kiss her, but
he was ever the gentleman—or maybe he assumed that the centuries-old feud
between their clans meant they could never share a more intimate relationship.
It seemed to be a forbidden topic between them.
But
he touched her, and each time she could have surely melted with delight. He
would take her hand running across a field, guide her by grasping her elbow,
put his hand gently on her waist when they stood watching the sun set amid
beautiful orange and pink clouds adorning it like trailing scarves.
Two
weeks into their friendship, they were carrying a luncheon basket along the
river, Water of Leith, on a particularly sunny autumn day, when Owen suggested
they look for mussels and Scottish pearls. This was no mere meandering in
ankle-deep water, and soon they were both dripping wet, pearl-less, shivering
as they crawled back up the grassy bank, laughing.
Owen
lay down in the sun, and feeling reckless, she did the same, eyeing him boldly
since his own eyes were closed. His queue had come undone, and long strands of
his hair, dark brown with water, covered his cheeks. Without thinking, she came
up on her elbow and used a trembling finger to move the locks away from his
face.
His
eyes snapped open, and she expected him to laugh up at her, but he seemed to
concentrate intently on her face just above his. Everything external seemed to
go silent as they shared a hot, meaningful gaze. She was focused on the rough
sound of her breathing, the moisture beaded on his skin, the way she could feel
his heart pounding in his chest when she rested her trembling hand there.
And
then he cupped her head and brought her down for a kiss. His lips were cool
from the water, yet softer than she imagined a man’s would be. Such boldness
made her dizzy—or was it simply nearness to Owen? Her hand still on his chest,
she lifted her head and stared down at him uncertainly, but he only brought
their mouths together again. He parted his lips, and the shock of his tongue
sliding between hers made her start with surprise and wonder. Her cool, wet
skin seemed to heat, the warmth spreading out from her mouth and down her
chest. Her trembling was no longer from the cold, but she didn’t know why her
limbs seemed so restless. She wanted to be touched—needed it with a desperation
new to her. But she was afraid to do more than brace herself against his chest
as he explored her mouth and taught her to explore his.
The
world shifted as he rolled her onto her back. It was his turn to rise above
her, his intense face framed by blue sky and towering autumn-hued trees. She
had no time to think as he kissed her again and began to touch her. His hand on
her body was a hot, welcome presence, and with each touch she felt more and
more as if she couldn’t lie still. His caresses journeyed across her wet
clothes from her hip and upward. And when at last he touched her breast, pushed
upward by her stays, she moaned against his lips and shuddered with each
delicate strum across her nipple, as if he made her an instrument of desire.
Their
shared world of passion was suddenly overwhelming, and she pushed against him
before it was too late to stop. Owen lifted his head and stared down at her,
his breathing as erratic as hers.
“We
cannot do this,” she said with a trembling voice. Not that she regretted any of
it, she realized, staring at his mouth and wishing to feel again the pleasure
he’d given her.
Owen
was looking at her mouth, too, and he practically growled, “I knew ye’d find
out. Forgive me. I didn’t ken how to tell ye.”
“Find
out what?” she demanded.
He
grimaced.
“Owen
Duff, ye have to tell me now.”
“My
father betrothed me some years ago to the daughter of a Lowland clan. Even now,
they journey here for us to meet.”
The
last warmth from their kiss deserted Maggie. Shivering, she sat up and scooted
away from him, covering her chest as if it was bared to him.
“Why
did ye never tell me this?” she demanded. She’d let herself get lost in the
fairy tale of their friendship, and the romance she’d thought had been
blossoming. Now she knew she was simply a fool.
Owen
tucked his hair back into the queue, as if he needed something to do with his
hands. He didn’t look at her, and his face was as red as hers felt, but she
didn’t feel any sympathy for him.
His
words came out slowly at first, before tumbling over each other as fast as the
rippling water behind him. “At first, I thought we were simply friends, and to
know ye were a McCallum made it daring. But the need to kiss ye has been
dominating my thoughts more and more.”
He
met her gaze at last, and she felt like she’d never forget the heat she saw
there, the passion he was showing just for her. But he was betrothed, and a
lump rose high up into her throat, shutting off any words. She scrambled to her
feet and backed away from him before she would embarrass herself more by
crying. “I—I have to go.”
“Let
me walk ye back,” Owen said.
He
didn’t try to change her mind, or promise to end the betrothal. The first tear
fell down her cheek and she angrily wiped it away.
She
held up a hand. “Nay, I—I don’t want to see ye again, Owen.”
His
expression twisted with pain, and she knew she’d hurt him. She didn’t trust
easily, not with a drunkard for a father, and she felt the worst kind of fool
for trusting a stranger—a Duff. They’d exchanged so much about their lives
these last few weeks, but not the most important detail of all, at least in a
woman’s eyes.
She
barely remembered the journey home, for she ran part of it, and even tripped on
her skirts and bruised and bloodied her palms. She avoided supper with her
mother by claiming a headache, then curled up in her bed and cried like she
hadn’t allowed herself to all day. Her last conscious thought was how foolish
she’d been. She wasn’t sure if she was crying over the loss of the friendship
more than a romance, because she knew she couldn’t trust him again.
As
if the floodgate of her emotions had opened up a deeper place inside her, she
dreamed that night, one of the vivid dreams that felt so real to her. She saw
Owen, but he wasn’t looking at her. Instead, there was another girl at his
side, red-haired and freckled and lovely. They were being presented to each
other. Light reflected strangely off a ring, and it seemed to pierce Maggie’s
eyes as she looked at it.
Then
the scene disappeared and Maggie saw the redhead again, staring at her with
intent. But the girl’s face was waxen, her clothing soaked, and water puddled
around her.
Maggie
awoke with a start, gasping for breath. Her whole body shuddered with chills,
as if she, too, were soaked and freezing. She knew what the dream
predicted—Owen’s betrothed would drown. Covering her face, Maggie rocked in the
bed, telling herself she was being ridiculous—but this was not the first time
she’d dreamed of a death before it happened. The first time, she’d been
uncertain and afraid, and had watched in horror as it had all come true. This
time, this time she wouldn’t bury the blatant warning.
After
a restless night, she slipped out of their flat at dawn and went outside. She
couldn’t knock on Owen’s door, but she could wait for him, and by mid-morning,
he appeared, thankfully alone. She caught up with him by the end of the block.
“Owen!”
He
turned around with a start and simply stared at her, his expression impassive,
not glad, yet not uncomfortable either. She was so confused that she didn’t
know what she wanted him to feel. Maybe sorrow, because that was what she felt.
She
twisted her hands together as she faced him, not having realized how difficult
it would be to reveal her secret, to risk his derision, or even his pity. She
almost turned away—until she remembered the dream girl’s waxen face and
aggrieved eyes.
“I—I
didn’t want to approach you,” she said, “after— after everything that happened
yesterday.”
He
gave her a formal nod as if they were strangers. “I don’t blame ye. I didn’t
think to tell ye a truth that still doesn’t seem real to me.”
“What
is her name?”
He
frowned.
“The
girl ye’re to marry. What is her name?”
“I
don’t see why it should matter, but she’s Emily.”
Maggie
nodded, because hearing the name made Emily seem more real. “Can I speak with
ye in private about her?”
Owen
hesitated, and now he finally did look uncomfortable. “Maggie, what is there to
say? I should have told, ye, aye, but—”
She
waved away his words. “It’s not that. It’s—” She looked around, feeling as if
everyone stared at them. “I cannot say it here, not like this.” She pointed
down the wynd, the narrow lane that led between the town houses. “Come with me,
away from prying eyes. Please, Owen.”
To
her relief, he didn’t protest again. They walked silently until they’d left
behind the fenced close at the rear of the town house, and out into a lane that
led into the countryside.
At
last she stopped beneath a tall larch tree. She was nervous now, and his air of
impatience wasn’t helping. She’d been angry he hadn’t told her about his
betrothal, but then again, she hadn’t told him about her dreams. But how did
one confide such a thing and not be thought crazy? Scotland had always had its
seers, but she did not wish anyone to believe she was such an outcast. And the
whispers of “witch” could be a woman’s end.
Could
she trust her secret to a man who’d already been proven untrustworthy? But she
didn’t have a choice.
Maggie
stared into his chest, at the embroidered waistcoat of a viscount. It reminded
her that they were very different. “I—it’s hard for me to say this. I don’t
tell many people, but . . .” She trailed off, her throat closing up as she
realized she was risking her future.
“Maggie,
just say it,” he said with exasperation.
As
if he was already done with her and wished to be gone.
She
took a shuddering breath. “I . . . dream things, and when they’re vivid and
real to me, they . . . come true.”
She
met his gaze at last, and he eyed her with growing amusement.
“Och,
Maggie, ye had me going with nerves there,” he said, shaking his head. “I spent
all night wondering how to apologize to ye.”
“Owen,
this has nothing to do with apologies!” she cried. “I’m not telling tales. I
had a terrible dream last night, and your Emily was in it.”
His
brown eyes narrowed. “Ye can’t have seen her. They haven’t arrived yet.”
With
a groan, she flung her arms wide. “I haven’t seen her, Owen, not in truth. But
in my dreams I saw her presented to ye. I saw a ring.”
“There’s
always a ring—why are ye doing this to us, Maggie? Hurting us both for no
reason.”
“I
don’t want anyone to be hurt and that’s the point. I didn’t just see her with
ye, Owen, but I saw her wet, puddles of water around her, her face cast white
as death. And she was staring at me, as if she needed me to do . . . something
about it.”
He
crossed his arms over his chest. “Ye’re making no sense.”
She
winced, feeling his disbelief like the cold chill of a late summer evening, the
breath of approaching winter. Her voice grew rough. “When I see a person wet,
Owen, it means they’re going to die by drowning.”
He
said nothing at first. She could hear chickens in the distance, the low of a
cow, but no human voices. No one was overhearing them to understand her
secret—only Owen. And he looked at her now with pity, and even a little
disgust. She closed her eyes so she didn’t have to see it.
“This
isn’t worthy of ye, Maggie,” he said. “I didn’t think ye’d let jealousy make ye
tell lies.”
“This isn’t jealousy! Owen, please, ye must
believe me, for Emily’s sake.” Her voice faded into a whisper, because she knew
it was too late. He didn’t believe her; he thought her a pathetic liar and a
fool.
“Good-bye,
Maggie.” He turned and walked back down the wynd toward High Street.
“Owen,
warn her, please,” she cried, taking several steps as if to follow him before
halting, unable to embarrass herself further.
He
didn’t look back at her; he didn’t stop. She hugged herself, feeling more alone
than she ever had in her life.
Two
weeks passed, and Maggie never saw Owen on the stairs again. He lived in the
same building, but he might has well have been in London. At another assembly,
she saw him dancing, but not with the redhead from her dreams. Maggie prayed
that she’d been mistaken, that no one would die.
He
never looked her way. And the anger she’d kept buried finally rose up, and it
took everything in her to remain calm. She hadn’t deserved any of his treatment
of her.
And
then she heard the gossip at the dressmaker’s shop before any announcement made
the newspaper. Lady Emily Douglas had been boating with her family and drowned
in the firth.
Posts
Thanks so much for featuring my book today--and the great interview questions!