MEET THE AUTHOR

Today it is my pleasure to introduce my good friend and critique partner, Anna Markland.

Anna has a keen interest in genealogy and writes medieval romance about family honour, ancestry, and roots. Her novels are intimate love stories full of passion and adventure.

Anna has agreed to share a little about herself with us today:

What do you write?

I write medieval romance.

What genre do you favor?

I love to read medieval romance, or any good historical romance for that matter. I studied history in grammar school in England and it has been in my blood ever since.

When did you realise you wanted to be a writer?

It was a gradual thing, but the decision to write full time was made in May 2011.

Are you published?

Yes.

Where can you be found on social media?

Website or blog: http://www.annamarkland.com/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Anna-Markland-Novels/343342275682430?ref=hl

Twitter: https://Twitter.com/AnnaMarkland

Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/annamarkland1/

What do you think is the best way to publish these days?

For myself, I enjoy the freedom and control of being independently published.

Do your characters talk to you?

Definitely. I even dream about them. That’s when they reveal the details of their stories.

How do you approach starting a new book?

Since my stories revolve around one family and its offshoot branches, there is usually one character in the family who “speaks” to me, insisting it’s their turn.

 What is your writing process?

I aim for a minimum of 1000 words a day. Sometimes I write a lot more. When I first sit down at the keyboard, I read over just the last chapter from the day before and make a few edits, then off I go.

What was your best date ever?

Without a doubt the first date with my current husband. He suggested a drive in the country one lovely Sunday afternoon. I gussied myself up in a cute little dress and my best white shoes. He arrived looking handsome in a light blue summer suit. After a while he pulled into the driveway of a local farm and suggested we get some corn. He handed me a dozen plastic bags. We walked out into the fields. He took off his jacket, handed it to me, and disappeared into the jungle of cornstalks. Trying to keep my shoes from sinking in the rich red earth, I wondered where he’d gone. A minute later, cobs of corn were flying out of nowhere and I was running back and forth to retrieve his “harvest.” I realized then that life with this man would never be dull!

Navy SEAL or cowboy?

Neither appeals. Give me a warrior knight of old any day.

Chocolate or chips?

I love chocolate, but it doesn’t agree with me. So chips. Multigrain Scoops.

Fancy restaurant or picnic?

Definitely restaurant. Doesn’t have to be fancy, so long as the food is great.

Beer or wine?

Wine. My basic criterion is it must be red.

Favorite author?

I don’t really have one favourite. If I read an author’s book more than once, it’s a rarity. To name some of them: Virginia Henley, Anne Stuart, Evangeline Anderson, Courtney Milan, Carrie Lofty.

Smooth or hairy?

I assume you’re asking about men? I don’t like hairy men, but I like a dusting of hair on a man’s chest.

It’s hard to choose a cover from Anna’s books I like most, but when I first set eyes on The Rover Bold, ooh, la, la

Excerpt from The Rover Bold, my latest release.

Terror rendered Cathryn incapable of movement. She swayed, certain her heart had stopped beating. It surely would when the massive barbarian plunged his knife into her breast. One glimpse of long hair, silvery blonde in the moonlight, a full beard and animal skin clothing had been enough to tell her this was no wandering peasant intent on mischief.

She had never been touched by a man. His hand was warm on her face, and it seemed he was being careful not to hurt her. At least he hadn’t broken her neck. His hands were big enough to snap her like a twig. She decided in an instant biting him wasn’t a good idea.

The dizzying smell of male sweat filled her nostrils, but it wasn’t the acrid stink that clung to Sprig. The heat from the arm gripping her body penetrated the thick wool of her habit.

His voice was deep, but gentle. He was rocking her, which was good because her knees had buckled. Fear must have stolen her wits. How else to explain that she felt strangely safe, held firm against a male body as unyielding as a wall?

He eased her away and looked into her eyes. “No harm,” he rasped.

She had lost her wits. Something in the depths of his brown eyes held her. She quickly nodded her understanding, trusting him.

He removed his hand from her mouth and they stared at each other for what seemed like long minutes.

His frown betrayed his uncertainty as to what to do with her. An urge to beg him to take her away bubbled up in her throat. She never wanted to be parted from the security of his strong arms.

But this man was a Viking—the hair, the clothing, the foreign tongue, the sheer size of him confirmed it. Women taken by Vikings became slaves.

Better a slave to this man than to Mother Bruna.

She shivered when he let go, swaying on unsteady legs until he put his hands on her waist and touched his lips to hers. The softness of his beard surprised her.

She should have been outraged, should have protested, pushed him away, called on her patron saint. But along with the alarmingly wonderful sensations coursing through her body, and a desire to have him breathe his salty breath into her, Kaia’s boast beat a tattoo in her thoughts.

Love at first sight, love at first sight.

He broke them apart, a strange look on his face, as if he too struggled to comprehend the situation in which they found themselves. He tapped his chest. “Bryk,” he rasped.

Her breath caught in her dry throat but she managed to squeeze out, “Cathryn.”

He smiled, sending tiny winged creatures fluttering in her lower belly.

“Cath-ryn,” he repeated hoarsely.

On his lips her name was a song.

But then he put a hand on her back and pushed her gently in the direction of the abbey.

He’s letting me go. I can warn the others.

She gripped his arm, unable to speak.

Don’t let me go.

But he pushed her again, gesturing towards the wall. “Go,” he urged, untying his horse.

She staggered away from him, crying for no good reason. Nearing the wall, she turned for one last glimpse, but he’d already disappeared, swallowed up by the night.

Amazon buy link: http://amzn.com/B00MYI3E36

Kind of makes you wish you were alive back then, doesn’t it? 🙂

Anna would love to hear from you.