p.m.terrell will be awarding a $25 Amazon/BN GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour.
- How did you choose your genre? What made you write this book? I love history, and I have a personal connection to Ireland. One can’t study Irish history without getting involved in the history of the Easter Rising, which led to the War for Independence and the Irish Civil War. It is a fascinating time and place, and I wanted to write the stories of people that lived during that time. Many displayed incredible amounts of courage to stand up and demand independence and the right to be treated with respect. I wanted to write a romance in which a woman was married to a British loyalist, but she discovered the world of the average Irish citizen through the eyes of an Irish rebel, and she had to choose which path to take. Life was filled with uncertainties, and there was no guarantee that all would turn out well for either choice, but if she selected the man she loved, she could be imprisoned or executed for treason.
- Writers write what they know, and must observe the world. Are you a firstborn, middle, or last child, and how does this shape your view of the world? I am the middle child. I have an older brother and sister and a younger brother and sister. I have witnessed a lot of changes in societal norms from my oldest sister to my youngest sister. I remember seeing a picture of my youngest sister in a bikini standing next to my parents. I was shocked. I told her I would have been sent to my room for the summer if I had tried to wear that! I like to think I helped pave the way for her!
- Where is your favorite place to write? I write in my office. It is tranquil here, which allows me to transport my mind back to the past and halfway across the world. I also have windows in all four directions, so I can bring myself out of my writing periodically.
- How do you feel about killing your darlings, and what do you do with the remains? I’ve had to make the difficult decision to kill a few of my darlings, and it was painful. In The White Devil of Dublin, I went back in time to the cusp of the Norman invasion in Dublin and an albino called The White Devil. I unexpectedly fell in love with him, and when he was murdered, I felt the same level of grief as if I had known him in this lifetime.
- You are introduced to your favorite author. Who is it, and what is that one burning question you must ask them? I would love to meet Josephine Leslie, who wrote The Ghost and Mrs. Muir under the pen name R.A. Dick. I’d like to know what inspired her to write the character of Captain Daniel Gregg, and if she had ever seen a ghost.
- Inquiring minds want to know…tell readers something about you that no one knows. I do see ghosts.
- You are stranded on a deserted island with only a backpack for company. What three items are in your survival pack? My iPad with my thousand-long list of music and books and a built-in solar charger. A multi-tool for all those times I need to crack open a coconut or cut off fronds for a roof. A variety package of seeds so I can grow fruits and vegetables.
- If you could have one superpower in your existence, what would it be? The ability to read minds. So many people hide their true selves that it would be awesome to know their thoughts so I could determine their motives.
- Favorite snack? Protein bars.
- Indy 500 – Do you know how to get where you’re going, or do you drive the speed limit? Is a police officer reading this? If so, then I drive the speed limit.
A Struggle for Independenceby p.m.terrell
GENRE: Historical novel
BLURB: Sometimes a woman comes to the realization that she has built the perfect life but with the wrong man. It is 1916 Ireland, and Independence Mather has settled into a tedious routine in an arranged marriage when she meets an architect hired to add a wing onto her husband’s vast estate. She soon falls in love with the charming, attentive Nicky Bowers, but he has secrets to hide. When she discovers he is an Irish rebel, events propel her into the middle of the Easter Rising. Now she must decide whether to remain the wife of a British loyalist or risk everything to join the rebellion and be with the man she loves.
The flames danced and pirouetted like so many ballet classes members assembled on a stage, their movements mesmerizing, even hypnotic. The warmth, however, was wanting, with a single peatbrick trying its hardest to do its job but failing like a tiny child not meant to go it alone. I felt sorry for it falling short of the success it strove so hard to achieve, and then I grew discouraged as the cold pervaded.
I lay on a bed of straw faintly scented with what must have been last year’s lavender blooms, asit was too early in the current season for them to make their appearance. The straw packed under my weight until I felt the pricks from shoulder to knee, and as I turned from one position toanother, I eventually felt the hard dirt floor upon which the bed was laid. The blankets meant to cushion and warm me were worn so thin, I could see the outline of my clothes underneath them,and despite wearing several layers, I could not get warm.
Nicky’s breathing had been measured, but now I could no longer hear him, and I struggled to see him through the gloom. He lay facing me—that I was sure of—but the shadows prevented me from seeing the details my heart desired. We’d talked until he’d fallen asleep, seemingly unaffected by the cold, and now I longed to hear his voice again. Despite his height and his brawn, his voice was gentle and reassuring, so very different from Stratford’s brusque and impatient tenor.
Shivering, I stood and gathered the blankets about me as best I could and made my way to Nicky’s side. I dropped to my knees upon his straw, which was a great deal thinner than the bed I’d been given. I was surprised to find his eyes open and watching me.
“It will be warmer for both of us if…” my voice trailed off as I felt the heat rising in my cheeks.
He opened his blanket as if inviting me in. I crawled in beside him, my back to his front. Unlike myself, who was wearing every stitch of clothing I’d brought in an attempt to stave off the chill, he was wearing only a gray shirt and trousers. My cold stockinged feet found him, and he covered us with both our blankets and then wrapped his arm around me. I placed my hand upon his and snuggled more deeply against him.
“Yes,” I said. “Much warmer.” I knew he could feel the beating of my heart; it was thumping wildly in both my chest and my neck, and I felt as though I could not catch my breath.
He settled in behind me, and I tried to listen to the rhythmic breathing I’d heard when he first slipped into slumber, but it did not come. His arm grew heavy across me like a weighty coat determined to protect me from the chill. Then he shifted, his head moving down to my neck where his lips brushed against my skin.
I turned in his arms, and he came upon one elbow to peer into my face. The darkness enveloped us, and I found myself searching out his eyes with a longing to see into his soul. I placed a hand upon his face, running my fingers along his jawline, feeling the stubble that had formed there since his last shave. And then my fingers found his hair and intertwined around the thick locks.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said hoarsely. “I gave you my word.”
“I know. But I did not give you mine.” I pressed upward to find his lips, my own whispering across his, savoring the fullness and the sweetness before his lips parted, and he returned my kiss with a passionate one of his own. I became lost in his kisses, my body burning for his, the longing mounting within me. “You don’t have to do this,” I whispered when we pulled back for a brief moment. “Or do you want to?”
“Desperately,” he answered as his hands followed the lines of my body as if memorizing the bend in my back, the flare of my hips.
“I love your curves,” he whispered.
“I am a bit hefty,” I answered, suddenly self-conscious.
“Oh, I beg to differ,” he said, his voice becoming serious. “I love every curve. Your body might not be perfect, but it is certainly perfect for me.”
I felt as though a thousand pounds had been lifted from my shoulders, and suddenly I felt like the most beautiful woman in the entire world. As if to drive home his point, he set about exploring each curve, and in the process, he set my body on fire. Mountains of clothing and blankets peeled away, and somehow, the peat grew warmer until the room was awash in our moans and our heat, our limbs intertwined, our skin glistening, and I knew with all the assuredness in my soul that I was precisely where I was meant to be.
AUTHOR Bio and Links:
p.m.terrell is the pen name for Patricia McClelland Terrell, the award-winning, internationally acclaimed author of more than 24 books in multiple genres, including contemporary suspense, historical suspense, computer instructional, non-fiction and children’s books.
Prior to writing full-time, she founded two computer companies in the Washington, DC Metropolitan Area: McClelland Enterprises, Inc. and Continental Software Development Corporation. Among her clients were the Central Intelligence Agency, United States Secret Service, U.S. Information Agency, and Department of Defense. Her specialties were in the detection of white collar computer crimes and computer intelligence.
A full-time author since 2002, Black Swamp Mysteries was her first series, inspired by the success of Exit 22, released in 2008. Vicki’s Key was a top five finalist in the 2012 International Book Awards and 2012 USA Book Awards nominee, and The Pendulum Files was a national finalist for the Best Cover of the Year in 2014. Her second series, Ryan O’Clery Suspense, is also award-winning. The Tempest Murders (Book 1) was one of four finalists in the 2013 International Book Awards, cross-genre category. Her historical suspense, River Passage, was a 2010 Best Fiction and Drama Winner. It was determined to be so historically accurate that a copy of the book resides at the Nashville Government Metropolitan Archives in Nashville, Tennessee. Songbirds are Free is her bestselling book to date; it is inspired by the true story of Mary Neely, who was captured in 1780 by Shawnee warriors near Fort Nashborough (now Nashville, TN).
She was the co-founder of The Book ‘Em Foundation, an organization committed to raising public awareness of the correlation between high crime rates and high illiteracy rates. She was the founder of Book ‘Em North Carolina, an annual event held in the town of Lumberton, North Carolina, to raise funds to increase literacy and reduce crime and served as its chairperson and organizer for its first four years. She also served on the boards of the Friends of the Robeson County (NC) Public Library, the Robeson County (NC) Arts Council, Virginia Crime Stoppers and became the first female president of the Chesterfield County-Colonial Heights Crime Solvers in Virginia.
For more information, book trailers, excerpts and more, visit the author’s website at www.pmterrell.com.