{Guest Post + Giveaway} Marrie Higgins talks about time travel and romance

Who doesn’t love a good time travel story?

Somewhere In Time –

The man of my dreams has almost faded now. The one I have created in my mind. The sort of man each woman dreams of, in the deepest and most secret reaches of her heart. I can almost see him now before me. What would I say to him if he were really here? "Forgive me. I have never known this feeling. I have lived without it all my life. Is it any wonder, then, I failed to recognize you? You, who brought it to me for the first time. Is there any way that I can tell you how my life has changed? Any way at all to let you know what sweetness you have given me? There is so much to say. I cannot find the words. Except for these: I love you". Such would I say to him if he were really here. ~~Elise McKenna

Back To The Future –

Marty McFly: Wait a minute, Doc. Ah... Are you telling me that you built a time machine... out of a DeLorean?

Dr. Emmett Brown: The way I see it, if you're gonna build a time machine into a car, why not do it with some style?

George McFly: Lorraine. My density has popped me to you.

Kate & Leopold –

Leopold: That thing is a damned hazard!

Kate: It's just a toaster!

Leopold: Well, insertion of bread into that so-called toaster produces no toast at all, merely warm bread! Inserting the bread twice produces charcoal. So, clearly, to make proper toast it requires one and a half insertions, which is something for which the apparatus doesn't begin to allow! One assumes that when the General of Electric built it, he might have tried using it. One assumes the General might take pride in his creations instead of just foisting them on an unsuspecting public.

Kate: You know something? Nobody gives a rat's ass that you have to push the toast down twice. You know why? Because everybody pushes their toast down twice!

Leopold: Not where I come from.

Kate: Oh, right. Where you come from, toast is the result of reflection and study!

Leopold: Ah yes, you mock me. But perhaps one day when you've awoken from a pleasant slumber to the scent of a warm brioche smothered in marmalade and fresh creamery butter, you'll understand that life is not solely composed of tasks, but tastes.

Timeline –

Robert Doniger: Yeah, yeah, look. We need cultural experts, not scientists. My people simply don't know about the medieval world, or how to mingle with the locals, which is what we're gonna have to do, if we're going to find the professor and bring him back.

Marek: So that's it? We just step on that machine and wiz back to 1357?

The Time Traveler’s Wife –

Alba at Nine: Tell me the story of how you and Mama met?

Henry DeTamble: Doesn't she tell you?

Alba at Nine: She does, but not like you do.

Henry: Well, it was right here in this meadow. And one fine day, your mom, who's just a tiny little thing, goes out to the clearing, and there's a man there.

Alba: With no clothes.

Henry: Not a stitch on him. And after she gives him the blanket she happens to be carrying, he explains to her that he's a time traveler. Now, for some reason I'll never understand, she believes him.

Alba: 'Cause it's true.

What kind of research goes into writing a time-travel novel? Do you need some kind of time machine like the DeLorean…or will a penny be enough?

Lately, I have become fascinated with time-travel stories…and movies. Every writer puts a different spin on their plot, which is what I love. It’s so intriguing to read how someone from our time can be sent back (or forward) to another dimension. I love reading how that person adjusts—or at least tries to adjust—to their new world, and then what steps they take to return to their own time.

Over the years, many movies have grabbed my curiosity mainly because of the time-travel element. In Back To the Future, Doc & Marty tried to create a new way to get Marty back home—without messing up the time-continuum. The intrigue of waiting for that moment, and almost not making it, kept me captivated.  In Timeline it was the fast-paced story of trying to find the one man they were sent back in time to get, only to have everything go wrong at every turn.  In Kate & Leopold…okay, mainly I loved this story because of the romance, and hullo—Hugh Jackman! (heehee) But I loved how he was sent forward in time, only for her to go back in time. Loved that concept!   And with Somewhere In Time, (dreamy sigh) it was a wonderful romance that lasted throughout the years, combined with the romantic music…(another sigh). Yes, that is one of my all-time favorites.

I think one of the reasons I like time-travels so much is because I find myself thinking about how I would change my life if I knew what I did and could travel back in time to change it… I also think of how I would like to experience the 1800’s (Regency or even Victorian England) if just for a week; to see what the gentlemen were really like, and how the women of those times really behaved. After a week though, I’m sure I’d want to return to my own time.

I have written a couple of time-travel novels. Each one has a different twist to the time-travel element. I tried to combine all the things I enjoy reading or watching movies that make the storyline interesting. I invite you to check out “Waiting for You”, and coming soon, “Love Lost in Time”.

Here is the blurb and snippet from my book, “Waiting for You”.

When a beautiful woman claiming to be a ghost from 1912 appears in Nick Marshal’s new office and begs for help in solving her murder, he’s intrigued enough to consider her plea. A scandal that rocked Hollywood almost destroyed his law practice, so taking on a client who insists she’s dead seems a good way to refresh his career. The more history he uncovers, the deeper he falls for the ghost. Abigail Carlisle believes Nick is her heart’s true desire, but how can happily ever after happen when she’s already dead?

**excerpt**

“Excuse me if I’m intruding.”

A feminine voice broke his concentration, and he swung around. A woman rose from the brown leather chair in front of his desk. Confused, Nick glanced from the woman to the closed office door and back again. When did she get here? His face heated from embarrassment. She must have been in the office waiting for him when he’d arrived with Vanessa. But why hadn’t he noticed her until now?

Not believing his eyes, he blinked and ran his gaze over the strange woman again. She definitely didn’t look like a model from a style magazine, like Vanessa did. Instead this woman looked as if she had stepped off the set of a motion picture from the early 1900s—or a historic magazine.

His visitor smoothed a hand down the side of her ankle-length dark brown skirt decorated with entirely too much lace. Her silk blouse was the darkest purple he’d ever seen, and the color brought out her amazing cobalt eyes. Her clothes contoured her body nicely yet were modest, especially in this day and age. Her dark brunette hair was swept up beneath a flat purple hat decorated with an outlandish matching bow-shaped flower in front. White-laced gloves encased her slender hands, adding to the olden-day glamor style. Even her proper posture spoke of an old-time society dame. Yet her smooth, youthful face told him she wasn’t old at all—probably somewhere in her mid-twenties. And her eyes… He’d never seen such intriguing blue eyes before.

The oddly dressed lady cleared her throat and stepped closer. “Forgive me for interrupting.”

Despite the musical lilt to her voice, the trace of British intonation brought to mind the high-and-mighty aristocrats Nick had rubbed elbows with at his last firm. With quick fingers, he straightened his tie and came forward. “Uh, no, ma’am. You didn’t interrupt anything important. I’m sorry you had to witness that, um, display just now.”

Her lips remained stretched in a thin line and he couldn’t quite tell if she was irritated at him—and at the situation—or not.

“Are you Mr. Nicholas Marshal?” she asked in a choked voice, almost as if she was holding her breath.

He maintained a professional smile, but after what she’d caught him doing, it was hard not to feel like digging a hole and sticking his head inside…then covering it up. Maybe Vanessa set out to sabotage his first day in a new town after all.

“Yes, I’m Nick.”

“The solicitor?”

Solicitor? Who uses that term anymore? “I’m a lawyer, yes. And you are…”

She took another step toward him. “I’m Abigail Carlisle.”

Watch book trailer - http://youtu.be/wePZT2ywRVc

Buy link from Amazon - http://amzn.com/B00EQQMACU

What type of time-travel stories to you like to read or watch? Please leave a comment (with your name and email) for a chance to win a paperback copy of my story, “Waiting for You”.

 

 About the author

Marie Higgins is a best-selling, multi-published author of sweet romance; from refined bad-boy heroes who make your heart melt to the feisty heroines who somehow manage to love them regardless of their faults. Visit her website / blog to discover more about her – http://mariehiggins84302.blogspot.com

It's my birthday! So naturally, I have a present for you

The first five pages of Winter Queen.

*feel free to share these pages

1. Clan Mistress

Ilyenna’s horse danced nervously beneath her, the animal’s hooves clicking against the snow-covered stones that coated the land like dragon eggs. Reaching down, she patted her mare’s golden neck. “Easy, Myst. What’s the matter, girl?”

“There.” Her father pointed at the base of a forested hillock not fifty paces beyond the road. Ilyenna saw the shadowed form of a large animal.

Bratton soundlessly pulled an arrow from his quiver and nocked it. “Bear?” He directed the question at their father.

The word stirred currents of tension in Ilyenna’s body. The cold stung her cheeks and formed a vapor no matter how shallowly she breathed. As she glanced up and down the road, her hand gripped the knife belted around her bulky wool coat.

“I think it’s a horse,” Bratton finally said.

Ilyenna eased her mare forward for a better look. It was a horse—a bay. “Then where is his rider—” The words died in her throat when she spotted a motionless gray lump at the horse’s feet. Without thought, she rammed her heels into her mare’s ribs.

“Stop!” her father cried at the same time Bratton called, “Ilyenna!”

But the healer in her couldn’t be denied. In three of the horse’s strides, she was in the forest. She pressed herself flush against Myst’s muscular neck. Still, larch trees managed to slap her, leaving the sharp scent of their needles in her hair and clothes. Clumps of snow shook loose from their sagging boughs, falling across her horse’s mane and into her face. Yet Ilyenna barely registered the icy shock.

The other horse shied away. Myst tossed her head and balked, but Ilyenna didn’t have time to hesitate. She jumped from the saddle, and her heavy boots sank into drifts up to her thighs. Grateful for her riding leggings, she struggled toward the man, whose face was blue with cold.

Her heavy riding skirt spread around her as she knelt beside him. Strangely, even in this frigid weather, he wore no coat. Beneath him, the white snow was stained crimson. An arrow shaft stuck out of his left side, and his mouth was coated with bloody foam.

A quick assessment revealed the arrow head had passed completely through his chest, but the shaft was still lodged inside him. Ilyenna couldn’t imagine riding in that kind of pain. Each of the horse’s strides would’ve reopened the wound and spilled more blood.

Fear rose in Ilyenna’s gut, and she wondered what had driven this man to ride himself so close to death. The lump rose higher when she recognized the knots in the stranger’s clan belt. “An Argon,” she announced as her brother and her father reined in behind her. Instantly, her mind went to the Argon clan, and her brother’s best friend, Rone.

At the mere thought of the boy from her childhood, a hundred memories came unbidden. Memories she wished to banish forever. But over the last six years, that had proven impossible. She bit the inside of her cheek, forcing herself to concentrate as she pulled her sheepskin-lined mittens from her hands and probed the man for additional wounds.

“You can’t just run off,” her brother growled as he dropped beside her. “What if his attacker was still here?”

Ilyenna kept her expression neutral. Even though she was seventeen, her brother would never see her as anything but a child—one incapable of caring for herself, let alone their clan. Thankfully, the calm sureness that always accompanied her healing steeled her voice. “He’s not breathing well. Get him on your knees.”

Despite his obvious annoyance, Bratton quickly obeyed.

“Why would an Argon appear in Shyle lands with an arrow in his side?” she murmured as she worked to stop the bleeding.

Bratton’s grip tightened around his axe hilt as his gaze probed the forest. “Only Raiders would attack the clans.”

Ilyenna suppressed a shudder at the mention of the Raiders, men who survived by pillaging and enslaving those they conquered.

“Raiders don’t come this far inland,” her father said. He handed his coat to Ilyenna, who draped it over the man. Her father pointed to the arrow that rose and fell with each of the Argon’s labored breaths. “Besides, I saw a Raider’s arrow as a boy. This isn’t one.”

“Then whose arrow is it?” Bratton asked.

Ilyenna eyed her brother carefully. There was something odd about his expression, as if he suspected more than he was saying.

Her father frowned. “It looks clan made.”

Neither Ilyenna nor Bratton had a response for that. It was an impossible thought. The Clans didn’t fight among themselves; they banded together to fight against outsiders. Pressing her ear to the injured man’s chest, she listened to a sound like the gurgling of a gentle stream. She sat back on her heels. “His lungs have filled with blood. He’s drowning.”

Even as she said it, the urge to fight against death pulled at her, though she knew all too well how useless fighting it was. All things served the Balance. Life and death were no different. Though Ilyenna’s calling was to battle for life, without death, there would be no birth.

Her father bent down and gently shook the man’s shoulder. He moaned softly before settling back to his labored breathing. The death rattle. Her father looked at her questioningly. “Should we take him to the clan house?”

She shook her head. “You know he won’t make it.”

With grim determination, her father leaned over the man and shook harder.

Had something happened to the Argons? To Rone? Ilyenna had to know. She applied pressure where the wounded man’s thumb met his palm. His lids fluttered, revealing the whites of his eyes. She pinched harder. His eyes opened wide.

“Who did this to you?” Ilyenna’s father asked.

The Argon’s gaze focused on his face. It was clear he didn’t understand.

Ilyenna brought her face so close she could smell the blood on his breath. She gently brushed his hair from his forehead. “You’re in Shyle lands.”

The man snatched her hand, his icy grip surprisingly strong. “I didn’t fail?”

Ilyenna wasn’t sure what he meant, but she shook her head anyway. “No. You didn’t fail.”

He guided her hand to his pocket. She reached inside and pulled out a piece of rolled vellum. Her hands shaking, she slid off the leather band and unrolled it. The dying man echoed the words she read, “The Tyrans attacked us during the night . . . Clan Chief Seneth sent me to call for aid.” The man seemed to be fighting to keep his eyes from rolling back. “So much dying . . .” The words strangled from his lungs with his last breath.

Death had claimed another. Somewhere, a child filled its lungs for its first squall. Ilyenna handed the vellum to her father, then closed the fallen man’s eyes and rested his hand on his axe hilt. “So passes a warrior,” she said.

“So passes an Argon,” her brother and father replied in unison.

After gently laying the man’s head back on the snow, Bratton leaned toward her father and read the note with him. A plea for aid that was written in Seneth’s own hand. It affirmed the truthfulness of the dead man’s words.

The Tyrans had attacked the Argon clan.

Bratton shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense.”

Ilyenna couldn’t understand either. Undon, the Tyran clan chief, might be renowned among the clans as a dangerous man with a short temper, but this was far beyond killing a man in a drunken brawl. This treachery made him and his Tyrans even worse than Raiders.

She studied her father and brother, like twin images in a mirror. The only real difference was their age. Both men had the clan’s typical blond hair and blue eyes. They even had the same braying laugh.

Ilyenna had inherited all of her mother’s foreignness, right down to her dark brown eyes and black hair. Tears pricked the back of her throat. Her mother—the other half of her mirror—was dead, and it was her fault.

Her father gently retrieved his coat, then hauled himself into his saddle. Bratton wasn’t far behind.

“Hurry, Ilyenna. We’re near the border. It’s not safe.”

She heard the warning in her father’s words. If the Argons had been attacked, the Shyle could be next. Even now, the killers could be close. But her eyes stayed fastened to the dead man. One death, one moment, and the peace of decades had been shattered. “We should take his body.”

“We’ll come back if we can,” her father said sternly.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Her father was right. But the man had died trying to find help. He deserved better than for the wolves to pick him apart. “I’m sorry,” she mouthed, hoping his ghost would hear and understand, that he wouldn’t come for revenge against her family for this insult.

“Ilyenna!” Bratton snarled.

She turned and shoved her foot into the stirrup, then pulled herself into the saddle. Myst pranced impatiently. Ilyenna leaned low over the mare’s neck to shield herself from the wind that whipped away warmth and breath.

This deep into winter, the only passable path was an ancient, snow-packed road that cut through the heart of the Shyle and led to their village in the center of the valley. They galloped along, only pausing to maneuver through herds of sheep—their dense wool proof of the high mountain’s harsh winters—or to send other men off to warn people living deeper in the canyons and along the mountain bases.

Why had the Tyrans attacked the Argons? Ilyenna thought again. What if Rone was already dead? She’d hardly seen more than a passing glance of him in years, but for some reason she feared his death the most. Other Argon faces flashed in her mind—people she’d met over years of feast days and hunts. A growing sense of fear settled over her like a cold, wet blanket.

YA Scavenger Hunt: Erica O’Rourke

The YA Scavenger Hunt is now closed. Thanks for participating!
Winners of Witch Song: Melody Straka and Sarah Kalait

 And don't forget to stop by next week, as I'll be giving away two more books. Intrinsical by Lani Woodland and Eternal Starling by Angela Corbett. Check out their blogs for a chance to win a copy of Witch Song.

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Help pick the cover for Witch Born

You all get to see a few sneak peaks of Witch Born (you're welcome). There are two scenes I'm debating on for the cover. Vote on your fav in the comments. And remember, this is all first draft stuff, and I've pieced together a few scenes for brevity's sake.


1. Moths competed with Senna for the pollen, bumping dumbly from one flower to the next. Their wings brushed against her hands, adding their soft dusting of their colors to her skin along with the glowing pollen . . .
Senna held out her arms. She was glowing. A soft, golden light spilling from her in flares of gold filigree. She was so full of the Four Sister’s songs, she was drunk with it. She didn’t need to sing for them to know what she wanted. They recognized her wish and obeyed . . .
The wind burst to life, twisting around her in a protective cocoon and pushing everyone back. Some moths clung to her; she felt the tickle of their clinging legs on her skin. Others swirled around like crisp leaves before a fall breeze.


2. Senna trailed her fingers along a leaf, so intricate that she could feel the tiny veins. Stars were carved in the ceiling, diamonds and sapphires glittering from their centers. . . . Shining like polished gold, her hair flared like flames around her head. Her dress was the red glow of coals and her skin shimmered . . . Light flared out from her skin as if she were a star. It curled and flared at the edges, a delicate filigree of song made visible.
. . .
I'll be making a decision very soon. Like today or tomorrow. Which do you think creates the more compelling visual?