TARAH
SCOTT
Award
winning author Tarah Scott cut her teeth on authors such as Georgette Heyer,
Zane Grey, and Amanda Quick. Her favorite book is a Tale of Two Cities, with
Gone With the Wind as a close second. She writes modern classical romance, and
paranormal and romantic suspense. Tarah grew up in Texas and currently resides in Westchester County, New
York with her daughter.
MY
HIGHLAND LORD
London
Heiress kidnapped by the Marquess of Ashlund, read the headlines. Yet no one
tried to save her.
Phoebe
Wallington was seven years old when a mass assassination attempt rocked Regency
England. Her father was the only accused traitor to elude capture. Now as a
grown woman and a British spy, she is no closer to learning what really
happened that day.
Phoebe's
quest for the truth takes a sudden turn when she's kidnapped by a suspected
traitor. But Kiernan
MacGregor, the Marquess of Ashlund, may not live long enough to stand trial.
Someone wants him dead. And Phoebe stands in the killer's way.
An interview with Tarah Scott
What would you say
is important to you, characters, plot, or intimacy? All
three! Of course, for romance, characters are paramount and plot is what gets
our characters into trouble. We must see our characters doing, being, and becoming
more than what they were at the story’s beginning. But the plot must serve
character, which of course involves intimacy. If any of these three elements
falter, the story suffers.
Can you tell us,
what you think makes a good writer? To be a good
writer one must be willing to dig deep inside themselves. You can’t be afraid
of making yourself vulnerable. Being vulnerable, being willing to expose the
very heart of being human, is what being a writer is all about.
Generally, how long
does it take you to write a book? Depends on the
book. Longer, more complicated books can
take a couple of years to write. Novellas, anywhere from 3-6 months.
What time of the
day is more productive for you, to do your writing, morning or night? These days, mornings are more productive. If possible, I write before my daughter gets up, and
before the worries of the day creep past my writer’s muse.
Can you tell us
something about you that makes you unique? That’s a
loaded question if ever I heard one! I’d say one of my most unique qualities is
my sharp sense of humor. I've been told I’m a never ending source of amusement
for my friends. Of course, that’s oftentimes by accident. Heh heh.
You are called upon
at a school to tell those interested in becoming an author the ins and outs of
good writing skills and getting published. Name three important elements in
writing, publishing, and promoting that you would give them. Good writing skills are a result of practice, practice,
practice. Whether traditionally published or indie published, publishing is
about working with professionals and perseverance. Promotion is about
understanding that readers feel an intimate connection with authors. If you let
readers get to know you, and you keep writing good books, they’ll stay loyal to
you for life.
Do
you have a favorite children’s story? Alice In
Wonderland. I’ve always been fascinated with the idea of falling into another
world or experiencing states of consciousness.
What
is your favorite movie and who is your favorite actor? My
favorite movie is It’s a Wonderful Life. Corny, I know, but I can’t resist that
movie. Favorite actor, I have quite a few.
I'm a huge fan of Robert Downey Jr. Not surprising, I know, but I grew
up watching him and have only grown to love him more and more over the years.
Name three things
you look for in a companion or friend. Patience.
Intelligence and, most important, a great sense of humor. They’ll need it to be
friends with me.
Boy meets girl…boy kidnaps girl.
Edinburgh, Scotland
The criminal was alive and well. Yet, the
one man who could have exposed him was dead. Phoebe stared at the clipping of
the obituary notice printed in The Times five days ago. The knowledge of his
death settled around her as black as the darkness surrounding her carriage. The
lantern flickered with the sway of the carriage as she slid her gaze over the
paragraph that extolled Bow Street Sheriff John Stafford’s criminal expertise,
and past the mention of his involvement in The Cato Street Conspiracy. A man’s
life reduced to two paragraphs. For the hundredth time since she'd first read
the obituary, she settled her gaze on the final line.
September 1837,
John Stafford died in his London home.
Phoebe refolded the clipping, set it on her
lap, and pulled another document from her reticule. She ran her fingers along
the age-yellowed edges of the only letter her father had written to her mother,
the letter she had shown John Stafford when she'd visited him in his home five
years ago. She unfolded the foolscap and, with a deep breath, began reading.
Her lips moved in tandem with the words she'd long ago memorized.
May 20, 1820
My Dearest Amelia,
Please forgive this
letter so long overdue. I am well and I have found safe haven—at least for the
moment. You have, no doubt, heard the news that I am wanted for high treason,
and now you know that my suspicions were correct. Amelia, you cannot know how
my accusers make even the most abhorrent criminal look like one of God’s
angels. I sorely underestimated the depth of their deceit. Fool that I am, I
did not anticipate being branded a traitor in their stead.
I know your heart
is heavy, my love, but no more so than mine. It is shocking to learn that one’s
leaders are willing to sacrifice their countrymen for money and power.
Ironically, had I known then what I now know, I would be guilty of their
accusations. Do not shudder. I know I speak treason, but you cannot comprehend
the fine line between reason and desperation when all choices have been
eliminated.
Would it shock you
to hear that I relish the day I shall destroy my accusers? They have taken all
I hold dear: you, our darling Phoebe and, lastly, my freedom. While I cannot
like Arthur Thistlewood—his motives are not pure as he would have us believe—in
one thing he was right: those few rich and powerful men who rule supreme in our
society have stolen our rights.
I have a plan,
which, of course, I cannot elaborate upon here, but I must uncover the truth.
Otherwise…well, otherwise, I am no better than Thistlewood—or those men who
brought him to justice.
I do not know when
I will have another opportunity to write. Give Phoebe my love, and do not
despair. I have not.
Your loving
husband,
Mason
It wasn't until her mother's death ten
years ago that Phoebe learned her father sent this letter. The letter, hidden amongst her mother's
personal correspondence, had been folded with a newspaper clipping dated February
24, 1820, the day after the Spencean Society's planned assassination of the
Cabinet. The newspaper clipping, a statement made by Lord Sidmouth to the London Gazette concerning the charge of
high treason against Thistlewood and his murder of bow street runner Richard
Smithers, also mentioned the bounty on Thistlewood's head. The paragraphs were
framed by a note written in her father's hand on the sides.
Sidmouth could not
have yet known that Thistlewood killed Smithers. Here is proof positive the noose
had been put around Thistlewood's neck before he even planned the
assassinations.
"Why?" Phoebe whispered. Why had
her father been falsely accused and why had he cared that the government
ensured Thistlewood's capture? Thistlewood was a known murderer, a man—a sharp
sideways jostle yanked Phoebe back to the present.
“What in—”
Another jolt cut short the exclamation.
Phoebe yanked back the curtain and peered
into the darkness. No lights dotted the countryside as they should have and the
moonlit sky revealed open fields beyond the road.
She quickly refolded the letter and
clipping, stuffed them into her reticule, then opened the door an inch and
called, “Where are we, Calders? I don’t recognize this road.”
“Taking a shortcut, Miss,” came the muffled
reply.
“Wha—" The coach listed, and she
slammed the door with the force of the movement, tumbling back against the
cushion. "By heavens."
Phoebe seized the handle again. The door
was yanked from her grasp and flung open. A man filled the doorway. Phoebe
jerked back as a rush of air guttered the lantern flame. Her heart jumped when
she lost sight of the intruder for an instant, then the light flared to life
again. The man gripped the side of the open doorway of the slowing carriage,
one leg braced on the floor. She took in eyes bluer than any she'd ever seen,
an angled face, and a fit body leaning forward on one powerful leg—a leg clad
in finely cut trousers. Thievery paid well these days!
She cut her gaze to his and he grinned.
Phoebe pooled her strength. Understanding flickered in his eyes the instant
before she kicked his shoulder with a slippered foot. With a loud grunt, he
toppled from the coach. She lunged forward, caught hold of the flapping door,
and hung her head out the doorway, scanning the road behind for the brigand.
The coach was slowing even more, and her heart leapt higher in her throat when
he jumped to his feet and starting toward them.
“Calders,” she yelled, “lay whip to the
horses. Quickly!”
The coach halted and she tumbled through
the door, and landed on her side. A dull pain throbbed deep in her shoulder.
She pushed onto an elbow and fingered the tender place on her arm. No blood.
Thank God she'd worn a cloak.
The carriage creaked and Phoebe looked up
to see the murky form of her coachman as he dropped to the ground. She
scrambled to her feet and turned in the direction of the highwayman. He wasn’t
hastening to them as expected, but strolled forward while dusting off his
trousers. She turned on unsteady feet to face Calders and her eyes came into sharp
focus upon the face of a stranger.
She recoiled, then narrowed her eyes on
him. “Where's Calders. What have you done with him? If you harmed him—”
"Never fear, madam, he is
unharmed."
Phoebe whirled at the sound of the velvet,
deep voice belonging to the highwayman.
"I promise," he said,
"Calders was simply delayed.”
A sudden pounding of hooves riveted her
attention onto the distant shadowy forms of four approaching horsemen.
“There!” one of the newcomers shouted.
“There she is.”
She looked back at the highwayman in time
to see him step toward her. He seized her arm. She tried to yank free, but he
began dragging her toward the carriage.
“Mather,” he said in a low voice, “get this
coach underway. Now."
Phoebe dug her heels into the ground and
was abruptly hauled over his shoulder. She cried out, but he didn't slow his
pace.
“Release me, you fool!" she shouted.
His shoulder dug into her stomach with each long, hurried stride he took.
Phoebe kicked, despite the pain.
"Be still" he ordered, and
clamped his arm down on her legs.
She thrashed harder. A shot rang out. She
jerked her head up, but found herself tossed onto the cushions of the carriage.
The highwayman jumped into the carriage
after her. “Damnation.” He slammed the door shut. “They mean to put a ball
through me.”
He pounded on the coach roof and it lurched
into motion. Phoebe clutched at the door handle, but pitched forward despite
the effort. Her captor shoved her back against the cushions, holding her firm
as he pulled back the curtain and peered out the window.
“Bloody hell.” He looked at her. “Fine time
for shenanigans.”
She frowned. “Perhaps you should keep a
tighter hand on your band.”
“They are not my band, madam.” His gaze was
still fixed out the window. “They are, however, a persistent band and will
reach us momentarily.” He twisted to look in the direction they were headed,
then pounded on the carriage roof and shouted, “Mather, make for that abandoned
farm up ahead.”
The carriage veered and Phoebe bounced left
and right despite his hold on her. Stories of runaway carriages conjured
pictures of broken necks and twisted bodies, and she envisioned herself
pitching forward head first into the opposite seat. The arm pinning her to the
cushions suddenly encircled her waist. Another jolt of the carriage, and her
unwanted companion yanked her tight against his chest.
Her senses flooded with the aroma of wool
and musky sandalwood. They listed when the carriage swayed perilously to one
side. Phoebe seized his lapel and buried her face deeper in his chest. If there
was a God in heaven, she would land on the brigand when the carriage rolled and
he would break his neck while saving hers.
The carriage halted. He threw back the door
and jumped to the ground, dragging her with him. The farmhouse stood a few feet
away. Phoebe scanned the distance. The riders approached at a gallop and would
soon reach the barn that sat sixty feet from the house. The highwayman grabbed
her hand and started around the side of the ramshackle farmhouse. She started
to yank free, but hesitated. Two bands of extortionists? Why—and which was the
more dangerous?
They rounded the building, then he pushed
her against the wall, and demanded, “Which of your other admirers am I dealing
with?”
Other admirers? Phoebe flushed. Adam.
