Guest Blog: Erin O'Quinn

This week, we're welcoming historical romance author Erin O'Quinn. Her latest title, FIRE & SILK, is sent in ancient Ireland and made its debut this month. Erin is here to talk about the novel and offer a PDF copy to a lucky winner. Please leave a comment for your chance to win a copy. Here's the blurb:

Flann O'Conall, the gruff, redheaded son of a king in ancient Ireland, has for the past twenty years preferred the wilderness to the company of a woman. Then, one rainy night, he reluctantly opens his rainproof blanket to the innocent yet disdainful and taunting Mariana de la Castra del Oro.

What happens under his blanket? The encounter of his fire with her silk creates a maelstrom of conflict and raw passion that changes both their lives.

First, he teaches her some survival skills, while she tries to teach him the meaning of love. Finally, when Flann flees back to the security of his waterfall in the mountains, he is caught in a perilous trap and only Mariana can track him and save his life.

Flann is torn at last between the lonely but secure life on his chosen mountain—his symbolic mistress—and the torment of letting go of the willful, passionate Mariana.

**Q&A with Erin O'Quinn**

Welcome, Erin, and congratulations on the debut of your newest romance. Why are all your current novels set in the dark ages of Ireland?

True “history” did not begin in Ireland until the time scholars reckon that St. Patrick arrived, probably 432 AD. That is precisely when my romance novels begin. I postulate that a group of immigrants, led by a young woman named Caylith, followed Patrick to Ireland. With Patrick came pagan conversion, monastery schools, the learning of Latin and the preservation of ancient writings. In short, Patrick arrived--and Ireland's history literally began. Ironically, the history of Ireland began even as invasions by Saxons and others were destroying the scrolls and scriptures of antiquity on the mainland in the wake of the retreating Roman armies.

Why St. Patrick? Isn’t it a little edgy to include a saint in what is clearly a group of steamy romances?

My husband, a devoted fan of historical fantasy, pointed out to me one day that no fantasy writer has ever written about the time of St. Patrick. I did a little digging and found out that, as far as I could tell, no romance writer had ventured there either. So I began to write about the man I fancied he might have been; not too tall, but charismatic, with intense blue eyes, blond hair, chubby cheeks and a voice to enthrall a crowd and an entire nation. Soon my imagination had him becoming a friend and mentor to young, adventurous Caylith in Britannia before he was sent by the Pontiff to a ministry in Hibernia. And the adventures began.

Tell us about your romance novels and how actual history figures in them.

I now have a complete trilogy published by SirenBookstrand: Storm Maker, The Wakening Fire, and Captive Heart. These books take the reader from roughly September of 432 AD until December of 433 AD. The first one finds Caylith bound to a promise she had made earlier to Father Patrick--that she would keep her chastity until marriage. In addition to the tension created by an old enemy, the sexual tension mounts as she once again meets a passionate young clansman named Liam. In the second of the trilogy, Caylith and Liam begin to discover the mystery of their enemy, a man named Owen Sweeney. Their pursuit of the mystery leads them at last to the sacred Hill of Tara, where Patrick is bound to set his Easter fires in defiance of High King Leary’s own Beltane fires on May 1, 433 AD. As far as scholars can determine, those events actually happened. And Owen is a real historical figure, as I’ll discuss below. Finally, in Captive Heart, Caylith and Liam set their boot-tips to the rough northern seacoast of modern Donegal, then called Tyrconnell, where they have discovered that a group of women are being held as slaves to be sold. The history in this book is manipulated somewhat. I postulate that High King Leary has made it illegal to hold foreign captives as slaves. In truth, Ireland’s Brehon Law actually allows such bonding of people, although it certainly does not condone the kind of mistreatment these women undergo at the hands of their captives. The places in this novel--especially the desolate, dangerous island of Tory--are very real, and frightening even to this day.

Fire & Silk debuted this week. Tell us why you chose to feature that novel on Unusual Historicals.

The “old enemy” I referred to before--Owen Sweeney--turns out to be the bastard son of Ireland’s most famous high king, Niáll of the Nine Hostages. In truth, he was not born out of wedlock, nor was he a cripple. Those are liberties I have taken in creating the character. But it is true that Owen MacNeill conquered and gave his name to both Inishowen and Tyrone, and the excerpt tells that story.

Far beyond the tale of Owen, Fire & Silk is the story of two improbable lovers--a silent, dedicated bachelor named Flann O’Conall who loves only his precious mountains and rough sea; and a young virgin from Iberia named Mariana, who thinks that the man is a crude peasant who means to debauch her. In truth, Flann is the son of the king of Tyrconnell, Conall Gulban, and he is terrified of getting close to any woman. And she has held her virginity until she meets Flann, when she begins to feel a certain hollowness she cannot understand....and neither can he!

Thank you, Erin and best of luck with Fire & Silk, available now!

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Excerpt Thursday: FIRE & SILK by Erin O'Quinn

This week on Excerpt Thursday, we're welcoming historical romance author Erin O'Quinn. Her latest title, FIRE & SILK, is sent in ancient Ireland and made its debut this month. Join us Sunday, when Erin will be here to talk about the novel and offer a PDF copy to a lucky winner. Erin tells us a bit about the novel:

If you are familiar with northern Ireland, you know the name Inishowen, the northernmost promontory, part of Co. Donegal, that swells into the Sea of Éire. In the fifth century AD, it was called Inis-Owen, the Isle of Owen, after Owen MacNeill, one of the sons of the high king Niáll of the Nine Hostages. To the west lay Tyr-Conall, “the land of Conall,” named after Owen’s brother Conall Gulban and now called Donegal. And the land south of both was named Tyr-Owen, “the land of Owen.” Of course, this area is now Co. Tyrone. The following excerpt from Fire & Silk is a fictionalized account of how those lands got their name. Yet the derivations of the names are true and accurate.

Owen MacNeill is a character who has appeared in all my romance novels--a cripple, yet a man bigger than any around him, larger than life, a tragic figure who has just discovered his royal heritage. Here, the hero of the novel Flann O’Conall is taking his uncle Owen to see the brother he has never met. The hilltop where they stop is indeed called the Grianán, and it actually is the site of an ancient ring fort, as the narrative suggests. On the map, it is the narrow strip in yellow between the two large lakes.

**An Excerpt from Fire & Silk**

A curious procession moved south, beyond Snow Mountain. It bore slightly west, away from the worst of the foothills in the high pastureland. In front rode a quiet redheaded man on a black stallion. He turned his head often to gaze at the woman next to him, one whose long, dark hair lifted like wings around her face. 

He turned in the saddle to glance at his companions. Behind him, there rolled and rattled a vehicle borrowed from the poetry of the filí, bards of the kings. The man in the chariot was large and heavy browed, and he shouted out to a brace of strong horses as he guided the vehicle around a rocky outcropping or a small gully. Beside him sat a shapely little woman, her deeply black hair swept up with a large ivory bodkin, her eyes sometimes on the driver and sometimes gazing ahead.

Behind the chariot, three very large men sat astride horses, shouting and laughing, sometimes singing. And in the rear walked six packhorses. This was the caravan of Owen, King of Inishowen, who traveled to meet his own brother for the first time.

Above them, thin clouds, gray as dove feathers, flew south with the prevailing wind. Flann eyed the clouds from time to time, confident that the fair weather would continue for another day. It was important that when they reached the hilltop stone remnants, the Grianán, his Uncle Owen be afforded a clear view. 

This was the fifth day of their trek. This morning they had caught sight of the Swilly to the west, and Flann reckoned they would see the bird-shrouded island and the hill fort within the hour....

He turned Storm around and cantered alongside the chariot. Owen turned his eyes to the younger man in a silent question.

“There is a nearby hill,” Flann said. “A place I want ye to see. Can ye ride astride a horse?”

“I can, and I will,” Owen answered bluntly. 

“Then let us stop here. I give ye the stallion. And Moc, ye may have the dappled gelding.”

Flann signaled to his cousins, and the procession stopped. Murdoch dismounted and walked to the chariot. He and Flann stood a while talking, and then both men turned to Owen. Each of them grasped the brawny man by his shoulders and buttocks, and they lifted him from the chariot and set him high in the saddle. 

Mockingbird needed no help at all. She mounted Breac easily and waited for Owen. He grasped the pommel with one large hand and flicked the reins a little, urging the stallion onward.

Flann had stepped back, letting Owen and Moc lead the procession. The three MacOwen boys, now walking, were leading their own horses close to his flank, ready to catch their father if he should fall from the saddle. He and Mariana ... walked hand in hand behind all of them....

The hill was four or five hundred feet above the flat ground, and the incline was steep enough to force them into a slow, meandering path upward. Flann saw the first sign of the ancient ruined wall. He saw Owen point and say something to one of his attendant sons. In spite of the steepness, they all began to move faster, until finally, they stood on the crest of the sun-drenched hill.

He joined the others all grouped near and on the tumbled remains of the rock fortress. Everyone was looking down into the valley on the shining water of the Swilly and on a small island that seemed to lift and swell as the thousands of birds took off and landed on its surface.

Owen sat on the stallion, seeming to be frozen in place, his eyes more alive than Flann had seen them. “Tell me about this place,” he said without taking his eyes off the island.

“They call it the Grianán. I think the place itself used to be called the Kingdom of Aileach. Ye can see, I think, that it is several hundreds of years old. Here stood a fortress, Uncle Owen, I am sure of it.”

“I agree. Who destroyed it—and when? I think none will ever know.” He looked around the circumference of the stones. “Behold a tumulus—a burial mound, I think.” He urged Storm twenty feet beyond and sat looking at what to Flann seemed merely a small grassy hill on a hill. “Perhaps King Aileach himself lies under this mound.”

“If ye cast your eyes east, Uncle, ye may catch a glimmer of the River Foyle. About six or seven miles. There lies the bally of Derry.”

“Indeed?” Owen asked, a smile toying with his wide, narrow mouth. “Then this place where we stand lies between the Swilly and the Foyle, and the land south is unclaimed by any clan.”

“Ye’re right, Uncle. On the west stands the leg of your brother Conall. And on the east stands the leg of your brother Leary. The head is Inishowen—your head.”

“And the land south, nephew, must be my mighty groin, eh? I have often said I would capture my kingdom like a lover. And there she lies.”

He pulled the reins sideways, leading Storm to where Moc sat on the gelding, and he rode close enough to reach out and grasp her hand.

“Boys, cast your eyes on this place in the sun. It is well-named a grianán, like a summer house. D’ye think ye can have a new fortress built here?”

Fergus was clearly excited. “Yes, Father. After our visit with Uncle Conall, Echach and I can begin to gather men like milk cows and herd them to this high búaile. We will start to build right away.”

Owen looked at Flann. “Go raibh maith agat. My deepest thanks. You have awakened an old desire. This kingdom shall live again. We shall call it the Land of Owen, or Tyrone, from this day forward.”

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