Author of the Month

KAREN  RANNEY

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Upcoming Releases:

SCOTTISH BRIDES Anthology — Avon,  July 1999

MY BELOVED — Avon,  August 1999

LONGING — Avon,  February 2000




Letter from the Author:

Dear Readers:

      One night about a year ago, I woke up and lay staring at the ceiling. It was barely dawn; light hadn’t even penetrated my windows. I was filled with a sense of loss so profound that it couldn’t be verbalized. I closed my eyes again, hoping to transport myself back to my dream.
      Have you ever had that feeling? As if you’d been pulled away from something familiar and loved? I had dreamt of a castle, an enchanted place by the name of Langlinais. I knew this place so well that I could sketch it in my mind. Below the buttery is a set of rounded, lichen covered steps leading to the river. The kitchen garden could be viewed from Juliana’s chamber and in the North Tower there is an embrasure where, in the spring, the birds flock to nest.
      I had also dreamed of a man. Sebastian, the Lord of Langlinais. He had been a warrior, a knight, a scholar. Now he was a man of secrets, and guarded them in a painful vigil of silence. One of these secrets could destroy the world he knew. The other would prevent him from ever touching his bride.
      Was there a way to tell his story? And Juliana’s? She had been wed to Sebastian since she was five, knew more about the duties of a scribe than being wife to this man of shadows. But she had been reluctantly summoned to Langlinais, unknowing that her presence would prove both a blessing and a curse for Sebastian.
      I lay staring up at the ceiling, knowing that if I could tell their story, if I had the ability to do so, it would be the most unusual book I’d ever attempted. And the most daring. Could I do it?
      I had my fingers (and my toes) crossed when I went to Avon with this idea. Picture me squinching my eyes tight and murmuring a mantra of please, please, please, please, please. Bless Avon for believing in me...and in MY BELOVED. It’s being published in August, 1999.
      I loved the characters in UPON A WICKED TIME, felt compelled to write MY WICKED FANTASY.  ABOVE ALL OTHERS was a learning experience.  HEAVEN FORBIDS was a challenge.  TAPESTRY and A PROMISE OF LOVE made me believe—firmly and unequivocally—in the majesty of the human spirit, and the soaring and undefeatable power of love.  MY BELOVED touched me in a deeper way than any other book. It made me cry, and ache, and yearn. And smile. And then yearn again.
      MY BELOVED is a medieval story that takes place in 1250. Here’s an excerpt, when Juliana and Sebastian meet for the first time since their wedding.


      “My lady?” A soft voice at her side. Juliana turned and a man smiled down at her. “I am Jered, my lady, your husband’s steward. I have been sent to fetch you.”
      The speaker was very tall and thin, dressed in burgundy tunic and hose. One hand rested on the hilt of a short sword buckled to his waist with a leather belt. His blond hair was cropped short, framing a face that was angular and tanned, set now into stern lines. It was a face that gave her, strangely, the impression of humor. As if the expression he wore at this moment was forced upon him and was not his natural countenance.
      Her stomach clenched, but Juliana stood, followed him through the great hall. Her attention was on her composure, the fact that her knees felt as if they wobbled when she walked.
      The steward led her to the far end of the hall where a steep flight of stairs led to a covered internal corridor. A small oil lamp illuminated a painting of a glade, heavily forested and deeply green. In the middle of the mural a pool shone with such glistening brilliance that she touched the wall to test whether her fingers would come away wet.
      Jered threw open the second of three doors. She reluctantly left the mural and stood on the threshold as he turned, walked to the opposite door and rapped his fist sharply against the iron banded wood.
      “She is here, my lord,” he said to the closed door.
      Not the bride, not her name, not my lady. Only she. Simply she. It relegated her to her exact position in life. The female to his male. She was only a vessel to her husband, whose contempt for her must be fierce indeed that he had not even greeted her himself, but had sent his steward to fetch her.
      She turned, squared her shoulders and entered the room. An oil lamp, its flickering flame casting shadows over the walls, illuminated the room, revealed her chests neatly arranged at the end of the bed.
      The chamber was as beautifully decorated as the great hall, made bright by the white wainscoting with red roses painted above it. Juliana sat down on the bed, sinking into the thick feather mattress with surprise. Her fingers rubbed over the snowy white sheets expecting them to be rough to the touch. Instead, they were soft, as if they had been laundered often. She stood and opened the tall chest placed against the wall. It was empty and smelled of new wood. A bench and two chairs made up the remainder of the furniture.
      It was the window, however, that captured her attention. It was not merely a narrow slit but wide and nearly her height, topped by an arch whose stones were decoratively carved. It was not the size that amazed her. The window was glazed with glass not the usual greenish white tint but as clear as water. When she looked down she could see an inner courtyard, its outlines blurred by darkness. During the daylight hours the sun must flood into the room. She brushed her fingers against the surface of the glass, discovered that it was still warm to the touch.
      She turned and stifled a sound of fright.
      A specter stood there watching her. A shadow limned in light. No, only a man garbed in monk’s habit. But he seemed so tall, so broad of chest, that he filled the doorway. Indeed, he looked to be more than a mortal man.
      “Are you Death?” she asked in a tremulous whisper.
      “Come to judge you in your final hour?” His voice was low, a rumble of sound. Had he spoken, or had she just imagined the words? “What would you confess if I were? Or does your silence indicate a pure soul?”
      Not Death then. Death did not speak in a voice that hinted at irony. She felt absurdly weak, as if her knees wished to give out beneath her.
      “Are you a zealot, then?” she asked, hearing the tremble in her voice and wishing she was capable of hiding it.
      “No.”
      His cowl shadowed his face so well that she could see no hint of his features. She clenched her hands together at her waist, forced herself to take a deep breath, ask yet another question.
      “A monk?”
      The words came softly, seemed tinted with kindness. “I am your husband, my lady wife.”
      Her hand reached out and rested at her throat as if to keep her heart from leaping there.
      She was a stranger to him, yet there was a resemblance to the child he’d seen once before. The shape of her lips, the symmetry of her face, the color of her eyes, her hair. But whereas the child had viewed him without fear, it was all too evident that the woman was afraid. Her eyes had not veered from him, as if hoping to pin him in place and halt his advancement.
      Enchantment. He should not feel it. Or a host of other emotions, all out of place for this moment, bemusement leavened with a slice of curiosity and the oddest amusement. The hand that carefully bracketed her neck, thumb and fingers splayed, was blotched with ink.
      As he watched, her skin seemed to grow whiter, so fragile a hue it was as if snow had been given life. Such paleness set into relief the pinkness of her lips, the startling brilliance of eyes the shade of spring grass, her hair the color of a Saracen night. She blinked a few times, rapidly, her mouth fell open, her hand still touching her throat as if to measure the beats of a struggling heart.
      He almost reached out with his hand, his fingers braced to feel her skin before he remembered.
      He had no doubt of how he appeared to her. A frightening vision of a cloaked and garbed monk. A cleric in appearance but not in soul. His cowl had been slipped forward a few inches in front of his face, a shadow was all that anyone could see of him. The rest was covered adequately by the black wool and gauntlets crafted of leather. Hardly a sight to reassure her, Sebastian.
      But somehow, he must. She must agree, else his future, and that of Langlinais, was in jeopardy.

Copyright © 1999  Karen Ranney



      I hope that when people finish MY BELOVED they’re disappointed that it’s over. It’s what I call the Ahgee Factor. As in, “Ah, gee, the book’s over.” Let me confess something. I felt the same way. After the book was finished, printed, and ready to send to my editor I carried the box around for a few minutes, held it close to my heart. Cried. Smiled. Cried again. Sigh. Talk about separation anxiety. (In fact, I set the next book, LONGING, at Langlinais, too.)
      Christina Dodd, Stephanie Laurens, Julia Quinn and I have contributed stories to an anthology entitled SCOTTISH BRIDES coming in July, and I’m currently signing with Avon for three more books. (I have this scathingly brilliant idea for the next book, all about this woman who…..oops, later.)
      As far as the rest of my life—the house is a mess, and I’ve forgotten how to cook. The neighbors are overjoyed that I’ve finally mowed the front yard (in south Texas the grass grows ALL the time).
      Speaking of gratitude, thanks to June for giving me this forum to tell you about my new books, and may I express how grateful I am to all my readers. They make it possible for me to write books based on dreams.


Warm fuzzies!
Karen Ranney
March 1999


E-mail:  karen@kranney.com
Web Site:  http://www.kranney.com








Books by Karen Ranney:

Avon

MY WICKED FANTASY,  2/98
UPON A WICKED TIME,  12/98


Zebra

TAPESTRY,  1995
ABOVE ALL OTHERS,  1996
ANGEL LOVE Anthology,  1996
A PROMISE OF LOVE,  1997
HEAVEN FORBIDS,  3/98
AFTER MIDNIGHT Anthology,  10/98






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